Skip to main content

Full text of "Blackwood's magazine"

See other formats 


This  is  a  digital  copy  of  a  book  that  was  preserved  for  generations  on  library  shelves  before  it  was  carefully  scanned  by  Google  as  part  of  a  project 
to  make  the  world's  books  discoverable  online. 

It  has  survived  long  enough  for  the  copyright  to  expire  and  the  book  to  enter  the  public  domain.  A  public  domain  book  is  one  that  was  never  subject 
to  copyright  or  whose  legal  copyright  term  has  expired.  Whether  a  book  is  in  the  public  domain  may  vary  country  to  country.  Public  domain  books 
are  our  gateways  to  the  past,  representing  a  wealth  of  history,  culture  and  knowledge  that's  often  difficult  to  discover. 

Marks,  notations  and  other  marginalia  present  in  the  original  volume  will  appear  in  this  file  -  a  reminder  of  this  book's  long  journey  from  the 
publisher  to  a  library  and  finally  to  you. 

Usage  guidelines 

Google  is  proud  to  partner  with  libraries  to  digitize  public  domain  materials  and  make  them  widely  accessible.  Public  domain  books  belong  to  the 
public  and  we  are  merely  their  custodians.  Nevertheless,  this  work  is  expensive,  so  in  order  to  keep  providing  this  resource,  we  have  taken  steps  to 
prevent  abuse  by  commercial  parties,  including  placing  technical  restrictions  on  automated  querying. 

We  also  ask  that  you: 

+  Make  non-commercial  use  of  the  files  We  designed  Google  Book  Search  for  use  by  individuals,  and  we  request  that  you  use  these  files  for 
personal,  non-commercial  purposes. 

+  Refrain  from  automated  querying  Do  not  send  automated  queries  of  any  sort  to  Google's  system:  If  you  are  conducting  research  on  machine 
translation,  optical  character  recognition  or  other  areas  where  access  to  a  large  amount  of  text  is  helpful,  please  contact  us.  We  encourage  the 
use  of  public  domain  materials  for  these  purposes  and  may  be  able  to  help. 

+  Maintain  attribution  The  Google  "watermark"  you  see  on  each  file  is  essential  for  informing  people  about  this  project  and  helping  them  find 
additional  materials  through  Google  Book  Search.  Please  do  not  remove  it. 

+  Keep  it  legal  Whatever  your  use,  remember  that  you  are  responsible  for  ensuring  that  what  you  are  doing  is  legal.  Do  not  assume  that  just 
because  we  believe  a  book  is  in  the  public  domain  for  users  in  the  United  States,  that  the  work  is  also  in  the  public  domain  for  users  in  other 
countries.  Whether  a  book  is  still  in  copyright  varies  from  country  to  country,  and  we  can't  offer  guidance  on  whether  any  specific  use  of 
any  specific  book  is  allowed.  Please  do  not  assume  that  a  book's  appearance  in  Google  Book  Search  means  it  can  be  used  in  any  manner 
anywhere  in  the  world.  Copyright  infringement  liability  can  be  quite  severe. 

About  Google  Book  Search 

Google's  mission  is  to  organize  the  world's  information  and  to  make  it  universally  accessible  and  useful.  Google  Book  Search  helps  readers 
discover  the  world's  books  while  helping  authors  and  publishers  reach  new  audiences.  You  can  search  through  the  full  text  of  this  book  on  the  web 

at  http  :  //books  .  google  .  com/| 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1 


)ogle 


/ss^. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Digitized  by 


Google 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BLACKWOOD'S 

MAGAZINE. 

VOL.  LXV. 
JANUARY^JUNE,   1849. 


WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD  &  SONS,  EDINBURGH ; 

AMD 

37,  PATERNOSTER  ROW,  LONDON. 
1849. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


/£R5 


/9/33^^ 


Digitized  by  VjOO^ 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


iTo.  CCCXCIX. 


JANUARY,  1849. 


Vol.  LXV. 


THE  TEAR  OF  REVOLUTIONS. 


<^  No  great  state,"  says  Hamiibal, 
«( can  long  remain  qoiet :  if  it  ceases 
to  have  enemies  abroad,  it  will  find 
them  at  home — as  powerful  bodies 
redst  all  external  attacks,  but  are 
wasted  awaj^  their  own  iniernal 
strength."*  What  a  commentary  vn 
the  words  of  the  Carthaginian  hero 
does  the  last  year— The  Year  of 
RsTOLDTiOKS--afford  I  What  enthu- 
siasm has  it  witnessed,  what  efforts 
engendered,  what  illusions  dispelled, 
what  misery  produced  I  How  bitterly 
have  nations,  as  well  as  individuals, 
within  its  short  bounds,  learned  wisdom 
by  suffering— how  many  lessons  has 
experience  taught — how  much  agony 
has  wickedness  brought  in  its  train. 
Among  the  foremost  in  all  the  periods 
of  history,  this  memorable  year  will 
ever  stand  forth,  a  subject  of  undying 
interest  to  succeeding  generations,  a 
lasting  beacon  to  mankind  amidst  the 
foUv  or  insanity  of  future  times.  To 
it  the  young  and  the  ardent  will  for 
ever  turn,  for  the  most  singular 
scenes  of  social  strife,  the  most 
thrilling  incidents  of  private  suffering: 
to  it  the  aged  will  point  as  the  most 
striking  warning  of  the  desperate 
effects  of  general  delusion,  the  most 
unanswerable  demonstration  of  the 
moral  government  of  the  world. 

That  €k>d  will  visit  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  upon  the  children  was  pro- 


claimed to  the  Israelites  amidst  the 
thunders  of  Mount  Sinai,  and  has  been 
felt  by  every  succeeding  generation  of 
men.  But  it  is  not  now  upon  the  third 
or  the  fourth  generation  that  the  pun- 
ishment oC  transgression  falls— it  is 
felt  im  i{^  fa))  bitterness  by  the  trans- 
gressors themselves.  The  extension 
of  knowledge,  the  diffusion  of  educa- 
tion, the  art  of  printing,  the  increased 
rapidity  of  travelling,  the  long  dura- 
tion of  peace  in  consequence  of  the 
exhaustion  of  former  wars,  have  so 
accelerated  the  march  of  events,  that 
what  was  slowly  effected  in  former 
times,  during  several  successive  gene- 
rations, by  the  f^radual  development 
of  national  passions,  is  now  at  once 
brought  to  maturity  by  the  fervent 
spirit  which  is  generally  awakened, 
and  the  vehement  passions  which  are 
eveiTwhere  brought  into  action. 

Everything  now  goes  on  at  the 
gallop.  There  is  a  railway  speed  in 
the  stirring  of  the  mind,  not  less  than 
in  the  movement  of  the  bodies  of 
men.  The  social  and  political  pas- 
sions have  acquired  such  intensity, 
and  been  so  widely  diffused,  that 
their  inevitable  results  are  almost 
immediately  produced.  The  period 
of  seed-time  and  harvest  has  become 
as  short  in  political  as  it  is  in  agricul- 
tural labour.  A  single  year  brings  its 
appropriate  fruits  to  maturity  in  the 


''  Nulla  magna  civitas  diu  qmeecere  potest :  ai  foris  hostem  non  habet,  domi 
*'  -ut  pnevalida  corpora  ab  oxtremis  causis  tuta  videntur,  sed  suis  ipsa  viribus 
onenntar.  Tantom,  nimirum,  ex  publicis  malis  eentimus,  quantum  ad  res  privatas 
pertinet;  ueo  in  ds  qoioquam  acrios,  quam  peounise  damnum,  stimulat" — Livr, 
XXX.  44. 


VOL.  LXV.— NO.  COOXCIX. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Year  ofRevobOums. 


[Jan. 


moral  as  in  the  physical  world. 
Eighty  years  elapsed  in  Rome  from 
the  time  when  the  political  passions 
were  first  stirred  by  Tiberias  Grac- 
chus, before  its  unruly  citizens  were 
finally  subdued  by  the  art,  or  deci- 
mated by  the  cruel^  of  Octavina. 
England  underwent  six  years  of  civil 
war  and  suffering,  before  the  ambition 
and  madness  of  Ihe  Long  FarUaioent 
were  expeMed  by  the  purge  of  Pride, 
or  crushed  by  the  sword  of  Cromwell : 
twelve  years  elapsed  between  the  con- 
vocation of  the  States- general  in  1789, 
and  the  extinction  of  the  license 
of  the  French  Revolution  by  the 
arm  of  Napoleon.  But,  on  this  occa- 
sion, in  one  year,  all,  in  tbt  mean- 
time at  le,ast,  has  been  accomplished. 
Ere  the  leaves,  which  unfolded  la 
spring  amidst  the  overthrow  of 
thrones,  and  the  transports  of  revoln^ 
tionists  over  the  world,  had  fallen 
in  autumn,  the  passions  which  had 
convulsed  mankind  were  crushed  for 
the  time>  and  the  triumphs  of  de- 
mocracy were  arrested.  A  terrible 
reaction  had  set  in;  exparienoe  of  suf- 
fering had  done  its  work ;  and  swift  a« 
the  ^ades  of  night  befim  the  rays  of 
the  ascendmg  aon,  had  disappeared 
the  ferment  of  revolution  before  the 
aroused  indignation  of  the  uncormpted 
part  of  mankind.  The  same  passions 
may  again  arise ;  the  same  delusions 
again  spread,  as  sin  springs  up  afresh 
in  successive  generations  of  men ;  but 
we  know  the  result.  They  will,  like 
the  ways  of  the  unrighteous,  be  again 
orushed. 

So  rapid  was  the  sncoession  of  re- 
volutions, when  the  tempest  assaUed 
the  world  last  spring,  that  no  human 
power  seemed  capable  of  arresting  it ; 
and  the  thoughtful  looked  on  m  monm- 
fol  and  impotent  silence,  as  they  wonld 
have  done  on  the  decay  of  nature  or 
the  ruin  of  the  worid.  The  Pope 
began  the  career  of  innovation :  de- 
crees of  change  issued  from  the  Vati- 
can ;  and  men  beheld  with  amasement 
the  prodigy  of  the  Supreme  Pontiff— 
the  head  of  the  unchangeable  Church 
— standing  forth  as  the  lead^  of  po- 
litical reform.  Naples  quickly  cau^^ht 
the  flame :  a  Sicilian  revolution 
threatened  to  sever  one-half  of  their 
dominions  from  the  Neapolitaa  Boor- 
bon ;  and  internal  revolt  seemed  to 
render  his  authority  merely  nominal 


in  his  own  metropolis.  Paris,  the 
cradle  in  every  age  of  new  ideas,  and 
the  centre  of  revolutionary  action, 
next  felt  the  shock :  a  reform  banquet 
was  prepared  as  the  signal  for  as- 
sembling the  democratic  forces;  the 
national  guard,  as  usual,  failed  at  the 
decisive  moment:  the  King  of  the 
Barricades  quailed  before  the  power 
whi(^  had  created  him ;  the  Orieans 
dynasty  was  overthrown,  and  France 
delivered  over  to  the  dreams  of  the 
Socialists  and  the  ferocity  of  the  Red 
Republicans.  Prussia  soon  shared  the 
madness :  the  population  of  Berlin,  all 
trained  to  arms,  according  to  the  cus- 
tom of  that  country,  rose  against  the 
government ;  the  king  had  not  energy 
enough  to  permit  his  faithful  troops  ta 
aot  with  the  vigour  reqoisite  to  up- 
hold the  throne  against  such  assail- 
ants, and  the  monarchy  of  Frederick 
the  Great  was  overthrown.  Austria, 
even,  could  not  withstand  the  con- 
tagion: neither  its  proud  nobility,  nor 
its  light-hearted  sensual  people,  nor 
its  colossal  army,  nor  its  centuries  of 
glory,  oould  maintain  the  throne  in 
its  moment  of  peril.  The  Emperor  was 
weak,  the  citizens  of  Vienna  were  in- 
fatuated ;  and  fui  Insurrection,  headed 
by  the  boys  at  the  university  and  the 
haberdashers'  appren  tices-in  the  street^ 
overturned  the  imperial  government, 
and  drove  the  Emperor  to  seek  refago 
in  the  Tyrol.  All  Germany  caught 
the  flame :  the  dreams  of  a  few  hot- 
headed entiiusiasts  and  professors 
seemed  to  prevail  alike  over  the  dic- 
tates of  wisdom  and  the  lessons  of 
experience;  and,  amidst  the  trans- 
ports of  millions  the  chimera  of 
German  unity  seemed  about  to  be 
realised  by  the  sacrifice  of  all  its  meana 
of  independence.  The  balance  of 
power  in  Europe  appeared  irrevo- 
cably destroyed  by  the  breaking 
up  of  its  central  and  most  impor- 
tant powers, — and  £ngland,  in  the 
midst  of  the  general  ruin,  seemed 
rooking  to  its  foundation.  The  Char- 
tists were  in  raptures,  the  Irish  re- 
bels in  ecstasy :  threatening  Ineetings 
were  held  in  every  town  in  Great 
Britain ;  armed  clubs  were  organised 
in  the  whole  south  and  west  of  Ire- 
land ;  revolution  was  openly  talked  of 
in  both  islands,  and  the  close  of  harvest 
announced  as  the  time  when  the  Bri- 
tish empire  was  to  be  broken  up,  wbA 


Digitized  by 


Goo 


T%e  Y§ar  pf  IRmohtOonM. 


AngUsn  and  Hibeniiaxi  republics  i 
bli&ed,  in  doee  allimnoe  with  the  great 
parent  democrat  in  Pranoe.  Amidst 
aaefa  extraordinary  and  anprecedented 
convnlaions,  it  was  with  difficolty  that 
%  few  conrageons  or  far-seeing  minds 
preserved  their  eqnilibriam ;  and  even 
those  who  were  least  disposed  to 
despair  of  the  fortunes  of  the  species, 
ooold  see  do  end  to  the  soocession  of 
disaaten  with  which  the  world  was 
Menaced  bat  in  a  great  exertion  of 
tiie  renoyating  powers  of  nature, 
aiaailar  to  that  predicted,  in  a  similar 
catastrophe,  for  the  material  world, 
by  the  imagination  of  the  poet 

•*  Roll  on,  ye  stars !  exult  in  yonthfiil  prime, 
Mark  wHii  bri^  emres  the  printless  steps 

ofTioM! 
Nmt  and  bmm   sear  jour   beaming   eais 


8 


And  Iwening  orbs  on  lessening  orbs  encroaob. 
Flowers  of  ue  sky!  ye, too,  to  Fate  must 

yirid. 
Frail  as  jom  silken  liflten  of  tiie  field  ; 
Star  after  star,  from  beaTon's  high  arck  shall 

rash. 
Sons  sink  on  suns,  and  systems  systems  crush; 
Headlong,  extinct,  to  one  dark  centre  fall, 
And  IWk,  and  Nigfat,  and  Chaos,  mingle  all; 
Itll,  o*er  tli»  wraek,  emerging   from    the 

■tana. 
Immortal  Natofo  lifts  bar  ohangeful  form, 
Jioants  from  her  funeral  pym  on  wings  oi 

flame. 
And  soars  and  shines, another  and  tho^aame.^* 

Bnt  the  destiny  of  man,  not  less  than 
tiuU  of  the  material  world,  is  balanced 
action  and  reaction,  not  restoration 
from  rain.  Order  Is  preserved  in  a 
way  whidi  the  imagination  of  the 
poet  conld  not  have  conceived.  Even 
m  the  brief  space  which  has  elapsed 
siiice  the  convnlsions  began  in  Italy 
in  Jannary  last,  the  reality  and  cease- 
kes  action  of  the  preserving  laws  of 
nature  have  been  demonstrated.  The 
balaBoe  is  preserved  in  social  life  by 
con  tending  passions  and  interests,  as  in 
the  physical  world  by  opposite  forces, 
nnder  ciroamstances  when,  to  all 
hnman  aMearanoe,  remedy  is  inpos- 
■ibia  and  hope  extinguished.  The 
orbii  of  nations  is  tra^  ont  by  the 
wisdom  of  Providence  not  less  dearly 
thaa  that  of  the  planets ;  there  are 
oeaftripetal  and  centrifogaJ  forces  in 


the  moral  as  irell  as  in  the  material 
world.  As  mnch  as  the  vehement 
passions,  the  selfish  desires,  the  in- 
experienced seal,  the  expanding 
^ergy,  the  rapacious  indigence,  th« 
mingled  virtues  and  vices  of  man, 
lead  at  stated  periods  to  the  explosions 
of  revolution, — do  the  desire  of  tran- 
quillity, the  hdterests  of  property, 
the  honror  at  cruelty,  the  lessons  of 
experience,  the  force  of  religion,  the 
bitterness  of  suffering,  reindnce  the 
desire  of  (nrder,  and  restore  the  influ- 
ence of  its  organ,  government.  If  we 
contemplate  the  awful  force  of  the 
expansive  powers  which,  issuing  from 
the  great  mass  of  central  heat,  find 
vent  in  the  fiery  channels  of  the  vol- 
cano, and  have  so  often  rent  asunder 
the  solid  crust  of  the  earth,  we  may 
well  tremble  to  think  that  we  stand 
suspended,  as  it  were,  over  such  an 
abyss,  and  that  at  no  great  distance 
beneath  our  feet  the  elements  of  uni- 
versal conflagration  are  to  be  found.* 
But,  strong  as  are  the  expansive 
powers  of  nature,  the  coercive  are 
still  stronger.  The  ocean  exists^  to 
Imdle  with  its  weight  the  fiery  gulf; 
the  arch  of  the  earth  has  been  solidly 
constructed  by  its  Divine  arehitect; 
and  the  only  traces  we  now  discover, 
in  most  parts  of  this  globe,  oi  the  yet 
raging  war  of  the  elements,  are  the 
twkt^  strata,  which  mari[,  as  it  were, 
the  former  writhings  of  matter  in  the 
terrible  grasp  of  its  tormentors,  or 
the  splintered  pinnacles  of  mountains, 
which  add  beauty  to  the  landscape, 
or  the  smiling  plains,  which  brmg 
happiness  to  the  abodes  of  man.  It  is 
the  same  in  the  moral  world.  Action 
and  reaction  are  the  law  of  mind  as 
well  as  matter,  and  the  equilibrium  of 
social  life  is  preserved  by  the  opposite 
tendency  of  the  interests  which  are 
brought  into  collision,  and  the  counter- 
acting force  of  the  passions  which  are 
successively  awakened  by  the  very 
convulsions  which  seem  to  menace 
society  with  dissolution. 

A  year  has  not  elapsed  since  the 
revolutionary  earthquake  began  to 
heave  in  Italy,  since  the  volcano 
burst  forth  in  Paris;  and  how  marvel- 


•  Danwnr,  Bolamc  Oardm. 

i-  **  mr^^fiTe  milra  below  the  sorftne  of  the  eartii,  tbeeentnd  hest  is  everywhere 
ao  grMty  that  granite  itwlf  is  held  in  fiinoiL''--HTTiiBouys,Cb#fii(M,i27f. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Year  of  Revohtttani. 


[Jan. 


L^gsa 


loos  is  the  change  which  already  has 
taken  place  in  the  state  of  Europe ! 
The  star  of  Austria,  at  first  defeated, 
and  apparently  aboat  to  be  extin- 
guished in  Italy,  is  again  in  the 
ascendant.  Refluent  from  the  Mincio 
to  the  Ticino,  her  armies  have  again 
entered  Milan,  —  the  revolutionary 
usurpation  of  Charles  Emanuel  has 
been  checked  almost  as  soon  as  it 
commenced:  and  the  revolutionary 
rabble  of  Jjombardy  and  Tuscany 
has  fled,  as  it  was  wont,  before 
the  bayonets  of  Germany.  Ra- 
detzky  has  extinguished  revolution 
in  northern  Italy.  If  it  still  lingers 
in  the  south  of  the  peninsula,  it  is 
only  because  the  strange  and  tortuous 
policy  of  France  and  EngUnd  has 
mterfered  to  arrest  the  victorious 
arms  of  Naples  on  the  Sicilian  shores. 
Paris  has  been  the  theatre  of  a  dread- 
ful struggle,  blood  has  flowed  in  tor- 
rents in  itsstreets,  slaughter  unheard- 
of  stained  its  pavements,  but  order 
has  in  the  end  prevailed  over  anarchy. 
A  dynasty  has  been  subverted,  but 
the  Red  Republicans  have  been 
defeated,  more  generals  have  perished 
in  a  conflict  of  three  days  than 
at  Waterloo;  but  the  Faubourg 
St  Antoine  has  been  subdued,  the 
socialists  have  been  overthrown, 
the  state  of  siege  has  been  pro- 
claimed ;  and,  amidst  universal  suf- 
fering, anguish,  and  woe,  with 
three  hundred  thousand  persons  out 
of  employment  in  Paris,  and  a  de- 
ficit of  £20,000,000  in  the  income  of 
the  year,  the  dreams  of  equality  have 
disappeaired  in  the  reality  of  military 
despNotism.  It  is  immaterial  whether 
the  head  of  the  government  is  cidled 
a  president,  a  dictator,  or  an  emperor — 
whether  the  civic  crown  is  worn  by  a 
Napoleon  or  a  Cavaignac — in  either 
case  the  ascendant  of  the  army  is 
established,  and  France,  after  a  brief 
itrugglefor  a  constitutional  monarchy, 
has  terminated,  like  ancient  Rome,  in 
an  elective  military  despotism. 

Frankfort  has  been  disgraced  by 
frightful  atrocities.  The  chief  seat 
of  German  unity  and  fireedom  has 
been  stained  by  cruelties  which  find  a 
parallel  only  in  the  inhuman  usages  of 
the  American  savages;  butthe  terrible 
tason  has  not  been  read  in  vain.  It 
a  reaction  over  the  world : 
the  ejw  of  men  to  the  real 


tendency  and  abominable  iniquity  of 
the  votaries  of  revolution  in  Grermahy; 
and  to  the  sufferings  of  the  martyrs 
of  revolutionary  tortures  on  the  banks 
of  the  Maine,  the  subsequent  over- 
throw of  anarchy  in  Vienna  and 
Berlin  is  in  a  great  degree  to  be 
ascribed.  They  roused  the  vacillat- 
ing cabinets  of  Austria  and  Prussia — 
they  sharpened  the  swords  of  Wind- 
ischgratz  and  Jellachich — they  nerved 
the  souls  and  strengthened  the  arms 
of  Brandenberg  and  Wrangel — they 
awakened  anew  the  chord  of  honour 
and  loyalty  in  the  Fatherland.  The 
national  airs  have  been  again  heard 
in  Berlin ;  Vienna  has  been  regained 
after  a  desperate  conflict;  the  state 
of  siege  has  been  proclaimed  in  both 
capittJs ;  and  order  re-established  in 
both  monarchies,  amidst  an  amount 
of  private  suffering  and  general 
misery — the  necessary  result  of  revo- 
lutions— which  absolutely  sickens  the 
heart  to  contemplate.  England  has 
emerged  comparativelv  unscathed 
from  the  strife;  her  time-honoured 
institutions  have  been  preserved,  her 
monarchy  saved  amidst  the  crash  of 
nations.  Queen  Victoria  is  still  upon 
the  throne;  our  mixed  constitution 
is  intact ;  the  dreams  of  the  Chartists 
have  been  dispelled ;  the  rebellion  of 
the  Irish  rendered  ridiculous;  the 
loyalty  of  the  great  body  of  the  people 
in  Great  Britain  made  manifest. 
The  period  of  immediate  danger  is 
over ;  for  the  attack  of  the  populace 
is  like  the  spring  of  a  wild  beast^if 
the  flrst  onset  fails,  the  savage  animal 
slinks  away  into  its  den.  General 
suffering  indeed  prevails,  indnstnr 
languishes,  credit  is  all  but  destroyea, 
a  wofiil  deficiency  of  exports  has 
taken  pUcc— but  that  is  the  inevi- 
table result  of  popular  commotions ; 
and  we  are  suffering,  in  part  at 
least,  under  the  effects  of  the  in- 
sanity of  nations  less  free  and  more 
inexperienced  than  ourselves.  Though 
last,  not  least  in  the  political  lessons 
of  this  marvellous  year,  the  papal 
government  has  been  subverted — a 
second  Rlenzi  has  appeared  in  Rome ; 
and  the  Supreme  Pontiff,  who  began 
the  movement^  now  a  fugitive  firom  his 
dominions,  has  exhibited  a  memor- 
able warning  to  future  ages,  of  the 
peril  of  commencing  reforms  in 
high  places,  and  the  impossibility  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


The  Year  ofBenohOums, 


reconcHiog  the  Koman  Catholic  re- 
ligion with  political  innoyation. 

Bat  let  it  not  be  imagined  that, 
becaose  the  immediate  danger  is  over, 
and  because  military  power  has,  after 
a  fierce  struggle,  prevailed  in  the 
principal  capitals  of  Europe,  that 
therefore  the  ultimate  peril  is  past, 
and  that  men  have  only  to  sit  down, 
imder  the  shadow  of  their  fig-tree,  to 
cultivate  the  arts  and  enjoy  the 
blessings  of  peace.  Such  is  not  the 
destiny  of  man  in  any,  least  of  all 
in  a  revolutionary  age.  We  are  rather 
on  the  verge  of  an  era  similar  to  that 
deplored  by  the  poet : — 

**  BellA    p«r   Emathios    plusquftm    civilia 

campos, 
Jiuqoe  datiun  sccleri  canimui,  populumqae 

poteotem 
la  sua  victriei  eonvermm  Tiscera  deztri  ; 
CognataiqiM  acies  ;  et  nipto  foedera  regni 
Certatom  totis  eoncoMi  yiribui  orbis. 
In  commane  neiiu.*^ 

Who  can  tell  the  immeasurable 
extent  of  misery  and  wretchedness, 
of  destruction  of  property  among  the 
rich,  and  ruin  of  industry  among  the 
poor,  that  must  take  place  before  the 
fierce  passions,  now  so  generally 
awakened,  are  allayed — before  the 
visions  of  a  virtuous  republic  by 
Lamartine,  or  the  dreams  of  commu- 
nism by  Louis  Blanc  and  Ledru- 
Rollin,  or  the  insane  ideas  of  the 
Frankfort  enthusiasts  have  ceased  to 
move  mankind  ?  The  fire  they  have 
let  loose  will  bum  fiercely  for  ceo  turies; 
it  will  alter  the  destiny  of  nations  for 
ages;  it  will  neither  be  quenched,  like 
ordinary  flames,  by  water,  nor  sub- 
dued, like  the  Greek  fire,  by  vine- 
gar :  blood  alone  will  extinguish 
its  fury.  The  coming  convulsions 
may  well  be  prefigured  from  the  past, 
as  they  have  been  recently  drawn  by 
the  hand  of  a  master : — ^'  All  around 
OS,  the  world  is  convulsed  by  the 
agonies  of  great  nations;  govern- 
ments which  lately  seemed  likely  to 
stand  during  ages,  have  been  on  a 
sudden  shaken  and  overthrown.   The 

Sroudest  capitals  of  western  Europe 
ave  streamed  with  civil  blood.  All 
evil  passions — the  thirst  of  gain  and 
the  thirst  of  vengeance — the  antipathy 
of  class  to  class,  of  race  to  race — have 


broken   loose  firom   the   control  of 
divine  and  human  laws.    Fear  and 
anxiety  have  clouded  the  faces,  and 
depressed   the   hearts    of  millions; 
trade  has  been  suspended,  and  in- 
dustry   paralysed;    the   rich   have 
become  poor,  and  the  poor  poorer. 
Doctrines  hostile  to  all  sdences,  to 
all  arts,  to  all  industry,  to  all  domestic 
charity — doctrines  which,  if  carried 
into  efiect,  would  in  thirty  years  undo 
all  that  thirty  centuries  have  done  for 
mankind,  and  would  make  the  fairest 
provinces  of  France  or  Grcrmany  as 
savage  as  Guiana  or  Patagonia— have 
been  avowed  firom  the  tribune,  and 
defended  by  the  sword.     Europe  has 
been  threatened  with  subjugation  by 
barbarians,  compared  with  whom  the 
barbarians  who  marched  under  Attila 
or    Alboin    were    enlightened    and 
humane.    The  truest  Mends  of  the 
people  have  with  deep  sorrow  owned, 
that  interests  more  precious  than  any 
political  privileges  were  in  jeopardy, 
and  that  it  might  be  necessary  to  sacri- 
fice even  liberty  to  save  civilisation."t 
It  is  now  just  a  year  since  Mr  Cob- 
den  announced,  to  an  admiring  and 
believing   audience   at   Manchester, 
that  the  age  of  warfare  had  ceased ; 
that   the   contests   of  nations   had 
passed,  like  the  age  of  the  mastodon 
and  the  mammoth ;  that  the  steam- 
engine  had  caused  the  arms  to  drop 
from  her  hands,  and  the  interests  of 
free  trade  extinguished  the  rivalries 
of  nations ;  and  that  nothing  now 
remained  but  to  sell  our  ships  of  war, 
disband  our  troops,  cut  twenty  mil- 
lions off  our  taxation,  and  set  om*- 
selves    unanimously   to    the    great 
work  of  cheapening  ever3rthing,  and 
underselling   foreign  competitors  in 
the  market  of  the  world.    Scarcely 
were  the  words  spoken,  when  con- 
flicts more  dire,  battles  more  bloody, 
dissensions    more    inextinguishable 
than  had  ever  arisen  from  the  rivaliy 
of  kings,  or  the  ambition  of  ministers, 
broke  out  in  almost  every  country  of 
Europe.    The  social  supplanted  the 
national  passions.   Within  the  bosom 
of  society  itself,  the    volcano   had 
burst  forth.    It  was  no  longer  general 
that  was  matched  against  general,  as 
in  the   wai-s«  of  Marlborough,  nor 


♦  LucA9|  i.  1—6. 


t  Macaulay's  History  of  England,  vol.  ii.  p.  669. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


6 


The  Yeaar  tf  Bevohttume. 


[Jan. 


nation  that  rose  ap  against  nation,  as 
in  those  ctf  Napoleon.  The  desire  of 
robbeiy,  tiie  love  of  dominion,  the 
last  of  conquest,  the  passion  for  pliuir 
der,  were  directed  to  domestic  a!cqai- 
sitions.  Human  iniqnitj  reappeami 
in  worse,  because  less  suspected  and 
more  delusive  colours.  Robbery  as- 
sumed the  guise  of  philanthropy; 
spoliation  was  attempted,  under  colour 
of  law;  plunder  was  systematically 
set  about,  by  means  of  legislative 
enactments.  Bevolution  resumed  its 
old  policy— that  of  rousing  the  pas- 
sions by  tiie  language  of  virtue,  and 
directing  them  to  the  purposes  of  rice. 
The  original  devil  was  expelled ;  but 
straightway  he  returned  with  seven 
other  devils,  and  the  last  state  of  the 
man  was  worse  than  the  first.  Society 
was  armed  against  itself;  the  devas- 
tating passions  burned  in  its  own 
bosom;  class  rose  against  dass, 
race  against  race,  interest  agiunst 
interest  Ci^ital  fancied  its  interest 
was  to  be  promoted  by  grinding  down 
labour ;  labour,  that  its  rights  extend- 
ed to  the  spoliation  of  capitaL  A 
more  attractive  object  than  the  rednc- 
tion  of  a  city,  or  the  conquest  of  a 
province,  was  presented  to  indigent 
cupidity.  Easier  conquests  than  over 
rival  industry  were  anticipated  by 
moneyed  selfishness.  The  spoliation 
of  the  rich  at  t^eir  own  door— the 
division  of  the  property  of  which  they 
were  jealous,  became  the  dream  of 
popular  ambition  ;  the  beating  down 
of  their  own  labourers  by  free-trade, 
the  forcible  reduction  of  prices  by 
a  contraction  of  the  currency — ^the 
great  object  of  the  commercial  aristo- 
cracy. War  reassumed  its  pristine 
ferocity.  In  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, Uie  ruthless  maxim — Va  victist 
became  the  war-cry  on  both  sides  in 
the  terrible  dvU  war  which  burst 
forth  in  an  age  of  general  philan- 
tiiropy.  It  may  be  conceived  what  pas- 
sions must  have  been  awakened,  what 
terrors  inspired,  what  indignation 
aroused  by  such  projects.  But  though 
we  have  seen  the  commencement  of 
the  era  of»ocial  coT\flu:t$^  is  there  any 
man  now  alive  who  is  likely  to  see 
its  end? 
Expoience  has  now  completely  de- 


monstrated the  wisdom  of  the  AUIed 
powers,  who  placed  the  lawfbl  mon* 
arohs  of  France  on  the  throne  in  1815, 
and  the  enormous  error  of  the  liberal 
party  in  France,  which  conspired  with 
the  republicans  to  overthrow  the 
Bourbon  dynasty  in  1830.  That  fatal 
step  has  bequeathed  a  host  of  evils  to 
Europe :  it  has  loosened  the  authority 
of  government  in  all  countries ;  it  has 
put  the  very  existence  of  freedom  in 
peril  by  the  enormity  of  the  calamities 
which  it  has  brought  in  its  train.  All 
parties  in  France  are  now  agreed 
that  the  period  of  the  Restoration 
was  the  happiest,  and  the  least  cor- 
rupted, that  has  been  known  since 
the  first  Revolution.  The  republicans 
of  the  present  day  tell  us,  with  a 
sigh,  that  the  average  budgets  of  the 
three  last  years  of  Charles  X.  were 
900,000,000  francs,  (£36,000,000;) 
that  the  expenditure  was  raised  by 
Louis  Philippe  at  once  to  1500,000,000 
francs,  (£60,000,000  ;)  and  that 
under  the  Republic  it  will  exceed 
.1800,000,000  francs,  (£72,000,000.) 
There  can  be  no  doubt  of  tbe  fact ; 
and  there  can  be  as  little,  that  if  the 
Red  Republicans  had  succeeded  in  the 
insurrection  of  June  last,  the  annual 
expenditure  would  have  increased  to 
£100,000,000— or  rather,  a  universal 
spoliation  of  property  would  have  en- 
sued. Lonis  Blanc  has  given  the 
world,  in  his  powerfnl  historical  work, 
a  graphic  picture  of  tbe  nniversal  cor- 
ruption, selfishness,  and  immorality, 
in  pnblic  and  private  life,  which  per- 
vaded France  during  the  reign  of 
Louis  Philippe.*  Though  drawn  by 
the  hand  of  a  partisan,  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  the  picture  is  too  faith- 
ful in  most  of  its  details,  and  exhibits 
an  awful  proof  of  tbe  effects  of  a  sue- 
cessfhl  revolution.  But  the  misery 
which  Lonis  Blanc  has  so  ably  depict- 
ed, the  corruptions  he  has  brought  to 
light,  under  the  revolutionary  monar- 
chy, have  been  multiplied  fourfold  by 
those  which  have  prevailed  during  the 
last  year  in  the  republic  established 
by  Louis  Blanc  himself  I 

Paris,  ever  since  the  suppression  of 
the  great  insurrection  in  June  last, 
has  been  in  such  a  state,  that  it  is  the 
most  utter  mockery  to  call  it  freedom. 


*  T^uis  BLkJKC,  HitUnirt  de  Dix  An$  de  Lcms  Philippe,  iii.  321,  ei  nq. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Yemro/MevokUumi* 


In  tniUi,  U  is  nothing  bat  the  most 
onmitigAted  military  despotism.  A 
hage  statue  of  liberty  is  placed  in  the 
National  Assembly ;  but  at  every  six 
paces  bayonets  are  to  be  seen,  to  re- 
mind the  bystanders  of  the  role  of  the 
sword.  ''Iiberte,£gatit^  Fraternity,'' 
meet  the  eye  at  every  torn  in  the 
streets ;  but  the  Champs  Elys^  the 
Place  de  Gr^ve,  the  Carroosel,  and 
Place  Yendome,  are  crowded  with 
soldiers ;  and  the  Champ  de  Mars  is 
while  with  tents,  to  cover  part  of  the 
40«000  regolar  trocps  which  form  the 
ordinary  garrison  of  Paris.  Universal 
freedom  of  discsssion  has  been  pro- 
claimed by  the  constitution  f  but 
doaeos  of  journals  have  been  suppress- 
ed by  the  authority  of  the  dictator ; 
and  imprisonment  not<moa8ly  hangs 
over  the  head  of  every  one  who  in- 
dulges in  the  freedom  of  discussion, 
which  in  England  and  America  is  uni- 
versaL  The  state  of  siege  has  been 
raised,  after  havin^^  continued  four 
months ;  but  the  miktary  preparations 
for  cmoiker  siege  continue  with  una- 
bated vigour  on  both  sides.  The  con- 
stitution has  been  adopted  by  a  great 
majority  in  the  Assembly;  but  the 
forts  are  all  armed,  and  prepared  to 
rain  down  the  tempest  of  death  on  the 
devoted  city.  Universal  suffrage  is 
established ;  but  menacing  crowcU  are 
in  the  streets,  threatening  any  one 
who  votes  against  their  favourite  can- 
didates. The  Faubourg  St  Antoine, 
during  the  late  election,  was  in  a 
frightful  state  of  agitation ;  infantry, 
cavalry,  and  artillery,  were  traver- 
sing the  streets  in  all  directions ;  and 
coniiicts  not  less  bloody  than  those  of 
June  last  were  anticipated  in  the 
sirug^ij  for  the  presidency,  and  pre- 
vented only  by  the  presence  of  nmety 
4kausamd  soitHers  in  the  capital :  a  force 
^eater  than  that  which  fought  on  either 
side  at  Austerlitz  or  Jena.  It  is  evident 
that  republican  institutions,  in  such  a 
state  or  society,  are  a  mere  name;  and 
that  supreme  despotic  power  is  really 
invested  in  France,  as  in  ancient 
Bome  under  the  emperors,  in  the  no- 
minee of  a  victorious  body  of  soldiery. 
The  Pr»torian  guards  will  dispose  of 
the  French  as  they  did  of  the  Roman 
diadem ;  and  ere  long,  gratuities  to 
the  troops  will  perhaps  be  the  pass- 
port to  power  in  Paris,  as  they  were 
la  the  Etetnal  City. 


Nor  have  the  social  evito,  which  in 
France  have  followed  in  the  wake  of 
successful  revolution,  been  less  de- 
plorable than  the  entire  destruction  of 
the  rights  of  freemen  and  security  of 
property  which  has  ensued.  To  show 
that  this  statement  is  not  overcharged, 
we  extract  from  a  noted  liberal  jour- 
nal of  Paris,  La  Reforme^  of  Novem- 
ber 17,  1848,  the  following  state- 
ment : — 

"Property,  manuf)Gu;turee,  and  com- 
merce are  utteriy  destroyed  in  Paris. 
Of  the  populatiou  of  that  great  city,  the 
capital  of  France,  there  are  800,000  in- 
dividoals  wanting  the  necessaries  of  life. 
One  half  at  least  of  those  earned  firom 
3f.  to  5f.  a  day  previous  to  the  rerolti- 
tion,  and  occupied  a  number  of  housee 
in  the  faubonigB.  The  proprietors  of 
those  houses  receiring  no  rent,  and  hav« 
ing  taxes  and  other  chaiges  to  pay,  are 
reduced  to  nearly  as  deep  distress  as 
their  tenants.  In  the  centre  of  Paris, 
the  same  distress  exists  imder  another 
form.  The  large  and  sumptuous  apart- 
ments of  the  fashionable  quarters  were 
occupied  beforethe  revolution  by  wealthy 
proprietors^  or  by  persons  holding  lucra* 
tire  employments  in  the  public  offices, 
or  by  extensiye  manufiusturers ;  but  nearly 
all  those  have  disappeared,  and  the  few 
who  remain  hare  insisted  upon  such  a 
reduction  of  rent  that  the  proprietor 
does  not  receive  one-half  of  the  amount 
to  which  he  is  entitled.  Should  a  pro- 
prietor of  hoiise  property  endeavour  to 
raise  a  sum  of  money  by  a  first  mortgage, 
to  defray  his  most  urgent  expenses,  he 
finds  it  impossible  to  do  so,  even  at  a  most 
exorbitant  rate  of  interest.  Those  who 
possess  ready  money  refuse  to  port  with 
ity  either  through  fSMtr,  oar  because  they 
expect  to  piut^hase  honse  property  when 
it  must  be  sold  at  50  per  cent  kiss  than 
the  value.** — La  Brforme,  November  17, 
1848. 

It  Is  cerUdnly  a  most  remarkable 
thing,  in  the  history  of  the  aberra- 
tions of  the  human  mind,  that  a  sys- 
tem of  policy  which  has  produced, 
and  is  prodndng,  such  disastrous  re- 
sults— and,  above  all,  which  is  inflicting 
such  deadly  and  irreparable  wounds 
on  the  interests  of  the  poor,  and  the 
cause  of  freedom  throughout  the 
world— should  have  been,  during  th» 
lasteighteen  years,  the  object  of unceas* 
ing  eulogy  by  the  liberal  party  ob 
both  sides  of  the  Channel ;  and  that 
the  present  disastrous  sUte  of  affairs, 
both  ia  this  covntry  and  on  the  Con- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Year  of  EevokUums. 


8 

tinent,  is  nothing  more  than  the  na- 
tural and  inevitable  result  of  the 
principles  that  party  has  everywhere 
laboured  to  establish.  The  revolution 
of  1830  was  hsdled  with  enthusiasm 
in  this  country  by  the  whole  liberal 
party:  the  Irish  are  not  more  ena- 
moured now  of  the  revolution  of  1848, 
than  the  Whigs  were,  eighteen  years 
ago,  of  that  of  1830.  The  liberal 
government  of  England  did  all  in 
their  power  to  spread  far  and  wide 
the  glorious  example.  Flanders  was 
attacked — an  English  fleet  and  French 
army  besieged  Antwerp ;  and,  by  a 
coalition  of  the  two  powers,  a  revolu- 
tionary throne  was  established  in 
Belgium,  and  the  king  of  the  Nether- 
lands prevented  from  re-establishing 
the  kingdom  guaranteed  to  him  by 
all  the  powers  of  Europe.  The  Quad- 
ruple Alliance  was  formed  to  revolu- 
tionise Spain  and  Portugal;  a  san- 
guinary civil  war  was  nourished  for 
long  in  both  kingdoms ;  and  at  length, 
after  years  of  frightful  warfare,  the 
legitimate  monarch,  and  legal  order 
of  succession,  were  set  aside  in  both 
countries;  queens  were  put  on  the 
thrones  of  both  instead  of  kings,  and 
England  enjoyed  the  satisfaction,  for 
the  diffusion  of  her  revolutionary  pro- 
pagandism,  of  destroying  the  securi- 
ties provided  for  the  liberties  of  Europe 
by  the  treaty  of  Utrecht,  and  pre- 
paring a  Spanish  princess  for  the 
hand  of  a  Bourbon  prince. 

Not  content  with  this  memorable 
and  politic  step,  and  even  after  the 
recent  disasters  of  France  were  actu- 
ally before  their  eyes,  our  rulers  were 
so  enamoured  of  revolutions,  that  they 
could  not  refrain  from  encouraging 
it  in  every  small  state  within  their 
reach.  Lord  Falmerston  counseled 
the  Pope,  in  a  too  celebrated  letter,  to 
plunge  into  the  career  which  has  ter- 
minated so  fatally  for  himself  and  for 
Italy.  Admiral  Parker  long  prevented 
the  Neapolitan  force  from  embarking 
for  Sicily,  to  do  there  what  Lord 
Hardinge  was  nearly  at  the  same  time 
sent  to  do  in  Ireland.  We  beheld  the 
Imperial  standards  with  complacency 
4riven  behind  the  Mincio;  but  no 
sooner  did  Radetzky  disperse  the  re- 
volutionary army,  and  advance  to 
Milan,  than  British  and  French  di- 
plomacy interfered  to  arrest  his  march, 
and  save  their  revolutionary  prot^^, 


[Jan, 

the  King  of  Piedmont,  fVom  the  chas- 
tisement which  his  perfidious  attack  on 
Austria  in  the  moqaent  of  her  distress 
merited.  The  Ministerial  journals  are 
never  weary  of  referring  to  the  revo- 
lutions on  the  Continent  as  the  cause 
of  all  the  distress  which  has  prevailed 
in  England,  since  they  broke  out  in 
last  spring :  they  forget  that  it  was 
England  herself  whi<£  first  unfurled 
the  standard  of  revolution,  and  that, 
if  we  are  suffering  under  its  effects, 
it  is  under  the  effects  of  our  own 
measures  and  policy. 

Strange  and  unaccountable  as  this 
pervert^  and  diseased  state  of  opinion, 
in  a  large  part  of  the  people  of  this 
country,  undoubtedly  is,  it  is  easily 
explained  when  the  state  of  society, 
and  the  channel  into  which  political' 
contests  have  run,  are  taken  into  con- 
sideration. In  truth,  our  present 
errors  are  the  direct  consequence  of 
our  former  wisdom ;  our  present  weak- 
ness, of  our  former  strength ;  our  pre- 
sent misery,  of  our  former  prosperity. 

In  the  feudal  ages,  and  over  the 
whole  Asiatic  world  at  the  present 
time,  the  contests  of  parties  are  carried 
on  for  individuals.  No  change  of  na- 
tional policy,  or  of  the  system  of  in- 
ternal government,  is  contemplated  on 
either  side.  It  is  for  one  prince  or 
another  prince,  for  one  sultann  or 
another  sultann,  that  men  draw  their 
swords.  "  Under  which  King,  Bezo- 
nian? — speak  or  diel^'  is  there  the  watch- . 
word  of  all  civil  conflict.  It  was  the 
same  in  this  country  dming  the  feudal 
affes,  and  down  to  a  very  recent  period* 
No  man  in  the  civil  wars  between 
Stephen  and  Henry  n.,  or  of  the  Plan- 
tagenet  princes,  or  in  the  wars  of  the 
RoiBes,  contemplated  or  desired  any 
change  of  government  or  policy  in 
the  conflict  in  which  they  were  en- 
^ed.  The  one  party  struck  for  the^ 
Ked,  the  other  for  the  White  Rose. 
Great  civil  and  social  interests  were 
at  issue  in  the  conflict ;  but  the  people 
cared  little  or  nothing  for  these.  The 
contest  between  the  Yorkists  and  the 
Lancastrians  was  a  great  feud  be- 
tween two  clans  which  divided  the 
state;  and  the  attachment  to  their 
chiefs  was  the  blind  devotion  of  the- 
Highlanders  to  the  Pretender. 

The  Reformation,  which  first 
brought  the  dearest  objects  of  thought 
and  interest  home  to  all  classes,  mad» 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


The  Year  o/RevobOwns. 


m  great  change  in  this  respect,  and 
sobetitot^  in  large  proportion  general 
qoestions  for  the  adherence  to  par- 
ticnlar  men,  or  fidelity  to  particular 
funilles.  Still,  however,  the  old  and 
natural  instinct  of  the  human  race  to 
mttadi  themselves  to  men,  not  things, 
oontinned,  in  a  great  degree,  to  infln- 
enoe  the  minds  of  the  people,  and  as 
many  buckled  on  their  armour  for  the 
man  as  tibe  cause.  The  old  Cavaliers, 
who  periled  life  and  lands  in  defence 
of  Charies  L,  were  as  much  influenced 
by  attachment  to  the  dignified  mon- 
arch, who  is  immortalised  in  the  can- 
vass of  Vandyke,  as  by  the  feelings  of 
hereditary  loyalty ;  and  the  iron  bands 
which  overthrew  their  ranks  at  Mar- 
ston  Moor,  were  as  devoted  to  Crom- 
well as  the  tenth  legion  to  Ctesar, 
or  the  Old  Guard  to  Napoleon.  In 
tmth,  such  individual  influences  are 
80  strongly  founded  in  human  nature, 
that  they  will  continue  to  the  end  of 
the  world,  from  whatever  cause  a 
contest  may  have  arisen,  as  soon  as 
it  has  continued  for  a  certain  time,  and 
will  always  stand  forth  in  prominent 
importance  when  a  social  has  turned 
into  a  military  conflict,  and  the  perils 
and  animodties  of  war  have  endeared 
their  leaders  to  the  soldiers  on  either 
ride.  The  Vendeans  soon  became  de- 
voted to  Henri  Larocbjaquelein,  the 
Bepnblicans  to  Napoleon ;  and  in  our 
own  times,  the  great  social  conflict  of 
the  nineteenth  century  has  been  de- 
termined by  the  fidelity  of  the 
Austrian  soldiers  to  Badetzky,  of  the 
French  to  Cavaignac,  of  the  Grerman 
to  Windischgrau. 

But  in  the  British  empire,  for  a  cen- 
tury past,  it  has  been  thoroughly 
understood,  by  men  of  sense  of  all 
parties,  that  a  change  of  dynasty  is 
oat  of  the  question,  and  that  there  is 
no  reform  worth  contending  for  in  the 
state,  which  is  not  to  be  effected  by 
the  means  which  the  constitution 
itself  has  provided.  This  convic- 
tion, long  impressed  upon  the  nation, 
and  interwoven  as  it  were  with  the 
very  framework  of  the  British  mind, 
having  come  to  coincide  with  the 
passions  incident  to  party  divisions  in 
m  free  state,  has  in  process  of  time 
produced  the  strange  and  tortuous 
policy  which,  for  above  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  has  now  been  followed  in  this 
country  by  the  government,  and  lauded 


9 

to  the  skies  by  the  whole  liberal  party 
on  the  Continent.  Deprived  of  the 
watchwords  of  men,  the  parties  have 
come  to  assume  those  of  things.  Or- 
ganic or  social  change  have  become 
the  war-  cry  of  faction,  instead  of  change 
of  dynasty.  The  nation  is  no  longer 
drenched  with  blood  by  armies  fight- 
ing for  the  Red  or  the  White  Rose,  by 
parties  striving  for  the  mastery  be- 
tween the  Stuart  and  Hanover  families, 
but  it  was  not  less  thoroughly  divided 
by  the  cry  of  "The  bill,  the  whole 
bill,  and  nothing  but  the  bill,"  at  one 
time,  and  that  of  "Free-trade  and 
cheap  com"  at  another.  Social  change,^ 
alterations  of  policy,  have  thus  come 
to  be  the  great  objects  which  divide 
the  nation;  and,  as  it  is  ever  the 
policy  of  Opposition  to  represent  the 
conduct  of  Government  as  erroneous, 
it  follows,  as  a  necessary  consequence, 
that  the  main  efforts  of  the  party 
opposed  to  adminiatration  always  have 
been,  since  the  suppression  of  the 
Rebellion  in  1745,  to  effect,  when  in 
opposition,  acbange  in  general  opinion, 
and,  when  in  power,  to  carry  that 
change  into  effectbyachange  of  policy. 
The  old  law  of  nature  is  still  in  oper- 
ation. Action  and  reaction  rule  man- 
kind; and  in  the  efforts  of  parties 
mutually  to  supplant  each  other  in 
power,  a  foundation  is  laid  for  an 
entire  change  of  policy  at  stated 
periods,  and  an  alteration,  as  great  as 
from  night  to  day,  in  the  opinions  and 
policy  of  the  ruling  party  in  the  same 
state  at  different  times. 

The  old  policy  of  England— that 
policy  under  which,  in  the  words  of 
Macaulay,  "  The  authority  of  law  and 
the  security  of  property  were  found  ta 
be  compatible  with  a  liberty  of  dis- 
cussion and  of  individual  action  never 
known  before ;  under  which  form,  the 
auspicious  union  of  order  and  freedom^ 
sprang  a  prosperity  of  which  the 
annals  of  human  affairs  had  fhrnished 
no  example;  under  which  our  country, 
from  a  state  of  ignominious  vassalage, 
rapidly  rose  to  the  place  of  umpire 
among  European  powers;  under  which 
her  opulence  and  martial  glory  grew 
together;  under  which,  by  wise  and 
resolute  fiK>od  faith,  was  gradually 
established  a  public  credit,  fruitful  of 
marvels  which,  to  the  statesmen  of 
any  former  age,  would  have  appeared 
incredible;   under  which  a  gigantic 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Tht  Year  &f  Bmaokaiom. 


10 

commeroe  gave  birih  to  a  mritime 
power,  ooinpared  with  wfakh  ©very 
other  maritime  power,  aocient  or  mo- 
dem, siDks  into  insignificance;  under 
which  Scotland,  after  ages  of  enmitj, 
was  at  length  united  to  England,  not 
merely  by  legal  bonds,  but  by  indis- 
solobie  ties  (S*  interest  and  affectioo ; 
mider  which,  in  Ameiica,  the  British 
colonies  rapidly  became  far  mightier 
and  wealthier  than  the  realms  which 
Cortes  and  Pixarro  added  to  the  domi- 
nions of  Charles  V. ;  under  which,  in 
Asia,  British  adventurers  founded  an 
empire  not  less  splendid,  and  more 
dnrable,  than  that  of  Alexander,^** — 
was  not  the  policy  of  any  particular 
party  or  section  of  the  commuaity, 
and  thence  its  long  duratkm  aod  un- 
exampled success. 

It  was  not  introduced — it  grew. 
Like  the  old  constitution,  of  which  it 
was  the  emanation,  it  arose  from  the 
wants  and  necessities  of  all  classes  of 
men  during  a  long  series  of  ages.  It 
was  first  proclaimed  in  energetic  terms 
by  the  vigour  of  Cromwell ;  the  cry 
of  the  national  representatives  for 
markets  to  native  industry,  of  the 
merchants,  for  protection  to  their 
ships,  produced  the  Navigation  Laws, 
and  laid  the  foundation  of  the  colonial 
empire  of  England.  Amidtit  all  his 
nuouciance  and  folly  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  Duchess  of  Portsmouth, 
and  the  boudoirs  of  the  Duchess  of 
Cleveland,  it  was  steadily  pursued  by 
Charles  U.  James  IL  did  not  lose  sight 
of  this  same  system,  amidst  all  his 
infatuation  and  cruelty ;  when  direct- 
ing the  campaign  of  Jeffreys  in  the 
west,  he  was  as  steadily  bent  on 
upholding  and  extendmg  the  navy  as 
when,  amidst  the  thunders  of  war,  be 
•combated  de  Ruyter  and  van  Tromp 
on  the  coast  of  Holland.  WiUiara  IIL, 
Anne,  and  the  Georges,  pursued  the 
same  sjrstem.  It  directed  the  policy 
of  Somers  and  Godolphin ;  it  ruled  the 
diplomacy  of  Walpole  and  Chatham  ; 
it  guided  the  Measures  of  Bute  and 
North ;  it  directed  the  genius  of  Pitt 
and  Fox.  It  was  for  it  that  Marl- 
borough conquered,  and  Wolfe  fell; 
that  Blake  combated,  and  Hawke 
destroyed;  that  Nelson  launched  the 
thunderbolt  of  war,  and  Wellingtcoi 


[Ja 


carried  the  British  staadaid  to  Mad- 
rid and  Paris. 

It  was  the  pecnliar  structure  of  the 
English  constitution,  during  this  cen- 
tury and  a  half  of  prosperity  and  glory, 
that  produced  so  remariLable  a  unifor- 
mity in  the  objects  of  the  national  po- 
licy. These  ol^ects  were  pursued  alike 
by  the  Republicans  and  the  Royalists; 
by  the  Roundheads  and  the  Cavaliers; 
by  the  Whigs,  during  the  seventy  yearn 
of  their  rule  that  followed  the  Revo- 
lution, and  the  Tories,  during  the 
sixty  yeara  that  succeeded  the  acces- 
sion oif  George  ILL  The  policy  was 
that  of  protectitm  to  ail  the  natiomd 
mtereitiy  whether  kmdedy  com$mercUdj 
colamaly  or  mtmufoctttrm^.  Under  this 
system  they  all  grew  and  prospered, 
cuttle  and  abreast,  in  the  marvelkms 
manner  which  the  peneil  of  Macaulay 
has  sketched  in  the  opening  of  his 
History.  It  was  bard  to  say  whether 
agriculture,  manufactures,  colonies,  or 
shipping  throve  and  prospered  most 
during  that  unique  period.  The 
worid  had  never  seen  anything  like  it 
before:  it  is  doubtful  if  it  will  ever 
see  anything  like  it  again.  Under  its 
Shelter,  the  various  interests  of  the  em- 
pire were  knit  together  in  so  close  a 
manner,  that  theynot  only  all  grew  and 
prospered  together,  but  it  was  univer- 
sally felt  that  their  interests  were 
entirely  dependent  on  each  other.  The 
toast  ^*  The  plough,  the  loom,  and  the 
sail,*'  was  drunk  with  as  much  en- 
thusiasm in  the  farmers'  dub  as  in  the 
merchant's  saloon.  As  varied  as  the 
interests  with  whidi  they  were  charg- 
ed, the  policy  of  government  was  yet 
perfectly  steady  in  following  out  one 
principle — ^the  protection  of  the  pro^ 
ductim  ekueee^  whether  by  land  or 
water,  whether  at  home  or  abroad. 

The  legislature  represented  and 
embodied  all  these  interests,  and  car- 
ried out  this  policy.  It  gave  them  a 
stability  and  consistency  which  had 
never  been  seen  in  the  world  before. 
Nominally  the  representatives  of  cer- 
tain towns  and  counties  in  the  British 
islands,  the  House  of  Conunoos  gra- 
dually became  really  the  representa- 
ttvee  of  the  varied  mterests  of  the 
whole  British  empire*  The  nomina- 
tkNi  boroughs  afforded  an  inlet  alike 


•  UAOAOULtE  Bitter^  1 1-2. 


Digitized  by 


Goc 


1848.] 


Tk§  Ymt  qf  Beookaiom. 


11 


to  iMtire  talent  and  fbreiga  intepeats. 
Cattop  and  Old  Sanim,  or  aimilar 
«kMe  borongha,  afibided  an  entrance 
tothe  legialj^afttfiiot  only  to  the  geBiBA 
of  Pitt  and  Fo&r  of  Burke  and  Sheri- 
dan, bot  to  the  wealth  of  Jamaica, 
the  riMg  energy  of  Canada,  the  aged 
ciyiliaation  of  Hindoetan.  Experi- 
enced protection  reconciled  allinteresta 
to  a  government  under  which  all  pro- 
apered ;  mntnal  dependence  made  all 
aenaible  of  the  neoeseity  of  common 
vnanimity.  The  statute-book  and 
national  tieatiee,  fi»m  the  Bevolntion 
in  1688  to  the  dose  of  the  war  with 
Napoleon  in  L815,  exhibit  the  most 
decisire  pro<^  of  the  working  of  these 
▼aried,  but  not  conflicting  interests,  in 
the  national  councils.  If  you  con- 
template the  freneral  protection 
afforded  to  agriculture  and  Uie  landed 
kiterest,  yon  would  imagine  the  House 
of  Coannons  bad  been  entirely  com- 
posed of  squires.  ^  If  yon  examine  the 
innumerable  enactments,  fiscal  and 
prohibitoiy,  for  the  protection  of 
maanfaetnres,  yon  would  suppose  it 
had  been  entirely  under  the  govem- 
raent  of  manufacturers.  If  you  con- 
template the  steady  protection  inva^ 
liably  giTeh  to  the  mercantile  navy, 
yon  wmdd  suppose  it  had  been  chiefly 
directed  by  shipowners.  K  yon  cast 
your  eyes  on  the  protection  constantly 
given  by  discriminating  fiscal  duties 
to  colonial  industry,  and  the  vast 
efibrta  made,  both  by  sea  and  land,  in 
the  field  and  in  the  cabinet,  to  en- 
eonrage  and  extend  our  colonial  de- 
pendencies, you  would  condnde,  not 
«niy  that  they  were  represented,  but 
that  their  representatives  had  a>  ba- 
jority  in  the  legislature. 

The  reason  of  this  prodigy  was,  that 
all  interests  had,  in  the  course  of  ages, 
nnd  the  siloit  efiects  of  time,  worked 
their  way  into  the  legislature,  and  all 
enjoyed  in  fiur  proportion  a  reasonable 
inflaence  on  government.  Human 
wisdom  coald  no  more  ab  anU  have 
feamed  such  a  system,  than  it  could 
have  framed  the  British  constitution. 
By  acddent,  or  rather  the  good  pro- 
vidence of  God,  it  grew  up  from  the 
wanu  of  men  dnring  a  series  of  gene- 
rations ;  and  its  effeets  appeared  in 
this,  that— except  in  the  cases  of  the 
American  war,  where  unfortunate 
circumstances  prodaced  a  departure 
from  the  system ;  of  the  Irish  CeltSy 


whom  it  seems  impractioable  to  amal« 
gamate  with  Saxon  institutions ;  and 
of  the  Scottish  Highlanders,  whom 
chivalrous  honour  for  a  short  penod 
alienated  from  the  established  goyem- 
ment — unanimity  unprecedented  dur- 
ing the  whole  period  pervaded  the 
British  empire.  All  foreign  colonies 
were  desirous  to  be  admitted  into  the 
great  protecting  confederacy;  the 
French  and  Dutch  planters  in  secret 
prayed  for  the  defeat  of  their  defenders 
when  the  standard  of  St  George  ap« 
proaohed  their  shores.  The  Hindoos, 
with  heroic  constancy,  alike  in  pro- 
sperous and  adverse  fortune,  main- 
tained their  fidelity:  Canada  stood 
firm  during  the  most  dangerous  crisis 
of  our  h^ry;  and  the  flame  of 
loyalty  burned  as  steadily  on  the 
banks  of  the  St  Lawrence,  on  the 
mountains  of  Jamaica,  and  on  the 
shores  of  the  Ganges,  as  in  the  crowded 
emporiums  of  London,  or  the  smiling 
fields  of  Yorkshire. 

But  there  is  a  limit  imposed  by  nature 
to  all  earthly  things.  The  growth  of 
empu-es  is  restrained,  after  they  have 
reached  a  certain  stature,  by  laws  as 
certain  as  those  which  arrest  that  of  in- 
dividuals. If  a  state  does  not  find  the 
causes  of  its  ruin  in  foreign  disaster, 
it  will  inevitably  find  it' in  internal 
opinion.  This  arises  so  naturally  and 
evidently  from  the  constitution  of  the 
human  mind,  that  it  may  be  regarded 
as  a  fixed  law  of  nature  in  all  coun- 
tries where  intellectual  activity  has 
been  called  forth,  and  as  one  of  the 
most  powerful  agents  in  the  govern- 
ment, by  supreme  Wisdom,  of  human 
afiairs.  This  principle  is  to  be  found 
in  the  tendency  of  original  thought  to 
difier  firom  the  current  opinion  with 
which  it  is  surrounded,  and  of  party 
ambition  to  decry  the  system  of  those 
by  whom  it  is  exdnded  from  power. 

Universally  it  will  be  found  that 
the  greatest  exertions  of  human  intel- 
lect have  been  made  in  tinrect  opposi* 
Han  to  the  current  of  general  opinion; 
and  that  public  thou^^t  in  one  age  is 
in  general  but  the  echo  of  solitary 
meditation  in  that  which  has  preceded 
it.  Illustrations  of  this  crowd  on  the 
reflecting  mind  from  every  period  of 
bistoiy.  The  instances  of  Luther 
standing  forth  alone  to  shake  down, 
Samson-like,  the  pillar  of  the  corrupt- 
ed Bomlsh  £uth ;  of  Bacon's  opening. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


12 


The  Year  of  Revolutions. 


[Jan. 


amid  all  the  despotism  of  the  Aristo- 
telian philosophy,  his  indactive  philo- 
sophy; of  Galileo  maintaining  the 
motion  of  the  earth  even  when  sur- 
rounded by  the  terrors  of  the  Italian 
Inquisition ;  of  Copernicus  asserting 
the  true  system  of  the  heavens  in  op- 
position to  the  belief  of  two  thousand 
years ;  of  Malthus  bringing  ^forward 
the  paradox  of  the  danger  of  human 
increase  in  opposition  to  the  previous 
genend  opinion  of  mankind ;  of  Vol- 
taire combating  alone  the  giant  power 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  hierarchy ;  of 
Rousseau  running  a  course  against  the 
whole  ideas  of  his  age — will  imme- 
diately occur  to  every  reader.  Many 
of  these  great  men  adopted  erroneous 
opinions,  and,  in  consequence,  did  as 
much  evil  to  their  own  or  the  next  age 
as  others  did  good ;  but  they  were  all 
characterised  by  one  mark.  Their 
opinions  were  original^  and  directly 
adverse  to  public  opinion  around  them. 
Theclose  of  the  nineteenth  century  was 
no  exception  to  the  genertd  principle. 
Following  out  those  doctrines  of  free- 
dom from  restraint  of  every  kind, 
which  in  France  had  arisen  from  the 
natural  resistance  of  men  to  the  nu- 
merous fetters  of  the  monarchy,  and 
which  had  been  brought  forward  by 
Turgot  and  the*  Economists,  in  the 
boudoirs  of  Madame  Pompadour 
and  the  coteries  of  Pans, — ^Adam 
Smith  broached  the  principle  of  Free 
Trade,  with  the  exceptions  of  grain 
and  shipping.  The  first  he  excepted, 
because  it  was  essential  to  national 
subsistence;  the  second,  because  it 
was  the  pillar  of  national  defence. 
The  new  philosophy  was  ardently 
embraced  by  the  liberal  party,  who, 
chagrined  by  long  e:[ftlu8ion  from 
office,  were  rejoiced  to  find  a  tangible 
and  plausible  CTonnd  whereon  to  at- 
tack the  whole  existing  system  of 
government.  From  them  it  gradually 
AYtAfiHAri  tck   TiAftriv  nil   ftTiA  ardent 

tger  to 
J  with 
lot  yet 
to  the 
t  was 
ry  and 
>n  false 
rfgov- 
)mwell 
ics,  in 
icy,  in 


the  colonies,  in  war,  in  peace,  at  home 
and  abroad,  we  bad  been  running 
blindfold  to  destruction.  True,  we  had 
become  great,  and  glorious,  and  free 
under  this  abominable  system;  true, 
it  had  been  accompanied  by  a  growth 
of  national  strength,  and  an  amount 
of  national  happiness,  unparalleled  in 
any  former  age  or  country;  but  that 
was  all  by  accident.  Philosophy  had 
marked  it  with  the  sign  of  reproba- 
tion— prosperity  had  poured  upon  us 
by  chance  in  the  midst  of  universal 
misgovemment.  By  all  the  rules  of 
calculation  we  should  have  been  de- 
stroyed, though,  strange  to  say,  no 
symptoms  of  destruction  had  yet 
appeared  amongst  us.  According  to 
every  principle  of  phUosophy,  the 
patient  should  long  ago  have  been 
dead  of  the  mortal  disease  under  which 
he  laboured  :  the  only  provoking 
thing  was,  that  he  was  still  walking 
about  in  robust  and  florid  health. 

Circumstances  occurred  at  the  same 
time,  early  in  this  centuiy,  which  had 
the  most  powerful  effect  m  exasperat- 
ing the  Opposition  party  thronghout 
the  country,  and  inducing  them  to 
embrace,  universally  and  ardently,  the 
new  philosophy,  which  condemned  in 
such  unmeasured  terms  the  whole  sys- 
tem of  government  pursued  by  their 
antagonists.  For  half  a  century,  since 
the  long  dominion  of  the  Whigs  was 
terminated  in  1761  by  George  III., 
the  Tories  had  been,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  months,  constantly  in 
office.  Though  their  system  of  gov- 
ernment in  religion,  in  social  affairs, 
in  foreign  relations,  was  nothing  but 
a  continuation  of  that  which  the  Whigs 
had  introduced,  and  according  to  which 
the  government  bad  been  conducted 
from  1688  to  1760,  yet,  in  the  ardour 
of  their  zeal  for  the  overthrow  of  their 
adversaries,  the  liberal  party  embraced 
on  eveiT  point  the  opposite  side.  The 
descendants  of  Lord  Russel  became 
the  advocates  of  Roman  Catholio 
emancipation ;  the  followers  of  Marl- 
borough and  Godolphin,  the  partisans 
of  submission  to  France ;  the  succes- 
sors of  Walpole  and  Chatham,  the 
advocates  of  fte%  trade  and  colonial 
neglect.  These  feelings,  embraced 
from  the  influence  of  a  determination 
to  find  fault  with  government  in  every 
particular,  were  worked  up  to  the 
highest  pitch  by  the  glorious  result  ofi 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Year  of  BevokUians. 


tlie  If  ar  with  France,  and  the  appar- 
ently interminable  lease  of  power  ac- 
qaiied  by  their  adversaries  from  the 
ovwrthrow  of  Napoleon.  That  memo* 
rable  event,  so  opposite  to  that  which 
they  had  all  so  long  in  public  predict- 
ed, so  entirely  the  reverse  of  that 
whidi  many  had  in  secret  wished, 
prodaced  a  profonnd  impression  on 
the  Whig  party.  Their  feelings  were 
only  the  more  acute,  that,  amidst  the 
tumult  of  national  exultation,  they 
were  forced  to  suppress  them,  and  to 
wear  the  countenance  of  satisfaction, 
when  the  bitterness  of  disappointment 
was  in  their  hearts.  To  the  extreme 
asperity  of  these  feelings,  and  the  uni- 
versal twist  which  they  gave  to  the 
minds  of  the  whole  libend  party  in 
Great  Britain,  the  subsequent  general 
change  in  their  political  principles 
is  to  be  ascribed;  and,inthe  practical 
appUcation  of  these  principles,  the 
real  cause  of  our  present  distressed 
condition  is  to  be  found. 

While  one  set  of  causes  thus  pre- 
pared, in  the  triumph  of  Conservative 
and  protective  principles,  the  strongest 
possible  reaction  against  them,  and 
prt^nosticated,  at  no  distant  period, 
their  general  banishment  from  popular 
thou^t,  another,  and  a  not  less  power- 
ful set,  flowing  from  the  same  cause, 
gave  these  principles  the  means  of 
acquiring  a  political  supremacy,  and 
nding  the  government  of  the  state. 
The  old  policy  of  England,  it  has  been 
already  observed,  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years,  had  been  to  take  care  of  the 
producers,  and  let  the  consumers  take 
care  of  themselves.  Such  had  been 
the  effects  of  this  protective  policy, 
that,  before  the  dose  of  theRevolution- 
ary  war,  during  which  it  received  its 
full  development,  theproducingdasses, 
both  in  town  and  country,  had  become 
80  rich  and  powerful,  that  it  was  easy 
to  see  they  would  ere  long  give  a 
peponderance  to  urban  over  rural 
industrv.  The  vast  flood  of  agricul- 
tural riches  poured  for  expenditure 
into  towns;  that  of  the  manufacturers 
and  merchants  sddom  left  it.  The 
great  numufacturing  and  mercantile 
places,  during  a  century,  had  advanced 
in  population  tenfold,  in  wealth  thirty- 
fold.  The  result  of  this  change  was 
very  curious,  and  in  the  highest  degree 
Important.  Under  the  shadow  of  pro- 
^ecHoH  to  industiy  in  all  its  branches, 


13 

riches,  both  in  town  and  country,  had 
increased  so  prodigiously,  that  the 
holders  of  it  had  acquired  a  prepon- 
derance over  the  dosses  m  Me  state 
yet  engaged  in  the  toilsome  and  haz' 
ardous  worh  of  production.  The  own- 
ers of  realised  capital  had  become  so 
numerous  and  wdghty,  from  the  bene- 
fldal  effects  of  the  protective  system 
under  which  the  country  had  so  long 
flourished,  that  they  formed  an  impor- 
tant class  apart^  which  began  to  look 
to  its  separate  interests.  The  con- 
sumers had  become  so  numerous  and 
affluent,  that  they  were  enabled  to 
bid  defiance  to  the  producers.  The 
maxim  became  prevalent,  *^  Take  care 
of  the  consumer,  and  let  the  producer 
take  care  of  himself."  Thence  the 
damour  for  free  trade.  Having  passed 
the  labour  of  production,  during  which 
they,  or  their  fathers,  had  strenuously 
supported  the  protective  prindples,  by 
which  they  were  making  their  money, 
the  next  thing  was  to  support  the 
opposite  principles,  by  which  the  value 
of  the  made  money  might  be  augmented. 
This  was  to  be  done  by  free  tirade  and 
a  contracted  currency.  Having  made 
millions  by  protection,  the  object  now 
was  to  add  a  half  to  every  million 
by  raising  its  value.  The  way  to 
do  this  seemed  to  be  by  cheapening 
the  price  of  every  other  article,  ana 
raising  the  price  of  money :  in  other 
words,  the  system  of  cheapening 
everything  without  reference  to  its 
effect  on  uie  interests  of  production. 

Parliamentary  reform,  for  which 
the  Whigs,  disappointed  by  long 
exdusion  from  office,  laboured  strenu- 
ously, in  conjunction  with  the  com- 
mercUl  and  moneyed  dasses,  enriched 
by  protection,  gave  them  the  means  of 
carrying  both  objects  into  execution, 
because  it  made  two-thirds  of  the 
House  of  Commons  the  representa- 
tives of  burghs.  The  cry  of  cheap 
bread  was  seductive  to  all  classes  in 
towns :  — to  the  employer,  because  it 
opened  the  prospect  of  reducing  the 
price  of  labour,  and  to  the  operative, 
because  it  presents  that  of  lowering  that 
of  provisions.  To  these  two  objects, 
accordingly,  of  raising  the  value  of 
money  and  lowering  the  remunera- 
tion of  industry,  the  Reform  parlia- 
ment, the  organ  of  the  moneyed  in- 
terest and  consuming  classes,  has, 
through  all  the  changes  of  party,  been 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


14 


Tht  x4Mr  o^  UnointtoM* 


Urn 


perfectly  steady.  It  is  so  wonder  it 
hM  been  so,  for  it  wm  the  first-bom 
of  those  Interests.  Twenty  yemrs  be- 
fbre  t^  cry  for  feform  coniralsed  tbe 
iwtion — in  1610 — the  Ballion  Com- 
mittee brought  forward  the  prineiple  of 
a  metallic,  and,  consequently,  a  con- 
tracted cnrrency ;  and  they  recommend- 
ed its  adoption  in  the  very  crisis  of  the 
war,  when  Wellington  lay  at  Torres 
Vedras,  and  when  the  monetary  crisis 
to  which  it  must  ha^e  led  wonld  have 
made  ns  a  province  of  France.  Re- 
form was  the  consequence  of  the 
change  in  the  cnrrency,  not  its  cause. 
The  whole  time  from  1819  te  1831, 
with  the  exception  of  18^  and  1825, 
was  one  uninterrupted  period  of  suffer- 
ing. Such  was  the  misery  it  produced 
that  the  minds  of  men  were  prepared 
Ibr  any  change.  A  chaos  of  una- 
nimity was  produced  by  a  chaos  of 
suffering. 

Thus,  by  a  shdgular  and  most  inte- 
resting chain  of  causes  and  efiects,  it 
was  the  triumph  of  Consenrattye  and 
protective  principles  in  the  latter  years 
of  the  war,  and  the  entire  demonstra- 
tion thus  afforded  of  their  justice  and 
expedience,  which  was  the  imme- 
diate cause  of  their  subsequent  aban- 
donment, and  all  the  misery  which 
has  thence  arisen,  and  with  which  we 
are  still  everywhere  surrounded.  For 
it  at  once  turned  all  the  intellectual 
energies  of  the  great  liberal  party  to 
oppose,  in  every  particular,  the  system 
by  which  their  opponents  had  been 
glorified,  and  concentrated  all  the 
energies  of  the  now  powerful  moneyed 
classes  to  swell,  by  a  change  of  policy, 
the  fortunes  on  which  their  conse- 
quence depended,  and  which  had 
arisen  from  the  long  prevalence  <^  the 
opposite  system.  For  such  is  the  ten- 
dency to  action  and  reaction,  in  all 
vigorous  and  Intellectual  communities, 
that  truth  itself  is  for  long  no  security 
against  their  occurrence.  On  the  con- 
trary, so  vehement  are  the  passions 
excited  by  a  great  and  lasting  triumph 
of  one  party,  even  though  in  the  right, 
that  the  victory  of  truth,  whether  in 
politics  or  religion,  is  often  the  imme- 
diate cause  of  the  subsequent  triumph 
of  error.  The  great  Roman  Catho- 
lic reaction  a^tinst  the  Reforma- 
tion, which  Ranke  has  so  clearly 
elucidated,  and  Macaulay  has  so 
powerfully  illustrated,  has  its  exact 


counterpart  in  the  great  political  re- 
action of  the  Whig  party,  of  whidi 
Macauh^  is  himself  the  brightest  or- 
nament. 

That  tills  is  'Mm  trm  explanation 
ai  the  strange  and  tortnouspolicy ,  both 
in  domestic  and  foreign  Affairs,  under 
which  the  nation  has  so  long  suffered, 
is  apparent  on  the  slightest  survey  of 
political  affsirs  in  the  last  and  present 
century. 

The  old  principle  <rfthe  English  con- 
stitution, which  had  worked  itself  into 
existence,  or  grown  up  from  the  neces- 
sities of  men,  during  a  long  course  of 
years,  was,  that  the  whole  interestfofthe 
state  should  berepresented,and  that  the 
House  of  Commons- was  the  assembly 
in  which  the  representatives  of  all 
those  varied  interests  were  to  be  found. 
For  tiie  admission  of  these  varied 
interesto,  a  varied  system  of  electoral 
qualifications,  admitting  all  interests, 
noUe,  mercantile,  industrial,  popu- 
lar, landed,  and  colonial,  was  indis- 
pensable. In  the  old  House  of  Com- 
mons, all  these  classes  found  a 
place  for  ihdr  representatives,  and 
thence  the  commerdal  protection  it 
afibrded  to  industry.  According  to 
the  new  ^tem,  a  vast  minority  of 
seats  was  to  be  allotted  to  one  cAu» 
onfy^  the  householders  and  shopkeep- 
ers of  towns.  That  class  was  the 
moneyed  and  consuming  dass;  and 
thence  the  whc^Bubeequent  course  of 
British  policy,  which  has  been  to 
sacrifice  everything  to  Uieir  inte- 
rests. 

The  old  maxim  of  government,  alike 
with  Whigs  and  Tories,  was,  that 
native  industry  of  all  sorts,  and  espe- 
cially agricultural  industry,  was  to 
be  protested,  and  that  foreign  com- 
petition was  to  be  admitted  only  in 
so  far  as  was  not  inconsistent  with  this 
primary  object.  The  new  philosophy 
taught,  and  the  modem  liberals  carried 
into  execution,  a  different  principle* 
Tliey  went  on  the  maxim  that  the  inte- 
rests of  the  consumers  alone  were  to  be 
considered :  that  to  cheapen  everything^ 
was  the  great  object;  and  that  it 
mattered  not  how  severely  the  pro- 
ducers of  articles  suffered,  provided 
those  who  purchased  them  were  en- 
abled to  do  so  at  a  reduced  rate.  This 
policy,  long  lauded  in  abstract  writings 
and  reviews,  was  at  length  carried 
into  execution  by  Sir  R.  Peel,  by  the 


Digitized  by 


Google 


1649.] 


Tke  Ynr  ^  Rmftfhiiiom. 


15 


tariff  of  1842  and  tiiefree-lnde  BMa- 
•am  of  1846. 

To  Dfotoct  and  extmi  mr  eolonial 
dependendea  was  the  great  object  of 
British  poUej,  alika  with  Whigs  and 
Tories,  firooi  the  time  of  Crsmweli  to 
the  fall  of  Napoleon.  In  them,  it  was 
thought  oor  mamdhctnrers  would  find 
a  lasting  and  rapkUj  increasing  mar- 
ket for  their  prodnee,  which  woold,  in 
the  eDd,  enable  as  eqnallj  to  defy  the 
hostility,  and  withstand  the  rivalry 
of  foreign  states.  The  new  school 
held  that  this  was  an  antiquated  pre-> 
Jndioe:  that  colonies  were  a  barden 
rather  than  a  blessing  to  the  mother 
ooontry :  that  the  independence  of 
America  was  the  greatest  blessing 
that  ever  befell  Great  Britain ;  and 
that,  provided  we  could  bnj  colonial 
prodtnee  a  little  cheaper,  it  signified 
Bothing  though  our  colonies  perish- 
ed by  the  want  of  remuneration  for 
their  industry,  or  were  led  to  revolt 
from  exasperation  at  the  cruel  and  un« 
natural  conduct  of  themother  country. 

Tlie  navy  was  regarded  by  all  our 
statesmen,  without  excepticm,  fit>m 
Cromwdl  to  Pitt,  as  the  main  security 
of  the  British  empire ;  its  bulwark  in 
war ;  the  bridge  which  united  its  far- 
distant  provinces  during  peace.  To 
feed  it  With  skilled  seamen,  the  Navi- 
ffation  Laws  w«re  upheld  even  by 
Adam  Smith  and  the  fiorst  free-traders, 
as  the  wisest  enactmrats  which  were 
to  be  found  in  the  British  sUtute* 
book.  But  h^e,  too,  it  was  discovered 
that  our  ancestors  had  been  in  error ; 
the  system  uder  which  had  flourished 
for  two  centuries  the  greatest  naval 
power  that  ever  existed,  was  found  to 
have  been  an  entire  mistake ;  and  pro- 
vided freigfatscould  be  had  ten  per  cent 
cheaper,  it  was  of  no  consequence 
though  the  fleets  of  France  and  Russia 
blockaded  the  Thames  and  Mersey, 
and  two-thirdsof  our  trade  was  carried 
on  in  foreign  bottoms. 

To  provide  a  ourrenot  equal  to 
the  wants  of  the  nation,  and  capable 
of  growth  in  i»x)portion  to  the 
amount  of  their  numbers  and  trans- 
actions, was  one  main  object  of  the 
old  policv  of  Great  Britain.  Thence 
the  establishment  of  banks  in  such 
numbers  in  every  part  of  the  empire 
during  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
the  introduction  of  the  suspension  of 
the  obligation  to  pay  in  gold  in  1797, 


when  the  necessities  of  war  had 
drained  neariy  all  that  part  of  the 
currency  out  of  the  country,  and  it 
was  evident  that,  unless  a  rabstitnte 
for  it  in  sufficient  quantities  was  pro- 
vided, the  nation  itself,  and  all  the 
iadividQals  in  it,  would  speedily  be- 
come bankrupt.  The  marvds  of 
British  fiaanee  from  that  time  till 
1815,  which  excited  the  deserved 
astonishment  of  the  whole  world,  had 
no  efkct  in  convincing  the  impas- 
sioned opponents  of  Mr  Pitt,  that  this 
was  the  true  system  adapted  for  that 
or  any  similar  crisis.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  left  no  doubt  in  their  minds 
that  it  was  entirely  wrong.  The 
whole  philosophers  and  Mb^ral  sdnxd 
of  politicians  discovered  that  the  very 
opposite  was  the  right  principle ; 
that  gold,  the  most  vauriable  in  price 
and  evanescent,  because  the  most 
desired  and  portable  of  earthly 
things,  was  the  only  safe  foundation 
for  a  currency ;  that  paper  was  worth- 
less and  perilous,  unless  in  so  far  as 
it  could  be  instantly  converted  into 
that  incomparable  metal ;  and  that, 
consequently,  the  more  the  precious 
metals  were  withdrawn  from  the 
country,  hj  the  necessities  of  war  or 
the  effects  of  adverse  exchanges,  the 
more  the  paper  circulation  should  be 
contracted.  If  the  last  sovereign 
went  out,  they  held  it  clear  the  last 
note  should  be  drawn  in.  The  new 
system  was  brought  into  practice 
by  Sir  R.  Peel,  by  the  acts  of  1844 
and  1845,  simultaneously  with  a  vast 
importation  of  grain  under  the  free- 
trade  system — and  we  know  the  con- 
sequence. We  were  speedily  near 
our  last  sovereign  and  last  note  also. 
To  establish  a  sinking  fund,  which 
should  secure  to  the  nation  during 
peace  the  means  of  discharging  the 
debt  contracted  amidst  the  neces- 
sities of  war,  was  one  of  the  greatest 
objects  of  the  old  English  policy, 
which  was  supported  with  equal 
earnestness  by  Mr  Pitt  and  Mr  Fox, 
by  Mr  Addington  and  Lord  Henry 
Petty.  So  stetuiily  was  this  admirable 
system  adhered  to  through  all  the 
dangers  and  necessities  of  the  war, 
that  we  had  a  clear  sinking  fond  of 
£15,000,000  a-year,  when  the  contest 
terminated  in  1815,  which,  if  kept  up 
at  that  amount,  from  the  indirect  taxes 
from  which  it  was  levied  during  peace, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


16 


The  Year  of  RevohOions. 


[Jan. 


would,  beyond  all  qnestlon,  as  the 
loans  had  ceased,  have  discharged 
the  whole  debt  by  the  year  1845. 
Bot  the  liberals  soon  discovered  that 
this  was  the  greatest  of  all  errors : 
it  was  all  a  delusion ;  the  mathemati- 
cal demonstration,  on  which  it  was 
founded,  was  a  fallacy ;  and  the  only 
wisdom  was  to  repeal  the  indirect 
taxes,  from  which  the  sinldng  fund 
was  maintained,  and  leave  posterity 
to  dispose  of  the  debt  as  they  best 
could,  without  any  fund  for  its  dis- 
charge. This  system  was  gradually 
carried  into  effect  by  the  successive 
repeal  of  the  indirect  taxes  by  dif- 
ferent administrations ;  until  at  length, 
i^ter  thirty-three  years  of  peace,  we 
have,  instead  of  the  surplus  of  fifteen 
millions  bequeathed  to  us  by  the  war, 
an  average  deficit  of  fifteen  hundred 
thousand  pounds  ;  and  the  debt,  after 
the  longest  peace  recorded  in  British 
history,  has  undergone  scarcely  any 
diminution. 

Indirect  taxation  was  the  main 
basis  of  the  British  finance  in  old 
times — equally  when  directed  by  the 
Whigs  as  the  Tories.  Direct  taxes 
were  a  last  and  painful  resource,  to 
be  reserved  for  a  period  during  war, 
when  it  had  become  absolutely  un- 
avoidable. So  efficacious  was  this 
system  proved  to  be  by  the  event, 
when  acting  on  a  nation  enjoying  pro- 
tected industry,  and  an  adequate  and 
irremovable  currency,  that,  before 
the  end  of  the  war,  £72,000,000  was, 
amidst  universal  prosperity,  with  ease 
raised  from  eighteen  millions  of  people 
in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  This 
astonishing  result,  unparalleled  in  the 
previous  history  of  the  world,  had  no 
influence  in  convincing  the  modem 
liberals  that  the  system  which  pro- 
duced it  was  right.  On  the  contrary, 
it  left  no  doubt  in  their  minds  that  it 
was  entirely  wrong.  They  introduced 
the  opposite  system :  in  twenty-five 
years,  they  repealed  £40,000,000  of 
indirect  taxes ;  and  they  reintroduced 
the  income  tax  as  a  permanent  bur- 
den during  peace.  We  see  the  result. 
The  sinkmg  fund  has  disappeared; 
the  income  tax  is  fixed  about  our 
necks;  a  deficit  of  from  a  million  and 
a  half  to  two  millions  annually  incur- 
red ;  and  it  is  now  more  difficult  to 
extract  fifty- two  millions  annually 
from  twenty-nine  millions  of  souls, 


than,  at  the  close  of  the  war,  it  was 
to  raise  seventy-two  millions  from 
eighteen  milh'ons  of  inhabitants. 

To  discourage  revolution,  both 
abroad  and  at  home,  and  enable  in- 
dustry, in  peace  and  tranquillity,  to 
reap  the  fruits  of  its  toil,  was  the 
grand  object  of  the  great  contest 
which  Pitt*s  wisdom  l^ueathed  to 
his  successors,  and  Wellington's  arm 
brought  to  a  glorious  termination. 
This,  however,  was  erelong  discovered 
to  be  the  greatest  error  of  alL  Eng- 
land, it  was  found  out,  had  a  decided 
interest  in  promoting  the  canse  of 
revolution  all  over  the  world.  So 
enamoured  did  we  soon  become  of  the 
propagandist  mania,  that  we  pursued 
It  in  direct  opposition  to  our  planned 
national  interests,  and  with  the  entire 
abrogation  of  our  whole  previous 
policy,  for  which  we  had  engaged  in 
the  greatest  and  most  costly  wars, 
alike  under  Whig  and  Tory  adminis- 
trations. We  supported  revolutions 
in  the  South  American  states,  though 
thereby  we  reduced  to  a  half  of  its 
former  amount  the  supply  of  the  pre- 
cious metals  throughout  the  globe; 
and,  in  consequ^ence,  increased  im- 
mensely the  embarrassment  which  a 
contracted  psper  currency  had  brought 
upon  the  nation  :  we  supported  revo- 
lution in  Belgium,  though  thereby  we 
brought  the  tricolor  standard  down  to 
Antwerp,  and  surrendered  to  French 
influence  the  barrier  fortresses  won  by 
the  victories  of  Marlborough  and 
Wellington :  we  supported  it  during 
four  years  of  carnage  and  atrocity  in 
Spain,  though  therebv  we  undid  the 
work  of  our  own  hands,  in  the  treaty 
of  Utrecht,  surrendered  the  whole 
objects  gained  by  the  War  of  the  Suc- 
cession, and  placed  the  female  lineupon 
the  throne,  as  if  to  invite  the  French 
princes  to  come  and  carry  off  the  glit- 
tering prize :  we  supported  revolutions 
in  Sicily  and  Italy,  though  thereby 
we  gave  such  a  blow  to  our  export 
trade,  that  it  sank  £1,400,000  in  the 
single  month  of  last  May,  and  above 
£5,000,000  in  the  course  of  the  year 
1848. 

To  abolish  the  slave  trade  was  one 
of  the  objects  which  Whigs  and  Tories 
had  most  at  heart  in  the  latter  years 
of  the  old  system ;  and  in  that  great 
and  glorious  contest  Mr  Pitt,  Mr  Fox, 
and  Mr  Wilberforce  stood  side  by  side. 


il 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Year  of  Revolutions. 


17 


Bat  this  object,  so  important  in  its 
resolts,  so  interesting  to  hamanity 
from  its  tendency  to  alleviate  bnman 
snflbring,  ere  long  yielded  to  the 
enlightened  views  of  modem  liberals. 
It  was  discovered  that  it  was  much 
more  important  to  cheapen  sugar  for 
a  iime^  than  to  rescue  the  African 
race  from  perdition.  Free  trade  in 
sogar  was  introduced,  although  it 
was  demonstrated,  and,  indeed,  con- 
fessed, that  the  effect  of  it  would  be 
to  min  all  the  free-labour  colonies,  and 
throw  the  supply  of  the  world  into  the 
hands  of  the  slave  states.  Provided, 
for  a  few  years,  you  succeeded  in 
reducing  the  average  retail  price  of 
sngar  a  penny  a  pound,  it  was  deemed 
of  no  consequence  though  we  extin- 
gnished  the  growth  of  free-labour 
sngar— destroyed  colonies  in  which 
a  hundred  millions  of  British  capital 
were  invested,  and  doubled  the 
slave  trade  in  extent,  and  quadrupled 
it  in  horror,  throughout  the  globe. 

It  had  been  the  constant  policy  of 
the  British  government,  under  all 
administrations,  for  above  a  century 
and  a  half,  to  endeavour  to  reclaim  the 
Irish  population  by  introducing  among 
them  colonies  of  English  who  might 
teach  them  industry,  and  Protestant 
missionaries  who  might  reclaim  them 
from  barbarism.  The  Irish  landlords 
and  boroughs  were  the  outposts  of 
civilisation  among  a  race  of  savages ; 
the  Irish  Church  the  station  of  Christi- 
ani^  amidst  the  darkness  of  Romish 
slavery.  So  effectual  was  this  system, 
and  so  perfectly  adapted  to  the  cha- 
racter of  the  Celtic  race— capable  of 
great  things  when  led  by  others,  but 
utterly  unfit  for  self-government,  and 
incapable  of  improvement  when  left  to 
itself, — that  even  in  the  ruthless  hands 
of  Cromwell,  yet  reeking,  with  the 
slaughter  of  stormed  cities,  it  soon 


spread  a  degree  of  prosperity  through 
the  country  then  unknown,  and  rarely 
if  ever  since  equalled  in  that  ill-starred 
land.f  But  the  experience  of  the 
utter  futility  of  all  attempts,  during  a 
century  and  a  half,  to  leave  the  native 
Irish  Celts  to  themselves  or  their  own 
direction,  had  no  effect  whatever  in 
convincing  our  modem  liberals  that 
they  were  incapable  of  self-direction, 
and  would  only  be  ruined  by  Saxon 
institutions.  On  the  contrary,  it  left 
no  doubt  in  their  minds  that  the  absence 
of  self-government  was  the  sole  cause 
of  the  wretchedness  of  the  country, 
and  that  nothing  was  wanting  but  an 
entire  participation  in  the  privileges 
of  British  subjects,  to  render  them  as 
industrious,  prosperous,  and  loyal  as 
the  yeomen  of  Kent  or  Surrey.  I  n  pur- 
suance of  those  principles.  Catholic 
Emancipation  was  granted:  the  Whigs 
had  effected  one  revolution  in  1688,  by 
coalescing  with  the  whole  Tories  to 
exclude  the  Catholics  from  the  govern- 
ment; they  brought  about  another 
revolution,  in  1829,  by  coalescing  with 
a  section  of  the  Tories  to  bring  them 
in.  In  furtherance  of  the  new  system, 
so  plausible  in  theory,  so  dangerous  in 
practice,  of  extending  to  all  men,  of 
all  races,  and  in  all  stages  of  political 
advancement,  the  same  privileges,  the 
liberals  successively  gave  the  Irish 
the  command  of  their  boroughs,  the 
abridgment  of  the  Protestant  Church, 
and  the  abolition  of  tithes  as  a  burden 
on  the  tenant.  They  encouraged 
agitation,  allowed  treason  to  be  openly 
spoken  in  every  part  of  the  country,, 
and  winked  at  monster  meetings,  till 
the  community  was  welinigh  thrown 
into  convulsions.  Meanwhile,  agri- 
culture was  neglected — industry  dis- 
appeared—capital was  scared  away. 
The  land  was  run  out,  and  became 
unfit  for  anything  but  lazy-beds  of 


*  Observe, /or  a  time  I  We  shall  see  anon  what  the  price  of  sugar  will  be  when 
the  KngliBh  colonies  are  destroyed  and  the  slave  plantations  have  the  monopoly  of 
the  mariiet  in  their  hands. 

f  **  Cromwell  supplied  the  void  made  by  his  conquering  sword,  by  pouring  in 
numerous  colonies  of  the  Anglo-^axon  blood  and  of  the  Calvinistic  faith.  Strange  to 
nay,  under  that  iron  rule  the  conquered  country  began  to  wear  an  outward  face  of 
prosperity.  Districts,  which  had  recently  been  as  wild  as  those  where  the  first  white 
settlers  of  Connecticut  were  contending  with  the  Red  Men,  were  in  a  few  yean  trofu- 
formed  ijUo  the  likenesi  of  Kent  and  Norfolk,  New  buildings,  roads,  and  plantations 
were  everywhere  begun.  The  rent  of  estates  rose  &8t :  and  some  of  the  English 
landowners  began  to  complain  that  they  were  met  in  every  market  by  the  products 
of  Ireland,  and  to  damour  for  protecting  laws." — Maoaulat's  Bittory,  i.,  180. 


VOL.  IJCV. — ^NO.  CCCXCIX. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18 


TSe  YtarofRfOfoluiiaiu. 


[JaiL 


potatoes.  The  people  became  agita- 
tors, not  cnltiTators:  thej  were  always 
ranning  about  to  meetings — not  fre- 
qnenting  fairs.  The  potato-blight  fell 
on  a  country  thus  prepared  for  min, 
and  tiie  nnparalieled  misery  of  1847, 
and  the  rebellion  of  1848,  were  the 
consequence. 

It  would  be  easy  to  carry  these  il- 
Instrations  farther,  and  to  trace  the 
working  of  the  principles  we  have 
mentioned  throngb  the  whole  modern 
system  of  government  in  Great  Britain. 
Enough  has  been  said  to  show  that 
the  system  is  neither  founded  on  the 
principles   contended  for  by  the  old 
Whigs,  nor  on  any  appreciation  of, 
or  attention  to,  the  nati<Hial  interests, 
or  the  dictates  of  experienoe  in  any 
respect.    It  has  arisen  entirely  from 
a  blind  desire  of  change,  and  an  opposi- 
tion to  the  old  system  of  government, 
whether  of  Whig  or  Tory  origin,  and 
a  selfish  thirst  for  aggrandisement  on 
the  part  of  the  moneyed  and  commerdai 
classes,  whom  that  system  had  ele- 
vated to  riches  and  power.    Experi- 
ence  was  not  disregarded    by   this 
school  of  politicians ;  on  the  contrary, 
it   was  sedulously  attended   to,  its 
lessons  carefully  marked.    But  It  was 
considered  as  a  beacon  to  be  avoided, 
not  a  light  to  be  fc^owed.    Agunst 
its  conclusions  the  whole  wei^t  of 
declamation  and  shafts  of  irony  were 
directed.      It    had  been  the   cri  de 
fmerre  of  their  enemies,  the  standard  of 
Mr  Pittas  policy ;  therefore  the  oppo- 
site system  was  to  be  inscribed  on  their 
banners.   It  was  the  ruling  principle  of 
their  political  opponents ;  and,  worst  of 
all,  it  was  the  system  which,  though  it 
had  raised  the  country  to  power  and 
greatness,  had  for  twenty  years  ex-^ 
clndedthemselvesfTom  power,  llienoe 
the  modem  system,  under  whidi  the 
nation  has  suffered,  and  is  suffering, 
such  incalculable  misfortunes.    It  has 
been  said,  by  an  enlightened  Whig  of 
the  old  school,  that  *'  this  age  appears 
to  be  one  in  which  every  concewable 
folly  must  be  believed  and  reduced  to 
practice  before  it  is  abandoned."    It 
is  really  so ;  and  the  reason  is,  it  is  an 
age  in  whidi   the  former  system  of 
government,  founded   on  experience 
and  brought  about  by  necessity,  has 
been  supplanted  by  one  based  on  a 
^stematic  and  invariable  detennina- 
tion  to  change  the  oldaystem  la  eveiy 


particular.  The  liberals,  whether 
^Mstious  or  moneyed,  of  the  new  8cho<^ 
flattered  themselves  they  were  making 
great  advances  in  poUtical  science, 
when  they  were  merely  yidding  to 
the  same  spirit  which  made  the  Cal- 
viniste  stand  up  when  they  prayed, 
because  all  the  world  before  them  had 
knelt  down,  and  sit  still  during  psalms^ 
because  the  Boman  Catholics  had 
stood  up. 

But  trnth  is  great,  and  will  prevail; 
experience  is  its  test,  and  is  perpetu- 
ally contradicting  the  theories  of  man. 
The  year  1848  has  been  no  exception 
to  the  maxims  of  Tacitas  and  Burke. 
Dreadful  indeed  in  suffering,  appall- 
ing in  form,  are  the  lessons  whioh 
it  has  read  to  mankind  I  Ten  months 
have  not  elapsed,  since,  by  a  well- con- 
certed urban  tumult,  seconded  by  the 
treachery  of  the  national  guard,  the 
throne  of  the  Barricades  was  over- 
turned in  France — and  what  do  we 
already  see  on  the  continent  of 
Europe?  Vienna  petitioning  for  a 
continuation  of  the  state  of  siege,  as 
the  only  security  against  the  tyranny 
of  democracy:  BerlUi  hailing  with  rap- 
ture the  dissolution  of  the  Assembly, 
and  reappearance  of  the  king  in  the 
capital :  Milan  restored  to  the  sway  of 
the  Austrians :  France  seeking,  in  the 
guati  imperial  crown  of  Prince  Louis 
Napoleon,  with  90,000  soldiers  in  its 
capital,  a  refuge  from  the  insupport- 
able evils  of  a  democratic  republic. 
The  year  1848  has  added  another  to 
the  numerous  proofs  which  history 
affords,  that  popular  convulsions,  from 
whatever  cause  arising,  can  terminate 
onlyintherule  of  the  sword ;  but  it  has 
taught  two  other  lessons  of  incalculable 
importance  to  the  present  and  future 
tranquillity  of  mankind.  These  are, 
that  soldiers  who  in  civil  convulsions 
fraternise  with  the  insurgents,  and 
violate  their  oaths,  are  the  worst  ene- 
mies of  the  people,  for  they  inevitably 
induce  a  mUitary  despotism,  which 
extinguishes  all  hopes  of  freedom. 
The  other  is,  that  the  institution  of  a 
national  guutl  is  in  troubled  times  of 
all  others  the  most  absurd ;  and  that> 
to  put  arms  into  the  hands  of  the 
people,  when  warmed  by  revolutionaiy 
passions,  is  only  to  light  the  torch  of 
civil  discord  with  your  own  hand,  and 
hand  over  the  conntiy  to  anarchji 
minf  and  ilavery. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


I 


Id49.]  TUY&arijf 

Nor  has  the  year  been  less  frait- 
fal  of  dyil  premonitions  or  lessons 
of  the  last  importance  to  the  fatore 
tranqnillity  and  prosperity  of  Great 
Britaui.  Nnmerons  popular  delnsiiHis 
have  been  diq;)eUed  daring  that  period. 
The  dreams  of  Irish  independence 
have  been  broken ;  English  Chartism 
has  been  crushed.  The  revolution- 
iits  6ee  that  the  people  of  Great  Britain 
are  not  disposed  to  yield  their  property 
to  the  spoiler,  theur  throats  to  the  mor- 
derer,  their  homes  to  the  incendiary. 
Ymb  trade  and  afettered  currency  have 
brosght  forth  their  natural  fruits — 
natJJMial  embarrassment,  general  suf- 
^Biing,  popular  misery.  One  half  of 
the  wealth  of  our  manufacturing  towns 
has  been  destroyed  since  the  new  sys- 


19 

tern  began.  Two  years  of  free  trade 
and  a  contracted  currency  have  un- 
done nearly  all  that  twenty  years  of 
protection  and  a  sufficient  currency 
had  done.  The  great  mercantile  class 
have  suffered  so  dreadfolly  under  the 
^fect  of  their  own  measores,  that  their 
power  for  good  or  for  evil  has  been 
essentially  abridged.  The  colossus 
which,  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  has 
bestrode  the  nation,  has  been  shaken 
by  the  earthquake  which  itself  had 
I»«paied.  Abroad  and  at  home,  in 
peace  and  in  war,  delusion  has  brought 
forth  suffering.  The  year  of  revolu- 
tions has  been  the  Ninth  of  Thbr- 

MIDOB,  OF   TJBERAL   PRINCIPLSS,  for 

it  has  brought  them  to  the  test  of 
e^erienoe. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


20 


French  Conquerors  and  Colonists, 


[Jan. 


FRENCH  CONQUERORS  AND  COLONISTS. 


The  extraordinary  deficiency  re- 
cently exhibited  by  a  great  Continen- 
tal nation  In  two  qualities  eminently 
prized  by  Englishmen — in   common 
consistency,  namely,  and  in  common 
sense — ^has  cast  into  the  shade  all  pre- 
yioos  shortcomings  of  the  kind,  mak- 
ing them  appear  remote  and  triviaL 
A  people  of  serfs,  ruled  for  centuries 
with  an  uron  rod,  pillaged  for  theur 
masters^  profit,  and   lashed  at  the 
slightest  murmur,  were  excusable  if, 
on  sudden  emancipation  from  such 
galling  thraldom,  their  joyfal  gambols 
exceeded  the  limits  prescribed  by  pub- 
lic decorum,  and  by  a  due  regaM  to 
their  own  future  prosperity.     They 
might  be  forgiven  for  dancmg  round 
maypoles,  and  dreaming  of  social  per- 
fection.   It  would  not  be  wonderful 
if  they  had  difSculty  in  immediately 
replacing  their  expelled  tyrants  by  a 
capable  and  stable  government,  and 
if  their  brief  exhilaration  were  suc- 
ceeded by  a  period  of  disorganisation 
and  weakness.    Such  allowances  can- 
not be  made  for  the  mad  capers  of 
republican  France.    The  deliverance 
is  inadequate  to  account  for  the  en- 
suing delirium.  The  grievances  swept 
away  by  the  February  revolution,  and 
which  patience,  prudence,  and  mode- 
ration, could  not  have  failed  ultimate- 
ly to  remove — as  thoroughly,  if  less . 
rapidly — were  not  so  terrible  as  to  jus- 
tify lunacy  upon  redress.    Neverthe- 
less, since  then,  the  absurdities  com- 
mitted by  France,  or  at  least  by  Paris, 
are  scarcely  explicable  save  on  the 
supposition  of  temporary  aberration 
of  intellect.     Unimaginative  persons 
have  difSculty  in  reaUsing  the  panor- 
ama of  events,  alternately  sanguin- 
ary and  grotesque,  lamentable  and 
ludicrous,  spread  over  the  last   ten 
months.      Europe  —  the  portion  of 
it,  that  is  to  say,  which  has  not  been 
bitten  by  the  same  rabid  and  mis- 
chievous demon — has  looked  on,  in 
utter  astonishment,  at  the   painful 
spectacle  of  a  leader  of  its  civilisation 

galloping,  with  Folly  on  its  crupper, 


after  mad  theories  and  empty  names, 
and  riding  down,  in  the  furious  chase, 
its  own  prosperity  and  respecta- 
bility. 

We  repeat,  then,  that  these  great 
follies  of  to-day  eclipse  the  minor  ones 
of  yesterday.    When  we  see  France 
destroying,  in  a  few  weeks,  her  com- 
merce and  her  credit,  and  doing  her- 
self more  harm  than  as  many  years 
will  repair,  we  overlook  the  fact,  that 
for  upwards  of  fifteen  years  she  has 
annually  squandered  from  three  to  ^ve 
millions  sterling  upon  an  unproduc- 
tive colony  in  North  Africa.    France 
used  not  to  be  petty  in  her  wars,  or 
paltry  in  her  enterprises.    If  she  was 
sometimes  quarrelsome  and  aggres- 
sive, she  was  wont  at  least  to  fksten 
on  foes  worthy  of  her  power  and  re- 
sources.    Since  1830  she  has  dero- 
gated in  this  particular.    A  complica- 
tion of  causes — the  most  prominent 
being   the   vanity   characteristic  of 
the    nation,  the    crooked   policy  of 
the  sovereign,  and  the  morbid  love  of 
fighting  bequeathed  by  the  warlike 
period  of  the  Empure — has  kept  France 
engaged  in  a  costly  and  discreditable 
contest,  whose  most  triumphant  re- 
sults could  be  but  inglorious,  and  in 
which  she  has  decimated  her  best 
troops,  and  deteriorated  her  ancient 
fame,  whilst  pursuing,  with  unworthy 
ferocity  and  ruthlessness,  a  feeble  and 
inoffensive  foe.    This  is  no  partial  or 
malicious  view  of  the  character  of  the 
Algerine  war.  Deliberately,  and  after 
due  reflection,  we  repeat,  that  France 
has  gravely  compromised  in  Africa 
her  reputation  as  a  chivalrous  and 
clement  nation,    and   that   she   no 
longer  can  claim — as  once  she  was 
wont  to  do — to  be  as  humane  in  vic- 
tory as  she  is  valiant  in  the  fight. 
For  proof  of  this  we  need  seek  no 
further   than   in    the  speeches  and 
despatches  of  French  generals,  of  men 
who   themselves  ,have   served   and 
commanded  in  Africa.   We  will  judge 
France  by  the  voices  of  her  own  sons, 
of  those  she  has  selected  as  worthiest 


A  Campaign  »»  the  KahyUc    By  Dawson  Borreb,  F.R.G.S.,  &o.    London,  1848. 

La  Kahylie.    Par  un  Colon.    Paris,  1846. 

La  CaptiviU  du  Trompette  Mtcoffier.    Par  Erivkst  Alby.    2  volf.    BrusselB,  1848. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


French  Conqwrors  and  Colonists. 


to  govern  her  half-conqaered  colony, 
and  to  marshal  her  legions  against  a 
handfhl  of  Arabs.  More  than  one  of 
these  officers  testify,  voluntarily  or 
unwittingly,  to  the  barbarity  of  the 
system  porsned  in  Africa.  What 
.said  Greneral  Castellane,  in  his  well- 
known  speech  in  the  Chamber  of 
Peers,  on  the  4th  July  1845  ?  "  We 
have  reduced  the  country  by  an 
arsenal  of  axes  and  phosphorus 
matches.  The  trees  were  cut  down, 
the  crops  were  burned,  and  soon  the 
mastery  was  obtained  of  a  population 
reduced  to  famine  and  despair."  And 
elsewhere  in  the  same  speech :  "  Few 
soldiers  perish  by  the  hand  of  the 
enemy  in  this  war — a  sort  of  mcm-hunt 
on  a  large  scale,  in  which  the  Arabs, 
ignorant  of  European  tactics,  having 
no  cannon-balls  to  exchange  against 
ours,  do  not  fight  with  equal  arms." 
Monsieur  A.  Desjobert,  long  a  deputy 
for  the  department  of  the  Lower  Seine, 
is  the  author  of  a  volume,  and  of  seve- 
ral pamphlets,  upon  the  Algerine  ques- 
tion. In  the  most  recent  of  these  we 
find  the  following  remarkable  note : — 
*'  In  February  1^7,  General  Bngeaud 
said  to  the  Arabs,  'Tou  shall  not 
plough,  you  shall  not  sow,  nor  lead 
your  cattle  to  the  pasture,  without 
our  permission.'  Later,  he  gives  the 
following  definition  of  a  razzia :  ^  A 
sudden  irruption,  having  for  its  object 
to  surprise  the  tribes,  in  order  to  kill 
the  men,  and  to  carry  off  the  women, 
children,  and  cattle.'  In  1844,  he 
completes  this  theory,  by  saying  to 
the  Kabyles,  'I  will  penetrate  into 
your  mountains,  I  will  bum  your 
villages  and  your  crops,  I  will  cut 
down  your  fruit-  trees.'  (Proclamation 
of  the  SOth  March.)  In  1846,  ren- 
dering an  account  of  his  operations 
against  Abd-el-Kader,  he  says  to  the 
authorities  of  Algiers,  ^The  power 
of  Abd-el-Kader  consists  in  the  re- 
sources of  the  tribes ;  hence,  to  ruin 
his-  power,  we  must  first  ruin  the 
Arabs;  therefore  have  we  burned 
much,  destroyed  much.'  (From  the 
AAhbarnewvpvper  of  February  1846.)" 
These  are  significant  passages  in  the 
month  of  a  general- in-chief.  Pre- 
sently, when  we  come  to  details,  we 
shall  show  they  were  not  thrown 
away  upon  his  suboi-dinates.  The 
^extermination  of  the  Arabs  was  al- 
ways the  real  aim  of  Marshal  Bugeaud; 


21 

he  took  little  pains  to  doak  his  system, 
and  is  too  great  a  blunderer  to  have 
succeeded,  had  he  taken  more.    A 
man  of  greater   presumption   than 
capacity,  his  audacity,  obstinacy,  and 
unscrupulousness  knew  no    bounds. 
Before  this  African  man-kunt,  as  M. 
Castellane  calls  it,  he  was  unknown, 
except  as  the  Duchess  de  Berry's 
jailer,  as  the  slayer  of  poor  Dnlong, 
and  as  a  turbulent  debater,  whose 
noisy  declamation,  and  occasional  of- 
fences against  the  French  language, 
were  a  standing  joke  with  the  news- 
papers.   A  few  years  elapse,  and  we 
find  him  opposing  his  stubborn  will  to 
thatof  Sonlt,  then  minister  at  war,  and 
successfully  thwarting  Napoleon's  old 
lieutenant.    This  he  was  enabled  tO' 
do  mainly  by  the  position  he  had 
made  himself  in  Africa.      He  had 
ridden  into  power  and  importance  on 
the  shoulders  of  the  persecuted  Arabs, 
by  a  system  of  razzias  and  village- 
burning,  of  wholesale  slaughter  and 
relentless  oppression.     Brighter  far 
were  the  laurels  gathered  by  Uie  lieute- 
nant of  the  Empire,  than  those  plucked 
by  Louis  Philippe's  marshal  amidst 
the  ashes  of  Bedouin  donars  and  the 
corpses  of  miserable  Mussulmans,  slain 
in  defence  of  their  scanty  birthright, 
of  their  tents,  their  flocks,  and  the 
free  range  of  the  desert.     Poor  was 
the  defence  thev  could  make  against 
their  skilfid  ana  disciplined  invfuiers ; 
slight  the  loss  they  could  inflict  in 
requital  of  the  heavy  one  they  suf- 
fered.   Again  we  are  obliged  to  M. 
Desjobert  for  statistics,  gathered  from 
reports  to  the  Commission  of  Credits, 
and  from  Marshal    Bugeaud's  own 
bulletins.    From  these  we  learn  that 
the  loss  in  battle  of  the  French  armies, 
during  the  first  ten  years  of  the  occu- 
pation of  Algeria,  was  an  average  of 
one   hundred    and   forty   men    per 
annum.    In  the  four  following  years, 
eight  hundred  and   eighty-five  men 
perished.   The  capture  of  Constantino 
cost   one  hundr^  men,  the  much- 
vaunted  affair  of  the  Sroala  nine,  the 
battle  of  Isly  twenty-seven  !    We 
well  remember,  for  we  chanced  to  be 
in  Paris  at  the  time,  the  stir  produced 
in  that  excitable  capital  by  the  battle 
of  Isly.     No  one,  unacouainted  with 
the  facts,  would  have  doubted  that 
the  victory  was  over  a  most  valiant 
and  formidable  foe.    People's  mouths 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


22 


French  Cmqueror$  and  Cohnists, 


[Jan. 


were  filled  with  this  revival  of  the 
military  glories  of  Gaol.  Newspapers 
and  picture-shops,  poets  and  paktera, 
combined  to  cdebrate  the  exploit  and 
sound  the  ytctors*  praise.  One  en- 
graying  de  circonstcmee,  we  rememb^, 
represented  a  stnrdj  French  fool- 
soldier,  trami^g,  Uke  Gnlliver,  a 
host  of  LilliiHttian  Moors,  and  car- 
rying a  score  of  them  over  his  shonkler, 
spitted  on  his  bayonet.  "  Oat  of  my 
way!"  was  the  inscription  beneath 
the  print — "  Les  Fran^m  seront  Urn- 
Jours  Us  Fran^aisy  Horace  Vemet, 
colonrist,  by  special  appointment,  to 
the  African  campaign,  pictorial  chro- 
nicler of  the  heroic  feats  of  the  honse 
militant  of  Orleans,  prepared  his  beet 
brushes,  and  stretched  his  broadest 
canvass,  to  immortalise  the  marshal 
and  his  men.  After  a  few  days,  two 
dingy  tents  and  an  enormons  nmbrella 
were  exhibited  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Tnileries ;  these  were  trophies  of  the 
light — ^the  private  property  of  Mo- 
hammed -  Abderrhaman,  the  van- 
qnished  prince  of  Morocco,  the  real 
merit  of  whose  conqnerors  was  about 
as  great  as  that  of  an  active  tiger 
who  gloriously  scatters  a  nnmerons 
flock  of  sheep.  From  one  of  several 
boohs  relating  to  Algeria,  now  upon 
our  table,  we  will  take  a  French 
officer's  acconni  of  the  affair  of  Isly. 
The  story  of  Escoffier,  a  tmmpeter 
who  ^neronsly  resigned  his  horse  to 
his  dismonnted  captain,  himself  fall- 
ing into  the  hands  of  the  Arabs,  whose 
prisoner  he  remained  for  about  eigh- 
teen months,  is  told  by  M.  Alby,  an 
officer  of  the  African  army.  Althongh 
a  little  vivk)  in  the  colouring,  and 
comprising  two  or  three  very  tough 
"  yams," — due,  we  apprehend,  to  the 
imagination  of  trumpeter  or  author- 
its  historical  portion  professes  to  be, 
and  probably  is,  correct;  and,  at  any 
rate,  there  can  be  no  reason  for  sus- 
pecting the  writer  of  depreciating  his 
conntrymen*s  achievements,  and  un- 
derstating their  merits.  The  account 
of  the  battle,  or  rather  of  the  chase, 
for  fighting  there  was  none,  is  given 
by  a  deserter  fh>m  the  Spahis,  who. 


after  the  defeat  of  the  Moors,  jdned 
Abd-el-Kader.  Tlie  Emir  and  his 
Arabs  took  no  part  in  the  affair. 

"  I  deserted,  with  several  of  my 
comrades,  during  the  night-mavdi 
stolen  by  the  French  upon  the  Moors. 
We  sought  the  emperor*s  son  in  his 
camp,  and  informed  him  of  the  move- 
ment making  by  the  French  column. 
The  emperor's  son  had  our  horses 
taken  away,  and  gave  orders  not  to 
lose  sight  cJ  us.  Then  he  said  to  us : — 

'^'Let  them  come,  those  cN>gs  of 
Christians;  they  are  but  thirteen 
thousand  strong,  and  we  a  hundred 
and  sixty  thousand :  we  will  receive 
them  wdl.' 

**The  day  was  well  advanced  be- 
fbre  the  Moors  perceived  the  French. 
Then  the  emperor's  son  ordered  hi» 
horsemen  to  mount  and  advance. 
The  French  marched  in  a  square. 
They  unmasked  their  artillery,  and 
the  guns  sent  their  deadly  charge  of 
grape  into  the  ranks  of  the  Moors^ 
who  hnmediately  took  to  ffight,  and 
the  French  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  sabre  them." 

*•  The  Moors,"  says  M.  Alby,  **  had 
fine  horses  and  good  sabres ;  but  their 
muskets  were  bad;  and  the  men, 
softened  by  centuries  of  peace  and 
prosperity,  smoking  keef  ♦  and  eating^ 
copiously,  might  be  expected  to  run,. 
as  they  did,  at  the  first  cannon- 
shot." 

It  is  hard  to  understand  how  the 
loss  of  the  French  should  have  a- 
mounted  to  even  the  twenty- seven  me» 
at  which  it  is  stated  in  their  general's 
bulletin.  T>id  M.  Bugeaud,  unwilKng 
to  admit  the  facility  of  his  triumph^ 
slay  the  score  and  seven  with  his 
goosequill?  But  if  the  victory  was 
easily  won,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was- 
largely  rewarded.  For  having  driven 
before  him,  by  the  very  first  voll^ 
firom  his  guns,  a  horde  of  overfed  bar- 
barians, enervated  by  sloth  and  nar- 
cotics, and  total  strangers  to  the 
tactics  of  civilised  warfare,  the  mar- 
shal was  created  a  duke !  Shade  of 
Napoleon  I  whether  proudly  lingeriag^ 
within  the  trophy-clad  walls  of  the 


*  The  Moors  smoke  the  leaves  of  hemp  instead  of  tobacco.  This  Iteef,  as  it  is 
called,  easily  intoxicates,  and  renders  the  head  giddy.  Ahd-el-Kadcr  forbade  the  nse 
of  it,  and  if  one  of  his  soldiers  was  canght  smoking  keef,  he  received  the  bastinado^ 
CoftimtS  ttStcr^er,  vol.  i.  p.  221. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Fremek  Omqmeran  tmd  CoUmuti, 


23 


InraKdes,  or  piflBuig  in  spectnd  re- 
▼iew  the  dead  of  Aisterlitz  aid  Boro- 
dino, snspend  jonr  lonely  walk,  eurb 
jo>nr  abadowy  charger,  and  contem- 
plate this  pitiable  spectacle !  Yon, 
too,  gaTe  dpkedoms,  and  lavished 
even  crowns,  bat  yon  gave  them  for 
aerrioM  worth  the  naming.  Ney  and 
the  Mofikwa,  Masaena  and  fissliag, 
Lannes  and  Moatebello,  are  words 
that  bear  the  coupling,  and  grace  a 
eoroBet.  The  names  of  the  places, 
nithoagb  all  three  recall  brilliant  vie- 
tories,  are  far  less  g^orions  in  their 
UM)eiatioD8  than  the  names  of  th.e 
men.  Bnt  Bugeand  and  Isly! 
What  can  we  say  <^  them  ?  Tmly, 
tbna  mnch — they,  too,  are  worthy  of 
each  other. 

When  reriewing,  about  two  years 
ago.  Captain  Kennedy*s  narrative  of 
travel  and  advent  ore  in  Algeria, 
we  regr^ted  he  did  not  speak  ont 
abont  the  mode  of  carrying  on  the 
war,  and  abont  the  prospects  of  Alge- 
fine  colonisation;  and  we  hinted  a 
snapidon  that  the  amenities  of  French 
Biilitary  hospitality,  largely  extended 
to  a  British  fellow-soldier,  had  in- 
dnoed  him,  if  not  exactly  to  cloak,  at 
least  to  shnn  laying  bare,  the  errors 
and  mishaps  of  his  entertainers.  We 
cannot  make  the  same  complaint  of 
tke  very  pretty  book,  rich  in  vig- 
Dettes  and  cream-cotoar,  entitled, 
A  Campaign  m  the  Kabplie.  Mr 
Boffrer,whom  the  Cockneys,  contemp- 
tnons  of  terminations,  will  assuredly 
eonfonnd  with  his  great  gipsy  cotem- 
poraiy,  €korge  B<mtow  of  the  Bible, 
has,  like  Captain  Kennedy,  dipped 
his  spoon  in  French  messes.  He 
lias  ridden  with  their  regiments,  and 
8»t  at  their  board,  and  been  quartered 
with  their  officers,  and  received  kind- 
iieas  and  good  treatment  on  all  hands ; 
and  therefore  any  thing  that  could 
be  construed  into  malicious  comment 
would  oomowith  an  ill  grace  from  his 
pen.  Bat  it  were  exaggerated  deli- 
cacy to  abstain  from  stating  fiicts, 
and  these  he  gives  in  all  their  naked- 
ness; generally,  however,  allowing 
them  to  speak  fbr  themselves,  and 
adding  little  in  the  way  of  remark  or 
opiniott.  In  porsnance  of  this  system, 
1m  relatea  the  most  horrible  instances 
of  ontrage  and  crnelty  with  a  matter- 
of-fact  coolnesa,  and  an  absence  alike 
of  blame  and  sympathy,  that  may 


give  an  imfavonrable  notion  of  his 
heart,  to  those  who  do  not  accept  our 
lenient  interpretation  of  his  cold- 
blooded style.  The  traits  he  sets  down, 
and  which  are  no  more  than  will  be 
found  in  many  French  narratives, 
despatches,  and  bulletins,  show  how 
well  the  Franco- African  army  carry 
out  the  merciful  maxims  ei  Bugeand. 
Mr  Borrer,  a  geography  and  anti- 
quary, passed  seventeen  months  in 
Algeria  ;  and  daring  lus  residence 
there,  in  May  1846,  a  column  of  eight 
thousand  French  troops,  commanded 
by  the  Duke  of  Isly  in  person,  marched 
against  the  Kabyles,  ^^  that  mysteri- 
ous, bare-headed,  leathern  •  aproned 
race,  whose  chief  accomplishment  was 
said  to  be  that  of  being  ^  crack-shots,' 
their  chief  art  that  of  neatly  roasting 
their  prisoners  alive,  and  their  chi^ 
virtue  that  of  loving  their  homes."  It 
may  interest  the  reader  to  hear  a  ra- 
ther more  explicit  account  of  this  singu- 
lar people,  who  dwell  in  the  mountains 
that  traverse  Algeria  from  Tunis  to 
Morocco— «n  irregular  domain,  whose 
limits  it  is  difficult  exactly  to  define  in 
words.  The  Kabyles  are,  in  fact,  the 
higblanders  of  North  Africa,  and  they 
bold  themselves  aloof  from  the  AralM 
and  Europeans  that  surround  them. 
Concerning  them,  we  find  some  diver- 
sity in  the  statements  of  Mr  Borrer, 
and  of  an  anonymous  Colonist,  twelve 
years  resident  at  Bougie,  whose  pam- 
phlet is  before  ns.  Of  the  two,  the 
Frenchman  gives  them  the  best  char- 
acter, but  both  agree  as  to  their 
industry  and  intelligence,  their  fru- 
gality and  skill  in  agriculture.  They 
are  not  nomadic  like  the  Arabs,  but 
live  in  villages,  till  the  land,  and  tend 
fiocks.  Dwelling  in  the  mountains, 
they  have  few  horses,  and  fight  chiefly 
on  foot.  Divided  into  many  tribes, 
they  are  constantly  quarreling  and 
fighting  amongst  themselves,  bnt  they 
forget  their  fends  and  quickly  imite  to 
repel  a  foreign  foe.  ^^  Predisposed  by 
his  character,''  sa3r8  the  Colonist,  "'  to 
draw  near  to  civilisation,  the  Kabyle 
attaches  himself  sincerely  to  the  civi- 
lised man  when  circumstances  estab- 
lish a  friendly  connexion  between  them. 
He  is  still  inclined  to  certain  vices 
inherent  in  the  savage ;  but  of  all  the 
Africans,  he  is  the  best  disposed  to  live 
in  friendship  and  harmony  with  ns, 
which  he  will  do  when  he  shall  find 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


French  Conquerors  and  Cokmuts, 


24 

biraself  in  permanent  contact  with  the 
European  population.*'  This  is  not 
the  general  opinion,  and  it  differs 
widely  from  that  expressed  by  Mr 
Borrer.  But  the  Colonist  had  his  own 
views,  perhaps  his  own  interests,  to 
further.  He  wrote  some  months  pre- 
Tions  to  the  expedition  which  Mr 
Borrer  accompanied,  and  which  was 
then  not  likely  to  take  place,  and  he 
strongly  advocated  its  propriety — ad- 
roittiog,  however,  that  public  opinion 
in  France  was  greatly  opposed  to  a 
military  incursion  into  Kabylia.  Him- 
self established  at  Bougie,  of  course 
in  some  description  of  commerce,  the 
necessity  of  roads  connecting  the  coast 
and  the  interior  was  to  him  quite 
evident.  A  good  many  of  his  coun- 
trymen, whose  personal  benefit  was 
not  so  likely  to  be  promoted  by  cause- 
way-cutting in  Algeria,  strongly  de- 
precated any  sort  of  road-making  that 
was  likely  to  bring  on  war  with  the 
Kabyles.  France  began  to  think  she 
was  paying  too  dear  for  her  whistle. 
She  looked  back  to  the  early  days  of 
the  Orleans  dynasty,  when  Marr'hal 
Clausel  promised  to  found  a  rich  and 
powerful  colony  with  only  10,000 
men.  She  glanced  at  the  pages  of 
the  MonUeur  of  1837,  and  there  she 
found  words  uttered  by  the  great 
Bugeand  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies. 
'*  Forty-five  thousand  men  and  one 
good  campaign,"  said  the  white-headed 
warrior,  as  the  Arabs  call  him,  '*  and 
in  six  months  the  country  is  pacified, 
and  you  may  reduce  the  army  to 
twenty  thousand  men,  to  be  paid  by 
imposts  levied  on  the  colony,  con- 
sequently costing  France  nothing" 
Words,  and  nothing  more — mere  wind ; 
the  greatest  bosh  that  ever  was  uttered, 
even  by  Bu^eaud,  who  is  proverbial 
for  dealing  largely  in  that  flatulent 
commodity.  Nine  years  pa.<sed  away, 
and  the  Commission  of  the  Budget 
*^  deplored  a  situation  which  com- 
pelled France  to  maintain  an  army  of 
more  than  100,000  men  upon  that 
African  territory."  (Report  of  M. 
Bignon  of  the  15th  April  1846,  p. 
237.)  Bugeand  himself  had  mightily 
changed  his  tone,  and  declared  that,  to 
keep  Algiers,  as  large  an  army  would 
be  essential  as  had  been  required  to 
conquer  it.  Lamoricl^re,  a  great 
nvthority  in  such  matters,  confirmed 
Abe  oplmon  of  his  senior.    Monsieur 


[Jan. 


Desjobert,  and  a  variety  of  pamphlet- 
eers and  newspaper  writers,  attacked, 
with  argument,  ridicule,  and  statistics, 
the  party  known  as  the  Algerophilts^ 
who  made  light  of  difficulties,  scoffed 
at  expense,  and  predicted  the  pros- 
perity and  splendour  of  French  Africa. 
Algeria,  according  to  them,  was  to 
beo[>me  the  brightest  gem  in  the  citi- 
zen-crown of  France.  These  san- 
guine gentlemen  were  met  with  facts 
and  figures.  During  1846,  said  the 
anti-^gerines,  yonr  precious  colony 
will  have  cost  France  125,000,000  of 
francs.  And  they  proved  it  in  black 
and  white.  There  was  little  chance 
of  the  expense  being  less  in  following 
years.  Then  came  the  loss  of  men. 
In  1840,  said  M.  Desjobert,  giving 
chapter  and  verse  for  his  statements, 
9567  men  perished  in  the  African 
hospitals,  out  of  an  effective  army  of 
63,000.  Add  those  invalids  who  died 
in  French  hospitals,  or  in  their 
homes,  from  the  results  of  African 
campaigning,  and  the  total  loss  is 
moderately  stated  at  11,000  men,  or 
more  than  one* sixth  of  the  whole 
force  employed.  Out  of  these,  only 
227  died  in  action.  The  thing  seemed 
hopeless  and  endless.  What  do  we 
get' for  our  money?  was  the  cry. 
What  is  otir  compensation  for  the 
decimation  of  our  young  men? 
France  can  better  employ  her  sons, 
than  in  sending  them  to  perish  by 
African  fevers.  What  do  we  gain  by 
all  this  expenditure  of  gold  and 
blood?— The  unreasonable  mortals! 
Had  they  not  gained  a  Duke  of  Isly 
and  a  Moorish  pavilion?  M.  Des* 
jobert  surely  forgets  these  inestimable 
acquisitions  when  he  asks  and  an- 
swers the  question — "  What  remains 
of  all  our  victories  ?  A  thousand  bul- 
letins, and  Horace  Yemet's  big  pic- 
tures." 

^'  How  many  times,"  says  the  same 
writer,  ^'  has  not  the  subjection  of  the 
Arabs  been  proclaimed!  In  1844, 
General  Bugeand  gains  the  battle  of 
Isly.    Are  the  Arabs  subdued  ? 

**When  the  Arabs  appear  before 
the  judges  who  dispose  of  life  and 
death,  they  confess  their  faith,  and 
proclaim  their  hatred  of  us;  and 
when  we  are  simple  enough  to  teU 
them  that  some  of  their  race  are  de- 
voted to  us,  they  reply,  'Those  lie 
to  you,  through  fear,  or  for  their  own 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Id49.] 


French  Conquerors  and  Colonists, 


interest;  and  as  often  as  a  scheriff 
shall  come  whom  thej  believe  able  to 
conquer  yon,  they  will  follow  bim, 
even  into  the  streets  of  Algiers.' 
(Examination  of  Bon  Maza's  brother, 
12Ch  November  1845.)  Thos  spoke 
the  chief.  The  common  Arab  had 
already  said  to  the  Christian,  *'If 
my  hcAd  and  thine  were  boiled  in  the 
same  vessel,  my  broth  would  separate 
itself  from  thy  broth." 

This  was  disconraging  to  those 
who  had  dreamed  of  the  taming  of  the 
Arab;  and  the  more  sanguinary 
mooted  ideas  of  extermination.  Such 
a  prqiect,  dearly  written  down,  and 
printed,  and  placed  on  Parisian 
txreakfast  tables,  might  be  startling ;  in 
Algeria  it  had  long  been  put  in  prac- 
tice. What  said  General  Duvivier  in 
his  SoliUion  de  la  Question  dAlg^rie^ 

E.  285?  "For  eleven  years  they 
ave  rased  buildings,  burned  crops, 
destroyed  trees,  massacred  men, 
women,  and  children,  with  a  still- in- 
creasing fury."  We  have  already 
shown  that  this  work  of  extermina- 
tion was  not  carried  on  with  perfect 
impunity.  Here  is  fiirther  continua- 
tion of  the  fact.  *' Every  Arab  killed,'' 
says  M.  Leblanc  de  Pr^bois,  another 
officer,  who  wrote  on  the  Algerian 
war,  and  wrote  from  personal  expe- 
rience, *^  costs  us  the  death  of  thirty- 
three  men,  and  150,000  francs."  Sup- 
posing a  vast  deal  of  exaggeration  in 
this  statement,  the  balance  still  re- 
mains ugly  against  the  fVench,  for 
whom  there  is  evidently  very  little 
diflerenee  between  catching  an  Arab 
and  catching  a  Tartar.  Whilst  upon 
the  subject  of  extermination,  Mr 
Borrer  gives  an  opinion  more  decidedly 
unfavourable  to  his  French  friends 
than  is  expressed  in  any  other  part 
of  his  book.  His  estimate  of  Kabylo 
virtues  differs  considerably,  it  will  be 
observed,  from  that  of  the  Colonist, 
and  of  the  two  is  much  nearest  the 
truth. 

*'The  abominable  vices  and  debauch- 
eries of  the  Kabyle  race,  the  inhuman 
barbarities  they  are  continually  guilty 
of  towards  such  as  may  be  cast  by 
tempest,  or  other  misfortune,  upon  their 
rugged  shores;  the  atrocious  cruelties 
and  refined  tortures  they,  in  common 
with  the  Arab,  delight  in  exercising 
upon  any  such  enemies  as  may  be  so 
finhappy  as  to  fall  alive  into  their 


25 

hands,  must  render  the  hearts  of  those 
acquainted  with  this  people  perfectly 
callous  as  to  what  misfortunes  may 
befall  them  or  their  country;  and 
many  may  think  that,  as  far  as  the 
advancement  of  civilisation  is  con- 
cerned, the  wiping  off  of  the  Kabyle 
and  Arab  races  of  Northern  Africa 
frx>m  the  face  of  the  earth,  would  be  the 
greatest  boon  to  humanity.  Though, 
however,  they  may  be  fraught  with 
all  the  vices  of  the  Canaanitish  tribes 
of  old,  yet  the  command,  *  Go  ye  after 
him  through  the  city  and  smite ;  let 
not  your  eye  spare,  neither  have  ye 
pity;  slay  utterly  old  and  young, both 
maids,  and  little  children,  and  women,* 
is  not  justifiably  issued  at  the  plea- 
sure of  man ;  and  we  can  but  lament 
to  see  a  great  and  gallant  nation  en- 
gaged in  a  warfare  exasperating  both 
parties  to  indulge  in  sanguinary  atro- 
cities, — atrocities  to  be  attriboted  on 
one  side  to  the  barbarous  and  savage 
state  of  those  having  recourse  to  them; 
but  on  the  other,  prodeeding  only  from 
a  thirst  for  retaliation  and  bloody  re- 
venge, unworthy  of  those  enjoying  a 
high  position  as  a  civilised  people. 
War  is,  as  we  all  know,  ever  produc- 
tive of  horrors :  but  such  horrors  may 
be  greatly  restrained  and  diminishea 
by  the  exertions  and  example  of  those 
in  command." 

The  hoary-headed  hero  of  Isly  is 
not  the  man  to  make  the  exertion,  «r 
set  the  example.  At  the  beginning 
of  1847,  rumours  of  a  projected  inroad 
amongst  the  Kabyles  caused  uneasi- 
ness and  dissatisfaction  in  Algeria, 
when  such  a  movement  was  highly 
unpopular,  as  likely  to  lead  to  a  long 
and  expensive  war.  The  "  Commis- 
sion of  Credits,"  a  board  appointed  by 
the  French  Chamber  for  the  particular 
investigation  and  regulation  of  Alge- 
rine  affairs,  applied  to  the  minister  of 
war  to  know  if  the  rumours  were  well 
founded.  The  minister  confessed  they 
were;  adding,  however,  that  the  expe- 
dition would  be  quite  peaceable ;  but 
at  the  same  time  laying  before  the 
commission  letters  from  Bugeaud, 
*^  expressing  regret  that  force  of  arms 
was  not  to  be  resorted  to  more  than 
was  absolutely  necessary,  the  submis- 
sion of  the  aborigines  being  never  cer- 
tain tmtd  powder  had  spoken^  The 
^  marshal  evidently**  felt  Uke  fighting." 
The      Commission    protested;     the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


26 

minister  rebnked  them,  bidding  them 
mind  their  credits,  and  not  meddle  with 
the  royal  prerogatire.  Thus  unjoBtly 
snubbed — for  thej  certainly  were  mind- 
ing their  credits,  by  opposing  increase 
of  expenditure — the  Commissioii  were 
mnte,  one  of  the  members  merely  ob- 
serving, by  way  of  a  last  shot,  that  it 
was  easier  to  refuse  to  listen  than  to 
reply  satisfactorily.  In  France,  public 
opinion,  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  and 
Marshal  Soult,  had,  on  various  occa- 
sions, declared  against  attacking  the 
Kabyles.  ^*  Nevertheless,  a  proclama- 
tion was  issued  by  Marshal  Bageand 
to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Kabylie,  to 
warn  them  that  the  French  army  was 
upon  the  point  of  entering  their  terri- 
tory, ^  to  cleanse  it  of  those  adventu- 
rers who  there  preached  the  war 
against  France.'  The  proclamation 
then  went  on  to  state,  that  the  marshal 
had  no  desire  to  fight  with  them,  or  to 
devastate  their  property;  but  that,  if 
there  were  amongst  them  any  who 
wished  for  war,  they  would  find  him 
ready  to  accept  it.''  K  a  bard- 
favoored  stranger,  armed  with  a  horse- 
whip, walked  uninvited  into  M. 
Bugeaud's  private  residence,  loodly 
proclaiming  he  would  thrash  nobody 
unless  provoked,  the  marshal  would 
be  likely  to  resist  the  intrusion,  ^e 
Kabyles,  doubtless,  thought  his  ad- 
vance into  their  territory  an  equs^y 
unjustifiable  proceeding.  As  to  the 
pretext  of  *^  the  adventurers  who 
preached  war,"  it  was  ui^ounded  and 
ridiculous.  Such  propagandists  have 
never  been  listened  to  io  Kabylia. 
*'Tbe  voice  of  the  Emir  Abd-el-Kader 
himself,"  says  the  Colonist,  '^  would 
not  obtain  a  hearing.  Did  he  not  go 
in  person,  in  1839,  when  preparing  to 
break  his  treaty  of  peace  with  us,  and 
preach  the  holy  war?  Did  he  not 
traverse  the  valley  of  the  Souman,  from 
one  end  to  the  other,  to  recmit  com- 
batants? And  what  did  he  obtain 
from  the  Kabyles  ?  Hospitality  for  a 
few  days,  coupled  with  the  formal  in- 
vitation to  evacuate  the  country  as 
floon  as  possible.  Did  he  succeed 
better  when  he  lately  again  tried  to 
raise  Kabylia  against  us?"  MrBorrer 
confirms  Uiis.  Marshal  Bugeand  him- 
self had  said  in  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  *"  The  Kabyles  are  neither 
aggressive  nor  hostile;  they  defend 
themselvei  vigorously  when  intruded 


Frtmeh  Cwnqitantrt  wki  Cokmkta, 


[J« 


vpoQ,  but  they  do  not  attack."  The 
marshal^  whose  whole  public  life  has 
been  full  of  eontradietions,  was  the 
first  to  intrude  upon  them,  although 
but  a  very  few  years  had  eli4)sed  smce 
he  said  in  a  pamphlet,  ^^  The  Kabyles 
are  numerous  and  very  warlike ;  they 
have  viliagee,  and  their  agriculture  ia 
sedentary ;  ahready  there  is  too  little 
land  to  sq»ply  their  wants  ;  there  is 
no  room,  therefore,  for  Europeans  m 
the  mountains  of  Kabylia,  and  they 
would  cut  a  very  poor  figure  there." 
This  last  prophetic  sentence  was  rea- 
lised by  M.  Bugeaud  himself,  who 
certainly  made  no  very  brilliant  ap- 
pearance when,  forgetting  his  former 
theory,  he  hazarded  hiwelf  in  May 
1847,  at  the  head  of  eight  thousand 
men,  and  with  Mr  Borrer  in  his  train, 
amongst  the  hardy  mountaineers  of 
Kabylia: 

Hereabouts  Mr  Borrer  quotes,  in 
French,  the  statement  of  a  member 
of  the  Commission  already  referred 
to.  It  is  worth  extracting,  as  fully 
confirming  our  conviction  that  the 
conduct  of  France  in  Algeria  has  been 
throughout  characterised  by  an  utter 
want  of  judgment  and  justice.  ^^  The 
native  towns  have  been  invaded^ 
ruined,  sacked,  by  our  administration^ 
more  even  than  by  our  arms.  In 
time  of  peace,  a  great  number  of  pri- 
vate estates  have  been  ravaged  and 
destroyed.  A  multitude  of  title-deeds 
delivered  to  us  for  verification  have 
never  been  restored.  Even  in  the 
environs  of  Algiers,  fertile  hinds  have 
been  taken  from  the  Arabs  and  given 
to  Europeans,  who,  UDal:»le  or  un- 
willing to  cultivate  their  new  posses- 
sions, have  farmed  them  out  to  their 
former  owners,  who  have  thus  b^ 
come  the  mere  stewards  of  the  inheri- 
tance of  their  fathers.  Elsewherer 
tribes,  or  fractions  of  tribes,  not 
hostile  to  us,  but  who,  on  the  con- 
trary, had  fought  for  us,  have  beea 
driven  firom  their  territory.  Condi- 
tions have  been  accepted  from  them^ 
and  not  kept — indemnities  promised^ 
and  never  paid — until  we  have  com- 
promised our  honour  even  more  thaa 
their  interests."  Such  a  statSBent, 
proceeding  from  a  Frenchman — from 
one,  too,  delegated  by  his  government, 
to  examine  the  state  of  the  colony — 
is  quite  conclusive  as  to  administra- 
tive proceedings  in  Algeria.  It  would 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Frmek  Outfuenrs  mmd  Cahmmtu. 


27 


Iw  svperflnoos  mid  impertinent  to  add 
another  lise  of  evideoee.  A  eommeat 
maj  be  apprepriate.  '^Js  it  not 
MoBteeqnieii,"  aajs  Mr  Borrer,  *^  in 
his  E^frk  de$  Lms,  who  obeerres — 
*The  rigbt  <^  eonqnest,  though  a  ne^ 
eessarj  and  legitimate  riglit,  is  an 
nnhappj  oae,  beqneathisf  to  the  con- 
queror a  hearj  debt  to  hnmamty,  Gn\y 
to  be  acquitted  by  repairing,  as  fur  a« 
poflsitale,  thoee  erils  of  which  he  has 
be«i  the  canse*? — and  Monteeqoiea 
was  a  wise  man,  and  a  Frendunan I" 
Dismissing  this  branch  ci  the  sub- 
ject, let  as  see  how  the  Dnke  of  Islj 
made  ^^the  powder  speak*'  inKabj- 
lia,  and  try  our  band  at  a  rough 
sketch,  taking  the  loan  of  Mr  Borrer's 
eoloars.  A  strong  body  of  French 
troops — the  8000  tuiye  been  increased, 
since  departtre,  by  sererai  battaHcms 
and  some  spahis — are  encamped  in  a 
rich  Talley,  cnttfaig  down  the  nnripe 
wheat  for  the  nse  of  their  horses, 
wtdlst,  from  the  snrronnding  heights, 
the  Kabyles  Roomily  watch  the  mi- 
scrapslons  foragers.  ^Now  *>  soft- 
winged  eTening,'"  as  Mr  Dawson 
Bomr  poetically  expresses  himself, 
**  borers  o'er  the  scene,  chasing  from 
woodlands  and  sand-rock  heights  the 
gilded  tints  <^  the  setting  sun."  In 
other  words,  it  gets  dark — and  shots 
are  heard.  The  natives,  vexed  at  the 
liberties  taken  with  their  crops,  harass 
the  ontposts.  Their  bad  powder  and 
orerloaded  gnu  have  no  chance 
against  French  mmskets.  ^*In  the 
name  of  the  Prophet,  bkaps  !"  Ba- 
geaod  the  Merciful  pays  for  them  ten 
franca  a-picce.  Fuur  are  presented 
to  him  before  breakfast.  The  pre- 
mium is  to  make  the  soldiers  alert 
against  horse-stealers.  Ten  francs 
bring  a  Kttle  fortnne  to  a  French 
sold^,  whose  pay  in  hard  cash  is  two 
or  three  farthings  a- day,  Mr  Borrer 
sospeets  the  heads  are  sometimes 
taken  from  shonklers  where  they  have 
a  right  to  remain.  An  Arab  is  always 
«B  Arab,  whether  a  horse-stealer  or  a 
mere  idler.  But  no  matter — a  few 
more  or  less.  Day  returns ;  the  co- 
lumn marches;  the  Kabyles  show 
Jirttle  of  the  intrepidity,  in  defence  of 
their  hearths  and  altars,  attributed  to 
them  by  M.  Bageaud  and  others. 
Their  horsemen  fly  before  a  platoon 
of  French  cavalry ;  the  in^Mtry  limit 
ahdr  offirasire  operations  to  cowardly 


kmg  shots  at  the  rear-gnard.  Four 
venerable  elders  bring  two  yoked  oxen 
in  token  of  subsussion.  In  general, 
the  inhabitants  have  disappeared. 
Their  deserted  towns  appear,  in  the 
dlstaacCt  by  no  means  inferior  to  many 
French  and  Italian  villages.  The 
marshal  will  not  permit  exploring 
parties,  for  fear  of  ambnscade.  Niglii 
arrives,  and  passes  without  incident 
of  note.  At  three  in  the  morning, 
the  camp  is  aroused  by  hideous 
yells.  A  sentmel  has  fired  at  a  horse- 
thief  and  broken  his  leg,  and  now, 
mindful  of  the  ten  francs,  tries  to 
cut  off  the  head  of  the  wounded  man, 
who  objects  and  screams.  A  bayonet- 
thrust  stops  his  mouth,  and  the  biii  om 
Bugeaud  is  duly  severed.  The  next 
day  is  passed  in  skirmisbing  with  the 
Beni-Abbes,  the  most  numerous  tribe 
of  the  valley  of  the  Souman,  but  not 
a  very  warlike  one — so  says  the 
Colonist ;  and,  indeed,  they  offer  but 
slieht  resistance,  although  they,  or 
some  other  trib^,  make  a  firm  and 
determined  attack  upen  the  French 
ontposts  in  the  course  of  that  night. 
There  is  more  smoke  than  bloodshed ; 
but  the  Kabyles  show  considerable 
pluck,  bum  a  prodigious  number  of 
cartridges,  and  make  no  doubt  they 
have  neariy  "rubbed  out"  the  Chris- 
tians; in  which  particular  they  are 
rather  mistaken — the  French,  not 
choosing  to  leave  their  camp,  having 
quietly  lain  down,  and  allowed  the 
Berber  lead  to  fly  over  them.  At  last 
the  assailants'  ammimition  nms  low, 
and  they  retire,  leaving  a  sprinkHng^ 
of  dead.  Mr  Borrer  quotes  the  Koran. 
"  ^  Those  of  %nr  brothers  who  fall  in 
defence  of  the  true  faith,  are  not  dead, 
but  live  invisible,  receiving  theirnonr- 
riture  from  the  band  of  the  Most 
High,'  says  the  Prophet."  Naurrtture 
is  not  quite  English,  at  least  with  that 
orthography;  but  no  matter  for  Mr 
Borrer's  Gallicisms,  which  are  many. 
We  rush  with  him  into  the  Kabyle 
^re.  Here  he  sits,  halted  amongst 
the  olive-trees,  philosophically  light- 
ing his  pipe,  the  bullets  wbistling^ 
about  his  ears,  whilst  he  admires  the 
stmff  /raid  of  a  pretty  vivtrndihe^ 
seatedf  astride  upon  her  horse,  and 
jesting  at  the  danger.  The  column 
advances — the  Kabyles  retreat,  fight- 
ing, pursued  by  the  French  shells, 
which  they  hold  hi  particular  horror. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


FrtMck  Conquercrt  and  Colotdsti. 


28 

and  call  the  howitzer  the  twice-flring 
cannon.  The  object  of  the  adyaDce  U 
to  destroy  the  towns  and  villages  of 
the  Beoi-Abbez,  the  ntght-attack  opon 
his  bivouac  affording  the  manshai  a 
pretext.  The  villages  are  snrronnded 
with  stiff  walls  of  stones  and  mad, 
crowned  with  strong  thornj  fences, 
and  having  hedges  of  prickly  pear 
growing  at  their  base ;  and  the  gannt 
bomoosed  warriors  malie  good  fight 
through  loop-holes  and  from  the  ter- 
races of  their  houses.  But  resistance 
is  soon  overcome,  and  the  narrow 
streets  are  crowded  with  Frenchmen, 
ravishing,  massacring,  plundering ;  no 
regard  to  sex  or  age ;  outrage  for  every 
woman— the  edge  of  the  sword  for  all. 
**Upon  the  floor  of  one  of  the 
chambers  lay  a  little  girl  of  twelve  or 
fourteen  years  of  age,  weltering  in 
gore,  and  in  the  agonies  of  death :  an 
accursed  ruffian  thrust  his  bayonet 
into  her.  God  will  requite  him.  .  .  . 
When  the  soldiers  had  ransacked  the 
dwellings,  and  smashed  to  atoms  all 
they  could  not  carry  off,  or  did  not 
think  worth  seizing  as  spoil,  they 
heaped  the  remnants  and  the  mat- 
tings together  and  fired  them.  As  I 
was  hastily  traversing  the  streets  to 
regain  the  outside  of  the  village,  dis- 

Susted  with  the  horrors  I  witnessed, 
ames  burst  forth  on  all  sides,  and 
torrents  of  fire  came  swiftly  gliding 
down  the  thoroughfares,  for  the  flames 
had  ffained  the  oil.  An  insUnt  I 
turned—the  fearful  doom  of  the  poor 
concealed  child  and  the  decrepid 
mother  flashing  on  my  mind.  It  was 
too  late.  .  .  .  The  unfortunate 
Kabyle  child  was  doubUbss  consumed 
with  her  aged  parent.  How  many 
others  may  have  shared  her  fate  T* 

At  noon,  the  atmosphere  is  laden 
with  smoke  arisingfh>m  the  numerous 
burning  villages.  From  one  spot  nine 
may  be  counted,  wrapped  in  flames. 
There  is  merry-making  in  the  French 
camp.  Innumerable  goatskins,  f\ill 
of  milk,  batter,  figs,  and  flour,  are 
produced  and  opened.  Some  are 
consumed ;  more  are  squandered  and 
strewn  opon  the  ground.  I^t  the 
Kabyle  tlogs  starve  I  Have  they 
not  audaciously  levelled  their  long 
guns  at  the  white- headtnl  warrior 
and  hii  Miowera,  who  asked  nothlaf 
but  submlMlou,  fWe  passa«ii  through 
lheooantry,corD<llald«lbrih«ar  horaos, 


[Jan. 


and  the  fat  of  the  land  for  themselves? 
But  stay — there  is  still  a  town  to  Uke, 
the  last,  t^e  strongest,  the  refuge  of 
the  women  and  of  the  aged.  Its  defence 
is  resolute,  but  at  last  it  falls.    *'  Ra- 
vished, murdered,   burnt,   hardly  a 
child   escaped  to  tell  the  tale.     A 
few  of  the  women  fled  to  the  ravines 
around  the  village ;  but  troops  swept 
the  brushwood ;  and  the  stripped  and 
mangled  bodies  of  females  might  there 
be  seen.    .    .    .    One  vast  sheet  of 
flame  crowned  the  height,  which  an 
hour  or  two  before  was  ornamented 
with  an  extensive  and  opulent  villaget 
crowded  with  inhabitants.    It  seemed 
to  have  been  the  very  emporium  of 
commerce  of  the  Beni-Abbez ;  fabrics 
of  gunpowder,    of  arms,  of  haiks, 
bumooses,  and  different  stnfis,  were 
there.    The  streets  boasted  of  nume- 
rous  shops   of  workers   in    silver, 
workers  in  cord,  venders  of  silk,  &c" 
All  this  the  soldiers  pillaged,  or  the 
fire  devoured;    then  the   insatiable 
flames  gain^  the  com  and  olive  trees, 
and  converted  a  smiling  and  prosper- 
ous district  into  a  bUck  and  barren 
waste.    Bugeand  looked  on  and  pro- 
nounced it  good,  and  bis  men  declared 
the  country  "  T^ell  cleaned  out,''  and 
vaunted  their  deeds  of  rapine  and 
violence.      **I   heard    two    ruffians 
relating,  with  great  gusto,  how  many 
vonng  girls  had  been  burned  in  one 
house,  after  being  abused  by  their 
brutal   comrades    and    themselves.** 
Out  of  consideration  for  his  readers, 
Mr  Borrer  says,  he  writes  down  bat 
the  least  shocking  of  the  crimes  and 
atrocities   he   that    day   witnessed* 
We  have  no  inclination  to  transcribe  a 
tithe  of  the  horrors  he  records,  and 
at  sight  of  which,  he  assures  ns,  the 
blood  of  many  a  gallant  French  officer 
boiled  in  his  veins.    He  mentions  no 
attempt  on  the  part  of  these  compas- 
sionate officers  to  curb  the  ferocity  of 
theUr  men,  who  had  not  the  excuse  of 
previous  severe  sufferings,  of  a  long 
and  obstinate  reslstanoe,  and  of  the 
loss  of  many  of  their  comrades,  to 
allege  in  extenuation  of  their  savage 
violence.    History  teaches  as  that,  in 
certain  droumstanoes,  as,  ibr  instance, 
after  protracted  sieges,  great  exposure, 
and  a  long  and  bloody  fight,  soldiers 
of  all  nations  are  liable  to  (brget  dis- 
clplln^  and,  maddened  by  twy,  bj 
suAMng  and  exdlemenl>  to  despise 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  French  Conquerors  and  Colonists, 

Ihe  admonitioiis  and  reprimands  of 

the  chie6 — ^naj,  even  to  turn  their 

weapons  against  those  whom  for  years 

ther  have  been  aocnstomea  to  respect 
.  and  implicitly  obey.    But  there  is  no 

such  excuse  in  the  instance  before 

us.    A  pleasant  military  promenade 

through  a  rich  country,  fine  weather, 

abnnaant   rations,  and  just  enough 

skirmishing  to  give  zest  to  the  whole 

affair,  whose  fighting  part  was  ex- 
ceeding brief,  as  might  be  expected, 

when  French  bayonets  and  artillery 

were  opposed  to  the  clumsy  guns  and 

irr^^nlar  tactics  of  the  Beni-Abbez 

— we   find  nothing   in  this  picture 

to   extenuate  the  horrible  cruelties 

enacted  by  the  conquerors  after  their 

easily  achieved  victory.    Their  whole 

loss,    according   to   thehr   marshal's 

bulletin,  amounted  to  fiftv-seven  killed 

and  wounded.   This  included  the  loss 

In  the  night-attack  on  the  camp.    In 

lact,   it  was  mere  child's   play   for 
the  disciplmed  French  soldiery;  and 

Mr  Borrer  virtually  admits  this,  by  ap- 
plying to  the  affur  General  Castellane's 

expression  of  a  mon-Atm/.  He  then,  with 

no  good  grace,  endeavours  to  find  an 

excuse  for  his  campaigning  comrades. 
*^The  ranks  of  the  French  army  in 

AMca  are  composed,  in  great  mea- 
sure, of  the  very  scum  of  France.*' 

They  have  condemned  regiments  in 

Africa,  certainly ;  the  Foreign  Legion 

are  reckless  and  reprobate  enough; 

we  dare  say  the  Zouaves,  a  mixed 

corps  of  wild  Frenchmen  and  tamed 
Arabs,  are  neither  tender  nor  scrupu- 
lous; but  these  form  a  very  small  por- 
tion of  the  hundred  thousand  French 
troops  in  Africa,  and  there  is  little 
picking  and  choosing  amongst  the  line 
regiments,  who  take  their  turn  of  ser- 
vice pretty  regularly,  neither  is  there 
reason  for  considering  the  men  who  go 
to  Algeria  to  be  greater  scamps  than 
those  who  remain  in  France.  So  this 
will  not  do,  Mr  Borrer :  try  another 
tack.  "  The  only  sort  of  excuse  for 
the  horrors  committed  by  the  soldiery 
in  Algeria,  is  their  untamed  passions, 
and  the  fire  added  to  their  natural 
ferocity  by  the  atrocious  cruelties  so 
often  committed  by  the  Arabs  upon 
their  comrades  in  arms,  who  have 
been  so  nnhappy  as  to  ftill  into  their 
power.**  This  is  more  plausible,  al- 
though it  is  a  query  who  began  the 
aystem  of  murderous  reprisals.    Arab 


29 


treatment  of  prisoners  is  not  mild. 
On  the  evening  of  the  1st  June,  some 
men    straggled    from    the    French 
bivouac,  and  were  captured.      *^  It 
was  said  that  from  one  of  the  outposts 
the  Kabyles  were  seen  busily  engaged 
in  roasting  their  victims  before  a  large 
fire  upon  a  neighbouring  slope;  but 
whether  this  was  a  fact  or  not,  I  never 
learned.**      It    was    possibly   true. 
Escoffier  tells  us  how  one  of  his  fellow- 
prisoners,  a  Jew  named  Wolf,  who 
fell  mto  the  hands  of  Moorish  shep- 
herds, was  thrown  upon  a  blazing 
pile  of  faggots ;  and  although  we  sus- 
pect the  brave  trumpeter,  or  his  histo- 
rian, of  occasional  exaggeration,  there 
are  grounds  for  crediting  the  authen- 
ticity of  this  statement.    As  to  Mr 
Borrer,  he   guarantees  nothing  but 
what  he  sees  with  his  own  eyes,  the 
camp  being,  he  says,  full  of  blagueurs^ 
or  tellers  of  white  lies.    The  inven- 
tions of  these  mendacious  gentry  are 
not  always  as  innocent  as  he  appears 
to  think  them.    Imaginary  cruelties, 
attributed  to  an  enemy,  are  very  apt 
to  impose  upon  credulous  soldiers,  and 
to  stimulate   them    to    unnecessary 
bloodshed,  and  to   acts    of  lawless 
revenge.     Many  a  village  has  been 
burned,  and  many  an  inoffensive  pea- 
sant sabred,  on  the  strength  of  such 
lying  fabrications.     In  Africa  espe- 
cially, where  the  lex  taUonis  seems 
fully  recognised,  and  its  enforcement 
confided  to  the  first  straggler  who 
chooses  to  fire  a  house  or  stick  an 
Arab,  the  blcufueurs  should  be  handed 
over,  in   our  opinion,   to  summary 
punishment.    On  the  advance  of  the 
French  column,    a  soldier   or   two, 
straying  from  the  bivouac  to  bathe  or 
fish,  hs3  here  and  there  been  shot  by 
the  lurking  Kabyles.     On  its  return, 
^^  I  was  somewhat  surprised,**   Mr 
Borrer  remarks,  "  to  observe,  in  the 
wake  of  the  column,  flames  bursting 
forth  from  the  gourbies  (villages)  left 
in  our  rear.    It  was  well  known  that 
the  tribe  upon  whose  territory  we 
were  riding  had  submitted,  and  that 
their  sheikh  was  even  riding  at  the  • 
head  of  the  column.'*    None  could  ex- 
plain the  firing  of  the  villages.    The 
sheikh,  indignant  at  the  treachery  of 
the  French,  set  spurs  to  his  mare, 
and  was  off  like  the  wind.    The  con- 
fiagration  was  traced  to  soldiers  of  the 
rear-guard,  desirous  to  revenge  their 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


30 


Fremdk  Canqueter$  umd  Cokmkti. 


fj« 


comrades,  picked  off  on  the  previous 
march.  We  are  not  told  that  the 
crime  was  brought  home  to  the  per- 
petrators, or  visited  upon  them.  If 
it  was,  Mr  Borrer  makes  no  mention 
of  the  fact,  bnt  passes  on,  as  if  the 
buming  of  a  few  villages  were  a  trifle 
scarce  wwth  notice.  How  were  the 
Kabjles  to  distinguish  between  the 
acts  of  the  private  soldier  and  of  the 
epauleted  chief?  Their  submission 
had  just  been  accepted,  and  friendly 
words  spoken  to  them:  their  sheikh 
rode  beside  the  gray-haired  leader  of 
the  Christians,  and  marked  the  appa- 
rent subordination  of  the  white^faced 
soldiery.  Suddenly  a  gross  violation 
occurred  of  the  amicable  nnderstand- 
ing  so  recently  come  to.  How  per- 
suade them  that  the  submissive  and 
disciplined  soldiers  they  saw  around 
them  would  veuture  such  breach  <A 
faith  without  the  sanction  or  conni- 
vance of  their  commander?  The 
offence  is  that  of  an  insignificant  sen- 
tinel, but  the  dirt  falls  upon  the  beard 
of  Bugeaud;  and  confidence  in  the 
promises  of  the  lying  European  is 
thoroughly  and  for  ever  destroyed. 

A  colony,  whose  nM)de  of  acquisi- 
tion and  of  government,  up  to  the 
present  time,  reflects  so  little  credit 
upon  French  arms  and  administrators, 
ought  certainly  to  yield  pecuniary 
results  or  advantages  of  some  kind, 
which,  in  a  mercenary  point  of  view, 
might  balance  the  account  France 
surely  did  not  place  her  repntation 
for  humanity  and  justice  in  the  hands 
of  Marshal  Bugeaud  and  of  others  of 
his  stamp,  without  anticipating  some 
sort  of  compensation  for  its  probable 
deterioration.  Such  expectations  have 
hitherto  been  wholly  unfulfilled ;  and 
we  really  see  little  chance  of  their 
probable  or  speedy  realisation.  The 
colony  is  as  unpromising,  as  the  colo- 
nists are  inapt  to  improve  it.  The 
fact  is,  the  work  of  colonisation  has 
not  begun.  The  French  are  utterly 
at  a  loss  how  to  set  about  it.  All 
kinds  of  systems  have  been  proposed. 
Bugeaud  has  had  his— that  of  militair 
colonisation,  which   he   maintdned. 


with  characteristic  atubbonmess,  in  tha 
teeth  of  public  opinion,  of  the  French 
government,  of  oommoa  sense,  and 
even  of  possibility.  He  proposed  to 
take,  during  ten  vears,ooefaundred  and 
twenty  thousand  recruits  firam  the  con- 
scription, and  to  settle  them  in  Africa, 
with  their  wives.  He  estimated  the 
expense  of  this  scheme  at  twelve  mil- 
lions sterling.  His  opponents  stated 
its  probable  cost  at  four  times  that 
sum.  Whichever  estimate  was  cor- 
rect, it  is  not  worth  while  examining 
the  plan,  which  for  a  moment  was 
entertained  by  a  government  com- 
mission, but  has  since  been  com- 
pletely abandoned.  It  presupposes 
an  extraordinary  and  arbitrary  stretch 
of  power  on  the  part  of  the  govern- 
ment tiiat  should  adopt  such  a 
system  of  compulsory  colonisation. 
We  are  surprised  to  find  Mr  Borr^ 
inclined  to  favoor  ^  exploded  plan. 
Gen^-al  Lamorici^re  (the  terrible 
Bour-h-bai  of  the  Arabs,*)  proposed 
to  give  preminms  to  agriculturists 
settUng  in  Algeria,  at  the  rate  of 
twenty-five  per  cent  of  their  expenses 
of  clearing,  irrigation,  construction, 
and  plantation.  But  M.  Lamorici^re 
— a  very  practical  man  indeed,  with 
his  sabre  in  his  fist,  and  at  the  head 
of  his  Zouaves — is  a  shallow  theorist 
in  matters  of  colonisation.  The  staff 
of  surveyors,  valuers,  and  referees 
essential  to  carry  out  his  project,  would 
alone  have  been  a  heavy  additional 
charge  on  the  unprofitable  colony. 
"  M.  Lamorici^re, "  says  M.  Des- 
jobert,  *^  was  one  of  the  warmest  ad- 
vocates of  the  occupation  of  Bougie,** 
(a  seaport  of  Kabylie,)  "and  partly 
directed,  in  1833,  that  fatal  expedi- 
tion.** (Fatal,  M.  Desjob^  means, 
by  reason  of  its  subsequent  cost  in 
men  and  money.  Tbe  town  was 
taken  by  a  small  force  on  the  29th 
September  1883.)  "The  soldiers 
were  then  toid  that  their  mission  was 
agricultural  rather  t^an  military,  that 
they  would  have  to  handle  the  pick 
and  the  spade  more  frequently  than 
the  musket.  The  nnfortnnates  have 
certainly  handled  pick  and  spade;  but 


*  "  General  Lamorioidre  habitually  carries  a  stiok.  This  has  prooured  him,  fr^m 
the  Arabs,  the  name  of  the  Pire-aurbdUm,  (the  finther  with  th«  stiok :)  Bimt^hoi,  One 
of  his  orderly  officers,  my  friend  and  comrade  CM>tain  Bentiman,  gives  ArcKmtJi  as 
the  proper  orthography  of  Bour-^t-hid,  We  have  feUowod  Esoofflars  pronunciation.'* 
^Cajpttvit^  cCEtcqfficr,  voL  i  p.  80. 


Digitized  by 


Google 


1649.] 


i^VidMG&  CSnifiierotr«  amd  CokmiUt. 


81 


it  was  to  dig  in  that  iiaaense  cemetery 
which,  each  day,  AwallowB  up  their 
comrades.    Ah-eady,  in  1836,  Creneral 
d*£rion,  ex-goyemor  of  Algiers,  de- 
manded  the   eyacuatioa  of  Bougie, 
which  had  devoiired,  in  three  years, 
three  dionMuid  men  and  seven  millions 
of  francs.^'     The  demand  was  not 
complied  with,  and  Bougie  has  con- 
tinned  to  consume  more  than  its  quota 
of  the  six  thonsand  men  at  which  M. 
Desjobert  estimates  the  average  an- 
nual loss,  by  disease  alone,  of  the 
African    army.      Bongie    has    not 
dooriBhed  under  the  tricolor.    In  for- 
mer times  a  city  of  great  riches  and 
importaace,  It  still  contained  several 
thonsand  inhabitants  when  taken  hj 
the  French.    At  the  period  of  Mi 
Borrer's  visit,  it  redumed  a  popula- 
tion of  five  hundred,  exclusive  of  the 
garrison  of  twelve  hundred  men.    To 
retnm,  however,  to  the  systems  of 
colonisation.    When  the  generals  had 
bad  their  say,  it  was  the  turn  of  the 
cooKnissions ;     the    commission    of 
Africa,    that    of    the    Chamber   of 
Deputies,  &c.    There  was  no  lack  of 
projects ;  but  none  of  them  answered. 
The  colonial  policy  of  the  Orieans 
government    was    eminently    short- 
sighted.   This  is  strikingly  shown  in 
Mr  Borrer's  Uth chapter,  ''A  Word 
upon  the  Colony."   Of  the  fertile  plain 
of  the  Metidja,  contaming  about  a 
million  and  a  half  acres  of  arable  and 
pasture  land,  a  very  small  portion  is 
cultivated.    The  French  found  a  gar- 
den ;  they  have  made  a  desert.    '^  Be- 
fore the  French  occupation,  vast  tracts 
which  now  lie  waste,  sacrificed  to 
palmetta  and  squiUs,  were  cultivated 
by  the  Arabs,  who  grew  far  more  com 
than  was  required  for  their  own  con- 
fnnnption ;  whereas  now,  they  grow 
barely  sufficient :  the  oonseqnence  of 
which  is,  that  the  price  of  com  is  enor- 
moos  in  Algeria  at  present.*'    Land 
is  cheap  enough,  but  labour  is  dear, 
because  the  necessaries  of  life  are  so. 
Instead  of  making  Algiers  a  free  port, 
protection  to  French  mannfactures  is 
the  order  (Mf  the  day,  and  this  has 
driven  Arab  commerce  to  Tunis  and 
Moroooo.    Rivalry  with  England — 
the  feverish  desire  for  colonies  and  for 
Ibe  snpremftgr  of  the  seas — ^mnst  ns- 
qnestionably  be  ranked  amongst  the 
■Miives  of  tiie  tenaoiaaB  retei^on 
of  such  an  expeBsive  posaeaaion  as 


Algeria.    And  now  the  odious  English 
cottons  are  an  obstacle  to  the  pro- 
sperity of  the  colony.    To  sell  a  few 
more  bales  of  French  calicoes  and 
crates  of  French  hardware,  the  wise 
men  at  Paris  put  an  effectual  check 
upon  the  progress  of  African  agricul- 
ture.    Here,  if  anywhere,  free-trade 
plight  be  introduced  with  advantage ; 
in  common  necessaries,  at  any  rate, 
and  for  a  few  years,  till  the  country 
became  peopled,  and  the  colonists  had 
overcome  the  first  difficulties  of  their 
position.    It  would  make  very  little 
difference  to  Rouen  and  Lyons,  whilst 
to  the  settlers  it  would    practically 
work  more  good  than  would  have  been 
done  them  by  3L  Lamoriciere^s  sub- 
vmtion^  supposing  this  to  have  been 
adopted,  and  that  the  heavily- taxed 
agriculturist  of  France — in  many  parts 
of  which  country  land  pays  but  two 
and  a  half  or   three  per  cent  —  had 
consented  to  pay  additional  imposts  for 
the  benefit  of  the  agriculturist  of  Al- 
geria.   In  the  beginning,  the  notion 
of  the  French  government  was,  that 
its  new  conquest  would  colonise  itself 
unassisted ;   that  there  would  be  a 
natural  and  steady  flow  of  emigrants 
from  the  mother  country.    In  any 
case  this  expectation  would  probably 
have  proved  fallacious— at  least  it 
would  never  have  been  realised  to  the 
extent  anticipated  ;  but  the  small  en- 
couragement given  to  such  emigration, 
rendered   it   utterly  abortive.    The 
"  stream  "  of  settlers  proved  a  mere 
dribble.    Security    and  justice,   Mr 
Thiers  said,  were  all  that  France  owed 
her  colony.    £ven  these  two  things 
were  not  obtained,  in  the  full  sense  of 
the  words.   The  centralisation  system 
weighed  upon  Algeria.      Everything 
was  referred  to  Paris.    Hence  inter- 
minable correq>ondence,  and  delays 
innumerable.    In  the  year  1846,  Mr 
Borrer  says,  twenty-fonr   thousand 
despatches  were  received  by  the  civU 
administration  from  the  chief  bureau 
in  the  French  capital,  in  exchange  for 
twenty-eight  thousand  sent.    Instead 
of  imparting  ail  possible  celerity  to 
the  administrative  forms  requisite  to 
the  establishment  of  emigrants,  these 
must  often  wait  a  year  or  more  before 
they  are  put  in  possession  of  the  land 
granted.     Meanwhile   they  expend 
their  resowoes,  and  are  enervatCKi  by 
idlffl'Ws  and  disease.    The  dlmate  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


French  Conquerors  and  Cohmsts. 


[Jan. 


North  Africa  is  ill-adapted  to  Frencli 
constitutions.  M.  Desjobert  has  al- 
ready told  us  the  average  loss  of  the 
army,  and  General  Duvivier,  in  his 
Solution  de  la  Question  d'Algerie^  folly 
corroborated  his  statements.  '*  A 
man,'*  said  the  general,  *^  whose  con- 
stitution is  not  in  harmony  with  the 
climate  of  Africa,  never  adapts  him- 
self to  it ;  he  suffers,  wastes  away, 
and  dies.  The  expression,  that  a 
mass  of  men  who  have  been  for  some 
time  in  Africa  have  become  inured  to 
the  climate,  is  inexact.  They  have 
not  become  inured  to  it ;  they  have 
been  decimated  by  death.  The  climate 
is  a  great  sieve,  which  aliows  a  rapid 
passage  to  everything  that  is  not  of  a 
certain  forceJ*^  Supposing  100,000 
men  sent  from  France  to  Algeria  for 
six  years'  service.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  thehr  loss  by  disease  alone, 
at  the  rate  of  six  per  cent— proved 
by  M.  Desjobert  to  be  the  annual 
average — would  amount  to  upwards  of 
30,000,  or  to  more  than  three- tenths  of 
the  whole.  Theemigrantsfare  no  better. 
"They  look  for  milk  and  honey," 
says  Borrer :  **  they  find  palmetta  and 
disease.  The  villages  scattered  about 
the  Sahcl  or  Massif  of  Algiers  (a 
high  ground  at  the  back  of  the  city, 
forming  a  rampart  between  the  Me- 
tidja  and  the  Mediterranean)  are, 
with  one  or  two  exceptions,  a  type 
of  desolation.  Perched  upon  the 
most  arid  spots,  distant  from  water, 
the  poor  tenants  lie  sweltering  be- 
tween sun  and  sirocco."  A  Mississippi 
swampmustbe  as  eligible  "squatting" 
ground  as  this — Arabs  instead  of  alli- 
gators, and  the  Algerine  fever  in 
place  of  Yellow  Jack.  "  At  the  gates 
of  Algiers,  in  the  villages  of  the 
Sahel,"  said  the  "  Alg&ie^*  newspaper 
of  the  22d  December  1845,  "  the  colo- 
nists desert,  driven  away  by  hunger. 
If  any  remain,  it  is  because  they 
have  no  strength  to  move.  In  the 
plain  of  the  Metidja,  the  misery  and 
desolation  are  greater  still.  At  Fon- 
douck,  in  the  last  five  months,  120 
persons  have  died,  out  of  a  popula- 
tion of  280."  The  reporter  to  the 
Commission  of  the  French  budget  of 
1837  (Monsieur  Bignon)  admitted  that 
"  the  results  of  the  colonisation  are 
almost  negative."  He  could  not  olv 
tain,  he  said,  an  estimate  of  the 
agricultural  population.    At  the  same 


period,  an  Alters  newspaper  (La 
France  Algenenne)  estimated  the 
European  agriculturists  at  7000,  two- 
thirds  of  whom  were  mere  market- 
gardeners. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  multiply  proofs ; 
and  we  will  here  conclude  this  imper- 
fect sketch  of  Franco- African  coloni- 
sation, of  its  crimes,  its  errors,  and 
its  cost,  by  extracting  a  rather  re- 
markable passage  from  a  writer  we 
have  more  than  once  referred  to,  and 
who,  although  perhaps  disposed  to 
view  things  in  Algeria  upon  the 
black  side,  is  yet  deserving  of  credit, 
as  well  by  his  position  as  by  reason 
of  his  painstaking  research  and, 
so  far  as  we  have  verified  them,  accu- 
rate statistics. 

"  The  colonists  cannot  deny,"  says 
Monsieur  Desjobert  in  his  Algirie  en 
1846,"  and  they  admit  : 

"  l^'.  That  Europe  alone  maintains 
the  200,000  Europeans  in  Algeria.  In 
1846  we  are  compelled  to  repeat  what 
General  Bernard,  minister  of  war, 
said  in  1838 :  *  Algeria  resembles  a 
naked  rock,  which  it  is  necessary  to 
supply  with  everything,  except  air 
and  water.' 

"  2**.  That  so  long  as  we  remain 
in  this  precarious  situation,  a  naval 
war,  by  mterrupting  the  communica- 
tions, would  compromise  the  safety  of 
our  army.  In  1846  we  repeat  M. 
Thiers'  words,  uttered  in  1837:  *If 
war  surprises  you  in  the  state  of  in- 
decision in  which  you  are,  I  say  that 
the  disgraceful  evacuation  of  AMca 
will  be  mevitable.' 

**  M.  Thiers  did  not  speak  the 
whole  truth  when  he  talked  of  eva- 
cuation. In  such  an  extremity,  eva- 
cuation would  be  impossible.  Our 
army  would  perish  of  misery,  and  its 
remnant  would  fall  into  the  hands  of 
the  enemy." 

Another  enemy  than  the  Arabs  is 
here  evidently  pointed  at ;  that  pos- 
sible foe  is  now  a  Mend  to  France,  and 
we  trust  will  long  remain  so.  But  on 
many  accounts  the  sentences  we  havo 
just  quoted  are  significant,  as  pro- 
ceeding fix>m  the  pen  of  a  French  de- 
puty. They  need  no  comment,  and 
we  shall  offer  none.  We  wait  with 
interest  to  see  if  France's  African 
colony  prospers  better  under  the  Re- 
public of  1848  than  it  did  under 
the  Monarchy  of  1830. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


l%e  Caxtoni.-^Part  IX. 


THB  CAXTONS. 


PABT  EL— €HAPTXB  Txx^x. 


AHDmy&ther  poshed  asidehis  books. 

O  jomig  reftder,  whoever  thoa  art, — 
^nreadeTfat  least,  whohast  been  yoimg, 
—canst  tiion  not  remember  some  time 
when,  with  thy  wild  troubles  and 
flonrowB  as  yet  borne  in  secret,  thou 
hast  come  back  from  that  hard,  stem 
worid  which  opens  on  thee  when  thon 
pattest  thy  foot  oat  of  the  threshold 
of  home— comeback  to  the  four  qoiet 
walls,  wherein  thine  elders  sit  in 
peace  and  seen,  with  a  sort  of  sad 
amase,  how  calm  and  nndistarbed 
all  is  there?  That  generation  which 
has  gone  before  thee  in  the  path  of 
the  passions — ^the  generation  of  thy 
parents— (not  so  many  years,  per- 
chance, remote  from  thine  own>--how 
immovably  fiur  off,  in  its  still  repose, 
it  seems  from  thy  tnrbalent  voaUi  I  It 
has  in  it  a  stillness  as  of  a  classic  ase, 
■atiqne  as  the  statues  of  the  Greeks. 
That  tranquil  monotony  of  routine 
into  which  those  lives  that  preceded 
thee  have  merged— the  occupations 
tiiat  they  have  found  sufficing  for  their 
hapi^ess,  by  the  fireside— in  the  arm- 
chair andcomeriq>propriatedtoeach— 
how  strangely  they  contrast  thine  own 
foveriah  excitement!  And  they  make 
nxnn  to  thee,  and  bid  thee  welcome, 
and  then  resettle  to  their  hushed  pur- 
soits,  as  if  nothing  had  happened  I 
Nothing  had  happened!  while  in  thy 
heart,  perhi4)fB,  the  whole  world  seems 
to  have  shot  from  its  axis,  all  the 
dements  to  be  at  war!  And  you  sit 
down,  crashed  by  that  quiet  happiness 
which  you  can  share  no  more,  and 
smile  mechanically,  and  look  into  the 
fire ;  and,  ten  to  one,  you  say  nothing 
till  the  time  comes  for  bed,  and  you 
take  up  your  candle,  and  creep  miser- 
ably to  your  lonely  room. 

Now,  if  in  a  stage  coach  in  the  depth 
of  winter,  when  tiiree  passengers  are 
warm  and  snug»  a  fourth,  all  browed 
and  frozen,  descends  from  the  outside 
and  takes  place  amongst  them, 
strai^tway  m  the  three  passengers 
shift  their  places,  uneasily  pull  up 
their  cloak  coUan.  re-arrange  their 
*^  comforters,'*  feel  mdignantly  a  sen- 
sible loss  of  caloric— the  intruder  has 

VOL.  LXV.— »0.  OCCXCIX. 


at  least  made  a  sensation.  But  if 
you  had  all  the  snows  of  the  Gram- 
pians in  your  heart,  you  might  enter 
unnoticed :  take  care  not  to  tread  on 
the  toes  of  your  opposite  neighbour, 
and  not  a  soul  is  disturbed,  not 
a  "  comforter  *'  stirs  an  inch  I  I  had 
not  slept  «  whk,  I  had  not  even 
laid  down  all  that  night— the  night  in 
which  I  had  sidd  farewell  to  Fanny 
Trevanion — and  the  next  momiog, 
when  the  sun  rose,  I  wandered  out — 
where  I  know  not  I  have  a  dim  recol- 
lection of  lonff,  gray,  solitary  streets — 
of  the  river,  that  seemedflowingin  dull 
silence,  away,  far  away,  into  some  in- 
visibleetermty— trees  and  turf,  and  the 
gay  voices  of  children.  I  must  have 
gone  from  one  end  of  the  great  Babel  to 
the  other:  butmymemory  only  became 
clear  and  distinct  when  I  knocked, 
somewhere  before  noon,  at  the  door 
of  my  father's  house,  and,  passing 
heavily  up  the  stairs,  came  into  the 
drawinff-room,  which  was  the  rendez- 
vous of  the  little  family ;  for,  since 
we  had  been  in  London,  my  father 
had  ceased  to  have  his  study  apart,  and 
contented  himself  with  what  he  called 
"  a  comer** — a  comer  wide  enough 
to  contain  two  tables  and  a  dumb 
waiter,  with  chairs  h  discretion  all 
littered  with  books.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  this  capacious  comer  sat  my 
ilhde,  now  nearly  convalescent,  and 
he  was  jotting  down,  in  his  stiff  mili- 
tary hand,  certain  figures  in  a  little  red 
account-book— for  you  know  already 
that  my  unde  Robmd  was,  in  his  ex- 
penses, the  most  methodical  of  men. 

My  father's  face  was  more  benign 
than  usual,  for,  before  him  lay  a  proof 
—the  first  proof  of  his  first  work— his 
oneworic— theGreatBook!  Yes!  ithad 
positively  found  a  press.  And  the  first 
proof  of  your  first  work — ask  any 
author  what  that  is  I  My  mother  was 
out,  with  the  futhM  Aus  Primmins, 
shopping  or  marketing  no  doubt ;  so, 
whUe  the  brothers  were  thus  engaged, 
it  was  natural  that  my  entrance  should 
not  make  as  much  noise  as  if  it  had 
been  a  bemb,  or  a  singer,  or  a  dap  of 
thunder,  or  the  last  '*  great  novel  of 

c 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


anything  dse   that    with  it,  and  it  was  singing  Instilj. 
Now,  when  the  canary  saw  me  stand 


84 

the  season,"  or 

made  a  noise  in  those  days.  For  what 
makes  a  noise  now?  Now,  vrhea 
the  most  astonishing  thing  of  all  is 
in  our  easy  familiarity  with  things 
astounding— when  we  say,  listlessly, 
♦•Another  revolution  at  Paris,"  or, 
'^  By  the  bye,  there  is  the  deooe  to  do 
at  Vienna  I" — ^whenDe  Joinville  is 
catching  fish  in  the  ponds  al  Olare- 
mont,  aad  you  harmy  turn  baok  to 
look  at  Mettemich  on  tiie  pier  at 
Brighton! 

My  uncle  nodded,  and  growM  In- 
distinctly ;  my  father^ 

'•''  Put  aside  his  books  ,*  yon  have  told 
ustiiat  idreadj." 

Sir,  you  ure  very  much  mistaken, 
he  did  not  put  aside  his  bookB^^ibr  he 
was  not  engaged  in  theub— be  was 
reading  his  proo£  And  h%  smiled, 
and  pointed  to  it  (the  proof  I  mean) 

Eathetically,  and  with  a  kind  of 
umour,  as  much  as  to  say*-^^  What 
can  yon  expect,  Pisistratns?— my  new 
babyl  in  short  dothes— or  long  primer, 
which  is  all  the  same  thing  1" 

I  took  a  chair  between  the  two,  and 
looked  fijHBt  at  one,  then  at  the  other, 
and—- heaven  forgive  me  I — I  felt  a 
rebellious,  ungraiefhl  spite  against 
both.  The  bitterness  of  my  soul  must 
have  been  deep  indeed  to  have 
overflowed  in  that  direction,  but  it  did. 
The  grief  of  youth  is  an  abominable 
egotist,  and  that  b  the  tmth.  I  got 
up  from  the  chair,  and  walked  towards 
the  window ;  it  was  open,  and  outside 
the  window  was  Mrs  Primmins'  cana^ 
ry,  in  its  cage.  London  air  had  agreed 


ing  (^posite  to  its  cage,  and  regard- 
ing it  seriously,  and,  I  have  no  doubt, 
with  a  very  sombre  aepect,  the  crea- 
ture stopped  short,  and  hung  its  head 
on  one  lude,  lookWai  me  obiiqnely 
and  Bospieiovaly.  finding  that  I  did 
it  no  hum,  it  began  to  hazard  a  few 
broken  notes,  timidly  and  intenoga- 
tively,  as  it  were,  pansiiu^  between 
each  \  and  at  length,  aa  I  made  no 
reply,  it  evidently  thought  it  had 
solved  the  doobt,  and  ascertained  that 
I  was  more  to  be  pitied  than  feared — 
for  it  stole  gradually  into  so  soft  and 
^very  a  strain  that,  I  verily  betieve, 
it  did  it  on  purpose  to  comfort  mei^ — 
me,  its  old  friend,  whom  it  had  unjast- 
lysnspeoted.  Never  did  any  music 
touch  me  so  home  as  did  that  long, 
plaintive  cadence.  And  when  the 
bird  ceased,  it  perched  itsdf  dose 
to  the  bars  of  the  cage,  and  looked  at 
me  steadily  with  its  bright  intelligent 
eyes.  I  feUi  mine  water,  and  I  turned 
bade  and  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  irresolute  what  to  do,  where  to 
go.  My  father  had  done  with  the 
proof,  and  was  deep  in  his  folios* 
Eoland  had  dasped  his  red  acconnt 
book,  restored  it  to  his  pocket,  wiped 
his  pen  careftally,  and  now  watched 
me  mmi  under  his  great  beetle  brows. 
Suddenly  he  rose,  and,  stamping  on 
tiie  hearth  witii  hisooricleg,  exclaimed, 
^^  Look  up  from  those  cursed  books, 
brother  Austml  What  is  there  in 
thai  lad's  face?  Construe  (^  if  yoa 
can  I" 


CBAFTEB  XL. 


And  my  fether  pushed  aside  his 
books,  and  rose  ha^y.  He  took  off 
his  spectacles,  and  rubbed  them  me- 
chanically, but  he  said  nothii^ ;  and 
my  uncle,  staring  at  him  for  a  moment, 
in  surprise  at  his  silenoe,  burst  out, — 

^^  Oh  t  I  see — he  has  been  getting 
into  some  scrape,  and  yon  are  angry ! 
Fie !  young  blood  will  have  its  way, 
Austin — it  wHL  I  don't  blame  that — 
it  is  only  when— come  here,  Sistyl 
Zounds  I  man,  come  here." 

My  father  gently  brushed  off  the 
oaptun'shand,  and,  advancing  towards 
me,  opened  his  arms.  The  next  mo- 
ment I  was  sobbmg  <a  his  breast 

''  But  what  is  the  matter?  "  cried 


Captain  Roland,  **  will  nobody  say 
whatisthematter?  Money,  I  suppose 
— ^money,  you  confounded  extravagant 
young  dog.  Luckily  yon  have  got  an 
uncle  who  has  more  than  he  knows 
whattodowith.  Howmuch?— fifty?— 
a  hundred?  two  hundred?  How  can  I 
write  the  cheque,  if  you'll  not  speak?" 
"Hush,  brother  I  it  is  no  money 

Su  can  give  that  will  set  this  right, 
y  poor  boy  I  have  I  guessed trrty? 
Did  I  guess  truly  the  other  eventeg, 

"Yes,  srr,  yesi  I  hava  been  so 
wretched.  But  I  am  better  now^I 
can  tell  you  all." 

My  undo  moved  slowly  towaroa 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.] 


ne  CaxUmi.-^Part  IX. 


S5 


tbe  door:  bis  fine  sense  of  delicacy 
made  him  tiunk  that  even  he  was  out 
of  place  intheoonidence  between  s(m 
andfioher* 
**No,  nncle,"  I  said,  heading  out 

2r  hand  to  him,  ^^  staj;  yon  too  can 
vise  m»— strengthen  me.  I  have 
kept  my  bonomr  yet— help  me  to  keep 
kstilL^' 

At  the  aooad  of  the  word  honomr 
CafAain  Roland  stood  mntCi  and 
raised  his  head  qnickly* 

Soltoldali— incoherently  enonghat 
first,  bnt  clearly  and  manfally  as  I 
went  on.  Now  I  know  that  it  is  not 
the  custom  of  lowers  to  confide  in 
fathers  and  nndes.  Judging  by  those 
miiron  of  life,  plays  and  novelis,  they 
choose  better;— yalets  and  chamber- 
maids, and  Meods  whom  they  have 
picked  im  in  the  street,  as  I  had  picked 
np  poor  Francis  Viyian-— to  these  th^ 
make  dean  breasts  of  their  troubles. 
But  fathers  and  uade(»— to  them  they 
are  dose,  impregnable,  "buttoned  to 
the  chin."  Ihe  Gaztons  were  an  ec- 
centric fiunily,  and  never  did  anything 
like  other  people.  When  I  had  ended, 
I  lifted  my  eyes,  and  said  pleadingly, 
"  Now,  tell  me,  is  there  no  hope — 
none?" 

''Why  should  there  be  none?" 
cried  Captain  Rdand  hastily—*'  the 
De  Gaxtons  are  as  good  a  family  as  the 
Trevanicms;  and  as  for  yoursdf,  all  I 
will  say  is,  that  the  young  lady  might 
choose  wone  for  her  own  hapmnees.'* 
I  wrung  my  unde's  hand,  and  turned 
to  my  father  in  anxious  ibar— for  I 
knew  that,  in  spite  of  his  seduded 
habits,  few  men  ever  formed  a  sounder 
judgment  on  worldly  matters,  when 
he  was  fairly  drawn  to  look  at  them. 
A  thing  wonderful  is  that  plain 
wisdom  which  scholars  and  poets 
often  have  for  othscs,  though  they 
rardy  deign  to  use  it  for  themsdvee. 
And  how  on  euth  do  they  get  at  it  ? 
I  looked  at  my  fother,  and  the  vague 
hope  Roland  had  exdted  fell  as 
Hooked. 

"Brother,"  said  he  dowly,  and 
shaking  his  head,  "  tiie  world,  which 
gives  <»des  and  laws  to  those  who  live 
in  it,  does  not  care  much  for  a  pedi- 
gree, unless  it  goes  with  a  title-deed 
to  estates." 

"Trevanion  was  not  richer  than 
Pisistratus  when  he  married  Lady 
Ellinor,"  said  my  unde. 


"  lYue ;  but  Lady  Ellinor  was  not 
then  an  heiress,  and  her  father  viewed 
these  matters  as  no  other  peer  in  Eng- 
land perhaps  would.  AsforTrevanion 
himself,  I  dare  say  he  has  no  prejudices 
about  station,  but  he  is  strong  in  com- 
mon sense.  He  values  himself  on  being 
a  practical  man.  It  would  be  folly  to 
talk  to  him  of  love,  and  the  affections 
of  youth.  He  would  see  in  the  son  of 
Austin  Caxtcm,  living  on  the  interest 
of  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  thousand 
pounds,  such  a  match  for  his  daii|h- 
ter  as  no  prudent  man  in  his  position 
could  aptnove.  And  as  for  Lady 
Ellinor'^— 

"She  owes  us  much,  Austml"  ex- 
daimed  Roland,  his  face  daricening. 

"  Lady  Ellinor  is  now  what,  if  wa 
had  known  her  better,  she  promised 
always  to  be— the  ambitious,  brilliant, 
schemmg  woman  of  the  world.  Is  it 
not  so,  Pisistratus?" 

I  said  nothing.    I  folt  too  much. 

"And  does  the  girl  like  yon?— but 
I  think  it  is  dear  she  does!"  ex- 
claimed Roland.  "Fate— fkte;ithaa 
been  a  fatal  fomfly  to  us  I  Zounds, 
Austm,  it  was  your  fouh.  Why  did 
you  let  him  co  there?" 

"  My  son  is  now  a  man— at  least  in 
heart,  if  not  in  years — can  man  be  shut 
firom  danger  and  trial  ?  They  found 
me  in  the  dd  parsonage,  Inotherl" 
said  my  father  mildly. 

My  uncle  walked,  or  rather  stump- 
ed, three  times  up  and  down  the  room ; 
and  he  then  stopped  short,  folded  his 
arms,  and  came  to  a  dedsion — 

"  If  tbe  giri  likes  you,  your  duty  is 
doubly  clear— you  can't  take  advan- 
tage of  it.  You  have  done  right  to 
leave  the  house,  for  the  temptation 
might  be  too  strong." 

^^  But  what  excuse  shall  I  make  to 
Mr  Trevanion?  "  saidi  feebly-.-"  what 
stoiT  can  I  invent?  So  cardess  as  be 
is  while  he  trusts,  so  penetrating  if  he 
once  suspects,  he  will  see  through  all 
my  subterfuges,  and— and— " 

"It  is  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff,'' 
said  my  unde  abruptiy — "  and  there- 
need  be  no  subtcofbge  in  the  matter. 
*  I  must  leave  you,  Mr  Trevanion.* 
*Why?'  says  he.  *Dont  ask  me.' 
He  insists.  *  Well  then,  sir,  if  you 
must  know,  I  love  your  daughter.  I 
have  nothing— she  is  a  great  heiress. 
Ton  will  not  approve  of  that  love,  and 
therefore  I  leave  youl'    That  is  the. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


S6 


I%e  Cazians.'^Part  IX. 


[Jan. 


coarse  that  becomes  an  English  gen- 
tleman—eh,  Anstin?" 

"  You  are  never  wrong  when  your 
instincts  speiJE,  Roland,"  said  my 
father.  ^*  Can  you  say  this,  Pisistra- 
tns,  or  shall  I  say  it  for  yon?" 

^^Let  him  say  it  himself,"  said 
Roland ;  '*  and  let  him  judge  himself 
of  the  answer.  He  is  young,  he  is 
clever,  he  may  make  a  figure  in  the 
world,  l^vanion  may  answer,  *  Win 
the  lady  after  you  have  won  the  laurel, 
like  the  knights  of  old.*  At  all  events, 
you  will  hear  the  worst." 

"  I  will  go,"  said  I,  firmly;  and  I 
took  my  hat,  and  left  the  room.  As 
I  was  passing  the  landing-place,  a 
liffht  step  stole*down  the  upper  flight 
of  stairs,  and  a  little  hand  seised  my 
0Mm«  I  turned  quickly,  and  met  the 
ftdl,  dark,  seriously  sweet  eyes  of  my 
cousin  Blanche. 

"  Don't  go  away  yet,  Sisty,"  said 
she  coaxingly.  **  I  have  been  wait- 
ing for  you,  for  I  heard  your  voice, 
and  did  not  like  to  come  in  and  dis- 
turb you." 

"  And  why  did  you  wait  for  me, 
my  little  Blanche?" 

"Why!  only  to  see  you.  But 
yonr  eyes  are  red.  Oh,  cousui !" — and, 
before  I  was  aware  of  her  childish 
impulse,  she  had  sprung  to  my  neck 
and  kissed  me.  Now  Blanche  was 
not  like  most  children,  and  was  very 
sparing  of  her  caresses.  So  it  was  out 
of  the  deeps  of  a  kind  heart  that  that 
kiss  came.  I  returned  it  without  a 
word ;  and,  putting  her  down  gently, 
ran  down  the  stairs,  and  was  in  the 


streets.  But  I  had  not  got  far  before 
I  heard  my  father's  voice;  and  he 
came  up,  and,  hooking  his  arm  into 
mine,  said,  "  Are  there  not  two  of  us 
that  suffer?— let  us  be  together  1"  I 
pressed  his  arm,  and  we  walked  on  in 
silence.  But  when  we  were  near 
Trevanion's  house,  I  sidd  hesitatingly, 
'*  Would  it  not  be  better,  sir,  that  I 
went  in  alone.  If  there  is  to  be  an 
explanation  between  Mr  Trevanion 
and  myself,  would  it  not  seem  as  if 
your  presence  implied  either  a  request 
to  him  that  would  lower  us  both,  or  a 
doubt  of  me  that— " 

"  You  will  go  in  alone,  of  course : 
I  will  wait  for  you—" 

"  Not  in  the  streets— oh  no,  father," 
cried  I,  touched  inexpressibly.  For 
all  this  was  so  unlike  my  father's 
habits,  that  I  felt  vemorse  to  have  so 
communicated  my  young  griefs  to 
the  calm  dignity  of  Us  serene  life. 

"  My  son,  you  do  not  know  how  I 
love  you.  I  have  only  known  it  my- 
self lately.  Look  you,  I  am  living  in 
you  now,  myfijrst-bom;  not  in  my 
other  son— the  great  book:  I  must 
have  my  way.  Go  in;  that  is  the 
door,  is  it  not?" 

I  pressed  my  father's  hand,  and  I  felt 
then,  that,  while  that  hand  could  re- 
ply to  mine,  even  the  loss  of  Fanny 
Trevanion  could  not  leave  the  world 
a  blank.  How  much  we  have  before 
ns  in  life,  while  we  retain  our  parents  t 
How  much  to  strive  and  to  hope  for  I 
What  a  motive  in  the  conquest  of  our 
sorrow — that  they  may  not  sorrow 
with  us ! 


CHAPTER  XU. 


I  entered  Trevanion's  study.  It  was 
an  hour  in  which  he  was  rarely  at 
home,  but  I  had  not  thought  of  that ; 
and  I  saw  without  surprise  that,  con- 
traiy  to  his  custom,  he  was  in  his  arm- 
chair, reading  one  of  his  favourite 
dassic  authors,  instead  of  being  in 
some  committee  room  of  the  House  of 
Commons. 

"A  pretty  fellow  you  are,"  said 
he,  looking  up^  ^*  to  leave  me  all  the 
morning,  without  rhyme  or  reason. 
And  my  committee  is  postponed — 
chairman  ill  —  people  who  get  ill 
should  not  go  into  the  House  of  Com- 


mons. So  here  I  am,  looking  into 
I^ropertins :  Parr  is  right ;  not  so 
elegant  a  writer  as  Tibullus.  But 
what  the  deuce  are  you  about? — ^why 
don't  you  sit  down?  Humph  I  you 
look  grave— you  have  something  to 
say, — say  it  I " 

And,  putting  down  Propertius,  the 
acute,sharp  fniSe  of  Trevanion  instantly 
became  earnest  and  attentive. 

"My  dear  Mr  Trevanion,"  said  L 
with  as  much  steadiness  as  I  coula 
assume, "  you  have  been  most  kind  to 
me ;  and,  out  of  my  own  family,  there 
is  no  man  I  love  and  respect  more." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Caxtans.'-Part  IX. 


87 


Trkyaniok.— Hnmphl  What's  all 
this!  (In  an  Wider  tone) — ^Am  I  going 
to  be  taken  in? 

PisiBTBATUS. — ^Do  not  think  me 
QDgratefiil,  then,  when  I  say  I  come  to 
resign  myofiSce — ^to  leave  the  house 
irhere  I  have  been  so  happy. 

Trevaniok. — ^Leaye  the  house! — 
Pooh! — ^I  have  overtasked  you.  I 
wfll  be  more  mercifnl  in  future.  Yon 
must  forgiye  a  political  economist — it 
is  the  fault  of  my  sect  to  look  upon 
men  as  machines. 

PisifiTBATUS^mitlm^  faintly,) — 
No,  indeed — ^that  is  not  it  I  I  have 
nothing  to  complain  of— nothing  I 
oonld  wish  altered—could  I  stay. 

Tre YAinoN  (examining  me  thought' 
fitUg.) — ^And  does  your  father  approve 
of  voor  leaving  me  thus  ? 

PisisTRATUs. — Yes,  fully. 

Trevanion  (musing  a  moment,) — 
I  aee,  he  would  send  vou  to  the  iJni- 
veraity,  make  you  a  book- worm  like 
himself :  pooh  I  that  will  not  do — ^you 
will  never  become  wholly  a  man  of 
bodu,— it  is  not  in  you.  Young  man, 
though  I  may  seem  careless,  I  read 
characters,  when  I  please  it,  pretty 
qiDickly.  You  do  wrong  to  leave  me ; 
you  are  made  for  the  great  world— I 
can  c^)en  toyou  a  high  career.  I  wish 
to  do  so !  Lady  Ellinor  wishes  it — 
nay,  insists  on  it— for  your  father^s 
aake  as  well  as  yours.  I  never  ask 
m  fiivonr  from  ministers,  and  I  never 
wilL  But  (here  Trevanion  rose  sud- 
denly, and,  with  an  erect  mien  and  a 
qnick  gesture  of  his  arm,  he  added) — 
bat  a  minister  hunself  can  dispose  as 
lie  pleases  of  his  patronage.  Look 
yon,  it  is  a  secret  yet,  and  I  trust  to 
your  honour.  But,  before  the  year  is 
out,  I  must  be  in  the  cabinet.  Stay 
with  me,  I  guarantee  your  fortunes — 
three  months  ago  I  would  not  have 
said  that.  By-and-by  I  will  open 
parliamoit  for  you— you  are  not  of  age 
yet— work  till  then.  And  now  sit  down 
and  write  my  letters— a  sad  arrear  I '' 

"My  dear,  dear  Mr  Trevanion  I " 
said  I,  so  affected  that  I  could  scarcely 
speak,  and  seiaing  his  hand,  which  I 
pressed  between  both  mine — "  I  dare 
not  thank  yon- I  cannot  I  But  you 
don^t  know  my  heart — ^it  is  not  ambi- 
tion. No  1  if  I  could  but  stay  here  on 
the  same  terms  for  ever— A«re— Hook- 
ing ruefully  on  that  spot  where  Fannv 
had  stood  the  night  before,)  but  it  is 


impossible !  If  you  knewall,  yon  would 
be  the  first  to  bid  me  go! " 

*^  You  are  in  debt,"  said  the  man 
of  the  world,  coldly.  "Bad,  very 
bad— stUl— " 

"  No,  sir ;  no  1  worse — " 

"Hardly  possible  to  be  worse, 
young  man — ^hardly  I  But,  just  as  you 
will ;  you  leave  me,  and  will  not  say 
why.  6ood-by.  Why  do  you  linger? 
shidce  hands,  and  go  1  ** 

"  I  cannot  leave  you  thus :  I— I— 
sir,  the  truth  shall  out.  I  am  rash 
and  mad  enough  not  to  see  Miss 
Trevanion  without  forgetting  that  I 
am  poor,  and — ^" 

"  Ha  1 "  interrupted  Trevanion 
softly,  and  growing  pale,  "  this  ia 
a  misfortune  indeed!  And  I,  who 
talked  of  reading  characters !  Truly, 
truly,  we  would-be  practical  men  are 
fools— fools)  And  vou  have  made 
love  to  my  daughter  I " 

"  Sir  I  Mr  Trevanion ! — no— never^ 
never  so  base !  Li  your  house,  trusted 
by  you, — ^how  could  you  think  it  ?  I 
dared,  it  maybe,  to  love— at  allevents, 
to  feel  that  I  could  not  be  insensible 
to  a  temptation  too  strong  for  me. 
But  to  say  it  to  your  daughter— to 
ask  love  in  return— I  would  as  sooq 
have  broken  open  your  desk  I  Frankly 
I  tell  you  my  folly :  it  is  a  folly,  not 
a  disgrace." 

Trevanion  came  up  to  me  abruptly,  as 
I  leant  against  the  book-case,  and, 
grasping  my  hand  with  a  cordial  kind- 
ness, said, — "  Pardon  me  I  You  have 
behaved  as  your  father^s  son  should — 
I  envy  him  such  a  son  I  Now,  listen 
to  me — I  cannot  give  you  my 
daughter — ^*' 

"  Believe  me,  sir,  I  never—" 

"Tut,  listen!  I  cannot  give  you 
my  daughter.  I  say  nothing  of  in- 
equality— all  gentlemen  are  equal; 
and  if  not,  all  impertinent  affectation 
of  superiority,  in  such  a  case,  would 
come  ill  from  one  who  owes  his  own 
fortune  to  his  wife  I  But,  as  it  is,  I 
have  a  stake  in  the  world,  won  not 
by  fortune  only,  but  the  labour  of  a 
me,  the  suppression  of  half  my  nature 
—the  drudging,  squaring,  taming 
down— all  that  made  the  glory  and 
joy  of  my  youth— to  be  Uiat  hard 
matter-of-fact  thing  which  theEnielish 
world  expect  in  a— «to<«« 
station  has  gradually  opei 
natural  result— power !    I 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


38 


shall  Boon  have  hl^  office  in  tbe  ad- 
ministration :  I  hope  to  render  great 
services  to  England— for  we  English 
politicians,  whatever  the  mob  and  the 
press  say  of  ns,  are  not  selfish  plaoe- 
honters.  I  refiised  office,  as  high  as  I 
look  for  now,  ten  years  ago.  We 
believe  in  our  opinions,  and  we  hail 
the  power  that  may  carnr  them  into 
effect  In  this  cabinet  1  shall  have 
enemies.     Oh,  don^t  think  we  leave 

SloQsy  behind  us,  at  the  doors  of 
wning  Street !  I  shall  be  one  of  a 
minority.  I  know  well  what  mnst 
happen : like  all  men  in  power,  Imnst 
strengthen  myself  by  o^er  heads  and 
hands  than  my  own.  My  dangfater 
shonld  bring  to  me  the  alliance  of  that 
honse  In  England  which  is  most  ne- 
cessary to  me.  My  life  falls  to  the 
gromid,  like  a  house  of  cards,  if  I 
waste-^I  do  not  say  on  yon,  bat  on 
men  of  ten  times  yoor  fortone  (what- 
ever that  be,) — the  means  of  strength 
which  are  at  my  disposal  in  the  hand 
of  Fanny  Trevanion.  To  this  end  I 
have  looked;  bnt  to  this  end  her 
mother  has  schemed  -*-  for  these 
household  matters  are  within  a  man's 
hopes,  bat  bdong  to  a  woman's  policy* 
So  mnch  for  as.  Bat  for  yoo,  my 
dear,  and  frank,  and  high-soaled 
yoong  friend— for  yon,  if  I  were  not 
Fanny's  father— if  1  were  yoor  nearest 
relation,  and  Fanny  conla  be  had  for 
the  asking,  with  all  her  princely 
dower,  (for  it  is  princely,)— for  yon  I 
shoald  say,  fly  from  a  load  opon  the 
heart,  on  the  genios,  the  energy,  the 
pride,  and  the  spirit,  which  not  one 
man  in  ten  thoasand  can  bear;  fly 
from  the  curse  of  owing  every  thing 
to  a  wifel— it  is  a  reversal  of  all 
aatand  position,  it  is  a  blow  to  all 
the  manhood  within  us.  Ton  know 
not  what  it  is:  I  do!  My  wifo's  for- 
tune came  not  till  alter  marriage — so 
flu-,  80  w^ ;  it  saved  my  rrootation 
from  the  charge  of  fortone-honting. 
But,  I  tdl  you  fairly,  that  if  it  had 
never  come  at  all,  I  shoald  be  a 
prouder,  and  a  greater,  and  a  hi^pier 
man  tlian  I  have  ever  been,  or  ever 
can  be,  witii  all  -its  advantages ;  it 
has  been  a  millstone  round  my  neck. 
And  yet  EQinor  has  never  breathed  a 
word  that  could  wound  my  pride. 
Would  her  daughter  be  as  forbearing  ? 
Much  as  I  love  Fanny,  I  doobt  tf  ^ 


l%e  OtBrftms.— J\»^  IX.  [Jan. 

has  the  great  heart  of  her  mother.  You 
look  incredulous; — natural^.  Oh, 
you  think  I  shall  sacrifice  my  child's 
happiness  to  a  poEtician's  amotion ! 
Folly  of  youth  I  Fanny  would  be 
wretched  with  yon.  She  might  not 
think  so  now ;  she  would  Ave  yean 
hence  1  Fanny  will  make  an  admir- 
able duchess,  countess,  great  lady; 
but  wife  to  a  man  who  owes  all  to 
herl — no,  no,  don't  ^bneam  it!  I  shall 
not  sacrifice  her  happiness,  d^>end 
on  it.  I  speak  plainfjr,  as  man  to 
Bian— 4nan  of  the  world  to  a  man 


jtBt  entering  it— but  still  man  to  mani 
What  say  you?" 

*'  I  will  think  over  all  yoa  tell  me. 
I  know  ^at  you  are  q»eakkig  to 
me  most  generously  —  as  a  father 
would.  Now  let  me  go,  and  may 
God  keep  you  and  yours ! " 

(( Go— I  return  yoor  blessing  —  go! 
I  don't  insult  you  now  with  ofibra 
of  service ;  but,  remember,  you  have  a 
right  to  command  them — ^in  allwm, 
in  all  times.  Stcq»l  —  take  uiis 
comfort  away  with  yoa  —  a  sorry 
comfort  now,  a  great  one  hereafter. 
In  a  position  that  might  have  moved 
anger,  sc(»n,  pily,  yoa  have  mads 
a  barren-hearted  man  honour  and 
admire  you.  You,  a  boy,  have  made 
me,  with  my  gray  hah^  think  better 
of  the  whole  worid:  tell  yoor  father 
that." 

I  closed  the  door,  and  stolo  out 
sofUy — 8<^y.  Bat  when  I  got  hito 
the  hall,  Fanny  suddenly  opened  the 
door  of  1^  breakfest  parlour,  and 
seemed,  by  her  look,  her  gesture,  to 
invite  me  in.  Her  face  was  very  pale, 
and  there  weve  traces  of  tears  on  the 
heavy  lids. 

I  stood  still  a  moment,  and  my 
heart  beat  violently.  I  tiien  mattered 
somethhig  inarticulately,  and,  bowing 
low,  hastened  to  "the  door. 

I  thought,  but  my  ears  might  de- 
ceive me,  that  I  heard  mv  name  pro- 
nounced; but  fortunately  the  tall  porter 
started  from  his  newspaper  and  his 
leather  chair,  imd  the  entrance  stood 
•pen.    I  joined  my  fe^er. 

*^  It  is  all  over,"  said  I,  wMi  a  reso- 
kitesmile.  *'Aa»dnow,mydearftther, 
Ifoel  how  gratefol  I  shoald  bote  all 
that  your  lessons — yoor  Slt$*^htpm 
taoght  me ;— for,  bei0iMM|  i  Ml  Mt 


184fi.] 


The  QaaOotUc-'^^mi  /X 


flOArrsBXLii. 


We  cime  back  to  my  fiUher's  house, 
and  OQ  tiie  gtdrs  we  met  my  mother, 
whom  RoUnd*g  grave  looks,  and  her 
Aostiii's  straoffe  absence,  had  alarmed. 
My  father  <imetly  led  the  way  to  a 
little  room,  which  my  mother  had 
appfopriatod  to  Blanche  and  herself; 
imd  then,  pladng  my  hand  in  that 
which  had  ndped  his  own  steps  from 
the  stony  path,  down  the  quiet  vales 
of  life,  he  siuld  to  me,-*^^  Natore  gives 

S»n  here  the  soother;" —  and,  so  say- 
g,  he  left  the  room. 

And  it  was  tme,  O  my  mother! 
that  in  thy  simple  loving  breast 
nature  did  place  the  deep  weUs  of 
comibrtl  We  come  to  men  for  philoso- 
phy— to  women  for  consolation.  And 
the  thoQsand  weaknesses  and  regrets  ' 
— the  sharp  sands  of  the  minntiie  that 
make  ap  sorrow — all  these,  which 
I  ooold  have  betrayed  to  no  man^ 
not  even  to  him,  the  dearest  and  ten- 
derest  of  all  men— I  showed  without 
•bame  to  thee  1  And  thy  tears,  that 
Ml  on  my  cheek,  had  the  balm  of 
Araby;  and  my  heart,  at  length, 
lay  laDed  and  soothed  mider  thy  moist 
gentle  eyes. 

I  made  an  effcni,  and  jobied  the 
tittle  drde  at  dinner;  and  I  felt 
gratelBl  that  no  violent  attempt  was 
made  to  raise  my  spirits— nothing  but 
aibctioB,  more  snbdaed,  and  soft,  and 
tranquil.  Even  little  Blanche,  as  if 
by  the  hitnition  of  sympathy,  ceased 
ber  babble,  and  seemed  to  hash  her 
footstep  as  she  crept  to  my  side.  Bat 
aftor  dinner,  when  we  had  reassem- 
bled in  the  drawing-room,  and  the 
lights  shone  bright,  and  the  curtains 
were  let  down — and  only  the  quick 
roll  of  some  passing  wheels  reminded 
OS  that  there  was  a  world  without 
—  my  ftidier  began  to  talk.  He 
bad  laid  aside  all  his  woric ;  the 
yomger,  but  less  perishable  child  was 
fol^teoy— and  my  father  began  to 
talk. 

''  It  is,"  said  he  musingly,  ''  a 
well-known  thing,  that  piirticuiar 
drags  or  herbs  suit  the  body  according 
to  its  particular  diseases.  When  we 
are  ill,  we  doa*t  open  our  medidne- 
«hest  at  random,  and  take  out  any 


powder  or  phial  that  comes  to  hand. 
The  ddlfnl  doctor  is  he  who  adjusts 
the  dose  to  the  malady." 

^^  Of  that  there  can  be  no  doubt," 
quoth  Captain  BoUnd.  '^  I  remem- 
ber a  notable  instance  of  the  justice  of 
what  you  say.  When  I  was  in  Spain, 
bolii  my  horse  «nd  I  fell  ill  at  the 
same  time ;  a  dose  was  sent  for  each ; 
and,  by  some  infemid  mktake,  I  swal- 
lowed the  horse's  physic,  and  the 
horse,  poor  thing,  swallowed  mine  1" 

^^  And  what  was  the  result?"  asked 
my  father. 

«*Tfae  horse  died!"  answered  Bo- 
land  moumfolly — ^*  avaluaUlebeast — 
bright  bay,  with  a  star  1" 

"And  you?" 

"  Why,  the  doctor  said  it  ought 
to  have  killed  me;  but  it  took  a  great 
deal  more  than  a  paltry  bottle  of  phy- 
sic to  kill  a  man  in  my  regiment." 

"  Nevertheless,  we  arrive  at  the 
same  conclusion,"  pursued  my  fathw, 
— **  I  with  my  theory,  you  with  your 
experience,— that  the  physic  we  take 
must  not  be  chosen  hap-haaard  ;  and 
that  a  mistake  in  the  bottle  may  kill  a 
horse.  But  when  we  come  to  the 
medicine  for  the  mind,  how  little  do 
we  think  of  the  golden  rule  which 
common-sense  applies  to  the  body." 

"Anon,"  said  the  Captain,  "  what 
medicine  is  there  for  the  mind  ?  Shak- 
speare  has  said  something  on  that 
subject,  which,  if  I  recollect  right, 
implies  that  there  is  no  ministering  to 
a  mind  diseased." 

"  I  thmk  not,  brother;  he  only  said 
physic  (meaning  boluses  and  black 
draughts)  would  not  do  it.  And 
Shakspetfe  was  the  last  man  to  find 
fiuUt  with  his  own  art ;  for,  verily, 
he  has  been  a  great  phyddan  to  the 
mind." 

"  Ah  1  Itakeyounow,  brother,— books 
again!  So  you  think  that,  when  a  man 
breaks  his  heart,  or  loses  his  fortune, 
or  his  daughter— ^Blanche,  child,  come 
here).-^that  you  have  only  to  ckip  a 
plaster  of  print  on  Uie  sore  place,  and 
all  is  wdl.  I  wish  you  would  find  me 
such  a  cure." 

"WaiyoutiTit?" 

"  If  it  is  not  Greek,"  said  my  unde. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


40 


The  Caxtani.^Part  IX. 


[Jan. 


OHAfTEB  XLIU* 
MY  FATHBR^S  CROTCHBT  ON  THE  HTQSIBNIC  CHXMI8TRT  OP  BOOKS. 


^'  If,"  said  my  father— and  here  his 
hand  was  deep  in  his  waistcoat — "  if 
we  accept  the  authority  of  Diodoms, 
as  to  the  inscription  on  the  great 
E^tian  library — and  I  don't  see  why 
Diodoms  should  not  be  as  near  the 
mark  as  any  one  else?"  added  my 
father  interrogatively,  turning  round. 

My  mother  thouffht  herself  the  per- 
son addressed,  and  nodded  her  gra- 
cious assent  to  the  authority  of  Dio- 
doms. His  opinion  thus  fortified,  my 
father  continued, — "  If,  I  say,  we  ac- 
cept the  authority  of  Diodoms,  the  in- 
scription on  the  Egyptian  library  was 
— *TheMedidneoftheMind.'  JNTow, 
that  phrase  has  become  notoriously 
trite  and  hackneyed,  and  people  repeat 
vaguely  that  books  are  the  medicine 
of  the  mind.  Yes ;  but  to  apply  the 
medidne  is  the  thing  1 " 

*'^  So  you  have  told  us  at  least  twice 
before,  brother,"  quoth  the  Captain, 
bluffly.  "  And  what  Diodoms  has  to 
do  with  it,  I  know  no  more  than  the 
man  of  the  moon." 

*^  I  shall  never  get  on  at  this  rate," 
said  my  fistther,  in  a  tone  between  re- 
proach and  entreatv. 

"Be  ffood  children,  Roland  and 
Blanche  Both,"  said  my  mother,  stop- 
ping from  her  work,  and  holding  up 
ler  needle  threateningly— and  indeed 
inflicting  a  slight  puncture  upon  the 
Captain^  shoulder. 

"  Bem  acu  tetigisti,  my  dear,"  siud 
my  father,  borrowing  Cicero's  pun 
on  the  occasion.*  "And  now  we 
shall  go  upon  velvet.  I  say,  then, 
that  books,  taken  indiscriminately,  are 
no  cure  to  the  diseases  and  afflic- 
tions of  the  mind.  There  is  a  world 
of  science  necessary  in  the  taking 
them.  I  have  known  some  people 
in  flpreat  sorrow  fly  to  a  novel,  or 
the  last  light  book  in  fashion.  One 
might  as  well  take  a  rose-draught  for 
the  plague  1  Light  reading  does  not 
do  when  the  heart  is  reidly  heavy. 
I  am  told  that  Goethe,  when  he  lost 
his  son,  took  to  study  a  science  that 
was  new  to  him.  Ah  !  Goethe  was  a 
physician  who  knew  what  he  was 


m 


about.  In  a  great  grief  like  that,  you 
cannot  tickle  and  divert  the  mind} 
you  must  wrench  it  away,  abstract, 
absorb— bury  it  in  an  abvss,  hurry  it 
into  a  labyrinth.  Therefore,  for  the 
irremediable  sorrows  of  middle  life  and 
old  age,  I  recommend  a  strict  chronic 
course  of  science  and  hard  reasoning— 
Counter-irritation.  Bring  the  brain  to 
act  upon  the  heart  I  If  Msience  is  too 
mueh  against  the  min,  (for  we  have 
not  all  got  mauiematical  heads,) 
something  in  the  reach  of  tiie  humblest 
understanding,  but  sufficiently  search- 
ing to  the  highest — a  new  language- 
Greek,  Arabic,  Scandinavian,  Chinese, 
or  Welch !  For  the  loss  of  fortune,  the 
dose  should  be  applied  less  directly  to 
the  understanding. — I  would  ad- 
minister something  elegant  and  cor- 
dial. For  as  the  heart  is  crushed 
and  .lacerated  by  a  loss  in  the  affec- 
tions, so  it  is  rather  the  head  that 
aches  and  suffers  by  the  loss  of  mon^. 
Here  we  find  ^e  higher  class  of  poeta 
a  very  valuable  remedy.  For  observe 
that  poets  of  the  grander  and  more 
comprehensive  kind  of  genius  have  in 
them  two  separate  men,  quite  dis- 
thict  from  each  other— the  imaginative 
man,  and  the  practical,  circumstantial 
man ;  and  it  is  the  happy  mixture  of 
these  that  suits  diseases  of  the  mind, 
half  imaginative  and  half  practicaL 
There  is  Homer,  now  lost  with  the 
gods,  now  at  home  with  the  homeliest, 
the  very  *  poet  of  circumstance,*  aa 
Gray  has  finelv  called  him ;  and  yel 
with  imagmanon  enough  to  seduce 
and  coax  the  dullest  imo  forgetting,, 
for  a  while,  that  little  spot  on  his  desk 
which  his  banker's  book  can  cover. 
There  is  Virgil,  far  below  him,  indeed 

'  Viigil  tli«  wiif, 

WhoM  ytim  "ynllu  highest,  bat  not  flies.* 

as  Cowley  expresses  it.  But  Virgil ' 
still  has  genius  enough  to  be  two 
men  — to  lead  you  into  the  fields, 
not  only  to  listen  to  the  pastoral 
reed,  and  to  hear  the  bees  hum, 
but  to  note  how  you  can  make  tiie 
most  of  the  glebe  and  the  vineyard. 
There  is  Horace,  charming  man  of  the 


*  Cioero's  Joke  on  a  senator  who  was  the  ton  of  a  taUor— ^  Thou  hast  touched  th* 
thing  Bharplj,"  (or  with  a  needle— oen.) 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  The  Caxkm.^Part  IX. 

world,  who  will  condole  with  you 
feelin^j  on  the  loss  of  your  fortnnot 
and  by  no  means  nndervalne  the 
good  thmgs  of  this  life ;  but  who  will 
yet  show  you  that  a  man  may  be 
happy  with  a  vUe  nuxUcum^  or  parva 
rura.  There  is  Shakspeare,  who, 
above  all  poets,  is  the  mysterious 
dual  of  hard  sense  and  empyreal 
fancy — anda  great  many  more,  whom 
I  need  not  name;  but  who,  if  you 
take  to  them  gently  and  quietly,  wi]l 
not,  like  your  mere  philosopher,  your 
unreasonable  stoic,  tell  you  that  you 
have  lost  nothing ;  but  who  will  in- 
sensibly steal  you  out  of  this  world, 
with  its  losses  and  crosses,  and  slip 
Toa  into  another  world,  before  you 
know  where  you  are  I — a  woiid  where 
you  are  just  aa  welcome,  though  you 
cany  no  more  earth  of  your  lost 
acres  with  you  than  covers  the  sole 
of  your  shoe.  Then,  for  hypochondria 
and  satiely,  what  is  better  than  a 
brisk  alteratiye  course  of  travels— es- 
pecially early,  out  of  the  way,  mar- 
vellous, legendaiy  travels  I  How  they 
freshen  up  the  spirits  1  How  they  take 
you  out  of  the  humdrum  yawning 
state  you  are  in.  See,  with  Herodotus, 
young  Greece  spring  up  into  life ;  or 
note  with  him  now  alieady  ^e  won- 
drous old  Orient  wcnrldis  cnunbling 
Into  giant  decay ;  or  go  with  Caipini 
and  Bubruquis  to  Tartarv,  meet 
*the  carts  of  Zagathai  laden  with 
houses,  and  think  that  a  great  city  is 
travelling towardsyon.'  *  Gase  on  that 
vast  wila  empire  of  the  Tartar,  where 
the  descendants  (tf  Jenghis  *  multiply 
and  di^>er8e  over  the  immense  waste 
desert,  which  is  as  boundless  as  the 
ocean.  *  Sail  with  the  early  northern 
discoverers,  and  penetrate  to  the 
heart  of  winter,  among  sea-serpents 
and  bears,  and  tusked  morses,  with 
the  faces  of  men.  Then,  what  think 
you  of  Ccdombus,  and  the  stem  soul 
of  Cortes,  and  the  kingdom  of 
'  Mexico,  and  the  strange  gold  dtj  of 
the  Peruvuins,  with  that  audacious 
Inrute  Plaarro  ?  and  the  Polynesians, 
jost  for  all  the  world  like  the  ancient 
Britons  ?  and  the  American  Indians, 
and  the  South-Sea  Ishuders?  how 
petulant,  and  young,  and  adventur- 
ous, and  frisky  your  hypochondriac 
must  get  upon  a  regimen  like  that ! 


41 

Then,  for  that  vice  of  the  mind  which 
I caU  sectarianism — ^notin  the  religious 
sense  of  the  word,  but  little,  narrow 
prejudices,  that  make  you  hate  your 
next-door  neighbour,  because  he  haa 
his  eggs  roasted  when  you  have 
jrours^iled ;  and  gossiping  and  pry- 
mg  into  people*s  affairs,  and  badk- 
biting,  and  thinking  heaven  and 
earth  are  coming  together,  if  some 
broom  touch  a  cobweb  that  you  have 
let  grow  over  the  window-sill  of 
your  brains— what  like  a  lai^e  and 
generous,  mildly  aperient  (I  beg 
your  pardon,  my  dear)  course  of  hls- 
toiy!  How  it  clears  away  all  the 
fumes  of  the  head !— better  than  the 
hellebore  with  which  the  old  leeches 
of  the  middle  ages  purged  the  cerebel- 
lum. There,  amidst  all  that  great 
wtirl  and  sturmbad  (storm-bath),  as 
the  Germans  say,  of  kingdoms  and 
empires,  and  races  and  ages,  how 
your  mind  enlar^  beyond  that,  little, 
feverish  animosity  to  John  Styles; 
or  that  unfortunate  prepossession  of 
vours,  that  all  the  world  is  interested 
in  your  grievances  against  Tom 
Stokes  and  his  wife  I 

^*  lean  only  touch,  you  see,  on  a  few 
ingredients  in  tbis  magnificent  phar- 
macy— ^its  resources  are  boundless, 
but  require  the  nicest  discretion.  I 
remember  to  have  cored  a  disconso- 
late widower,  who  obstinately  re- 
fused every  other  medicament,  by  a 
strict  course  of  seology.  I  dioped 
him  deep  into  gneiss  and  mica  schist. 
Amidst  the  first  strata,  I  suffered  the 
watery  action  to  expend  itself  upon 
coc^g  crystallised  masses ;  and,  by 
the  time  I  had  got  him  into  the  ter- 
tiary period,  amongst  the  transition 
chalks  of  Maestrioht,  and  the  conchi- 
ferous  marls  of  Grosau,  he  was  reader 
for  a  new  wife.  Kitty,  my  dear !  it  is 
no  laughing  matter.  I  made  no  less 
notable  a  cure  of  a  young  scholar  at 
Cambridge,  who  waa  meant  for  the 
church,  when  he  suddenly  caught  a 
cold  fit  of  freethinking,  with  great 
shiverings,  from  wading  oyer  his 
depth  in  Spinosa.  None  of  the 
divines,  whom  I  first  tried,  did  him  the 
least  good  in  that  state ;  so  I  turned 
over  a  new  leaf,  and  doctored  him 
gently  upon  the  chapters  of  faith  in 
Abraham  Tucker's  book,  (you  should 


*  RuBBuqui8,Bect.z]i 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


42 


The  Oaxtom8,'-'J\trt  IX, 


[Jan. 


read  it,  Sisty ;)  then  I  threw  in  strong 
doees  of  flcht^ ;  after  that  I  put  him 
on  the  Scotch  metaphysicians,  with 
plimgebaths  into  certain  German  tran- 
soendentalists;  and  haying  convinced 
him  that  faith  is  not  an  onphUoso- 
phical  state  of  mind,  and  that  he 
might  believe  without  compromising 
his  understanding — ^for  he  was  mightily 
conceited  on  that  score— I  threw  in 
my  divines,  whidi  he  was  now  fit  to 
digest ;  and  his  theological  constitu- 
tion, since  then,  hasbe^meso  robust, 
that  he  has  eaten  up  two  livings  and  a 
deanery  1  In  fact,  I  have  a  plan  for 
a  library  that,  instead  of  heading  its 
compartments,  ^Pliilology,  Natural 
Science,  Foetiy,'  &q,,  one  shall  head 
them  according  to  the  diseases  for 
which  they  are  severally  good,  bod)ly 
and  mental — up  from  a  dire  cala- 
mity, or  the  pangs  of  the  gout, 
down  to  a  fit  of  the  m>leen,  or  a 
slight  catarrh;  ^r  which  last  your 
light  reading  comes  in  with  a  whey 
posset  and  barley-water.  But,"  con- 
tinued my  father  more  gravely,  "  when 
some  one  sorrow,  that  is  yet  repar- 
able, gets  hold  of  your  mind  like  a 
monomania — when  youthhik,  because 
heaven  has  denied  you  this  or  that, 
on  which  you  had  set  your  heart,  that 
all  yourl&iB  must  be  a  blank — oh, 
then  diet  yourself  well  on  biography 
— the  biography  of  good  and  great 
men.  See  how  little  a  space  one  sor- 
row really  makes  in  life.  See  scarce 
a  page,  perhaps,  given  to  some  grief 
similar  to  your  own ;  and  how  tnnm- 
phantly  the  life  sails  on  beyond  iti 
You  thought  the  wing  was  broken! — 
Tut— tut — it  was  butabndsed  feather  I 
See  what  life  leaves  behind  it,  when  all 
is  done!  — ^a  summary  of  positive  facts 


far  out  of  the  region  of  sorrow  and 
sufiforing,  linking  themsdves  with 
the  being  of  the  world.  Yes,  biogra<^ 
phy  is  the  medicine  here  !  Roland^ 
you  said  you  would  try  my  prescrip- 
tion—  here  it  is,** — and  my  father 
took  up  a  book,  and  reached  it  to  tho 
Captain. 

My  uncle  looked  over  it  —  Life  of 
the  Reverend  Robert  HaU.  ^*  Brother, 
he  was  a  Dissenter,  and,  thank  heaven, 
I  am  a  chureh-and-state  num,  back 
and  bone ! " 

**  Robert  Hall  was  a  brave  man, 
and  a  true  soldier  under  the  ereat 
commander,'*  said  my  father  artralfy. 

The  Captain  meohlinically  carried 
his  forefinger  to  his  forehead  in  mili- 
tary fashion,  and  saluted  the  book 
respectfully. 

"  I  have  another  copy  lor  you, 
Fisistratns — that  \b  mine  which  I  have 
lent  Roland.  This,  which  I  bought 
for  you  to-day,  you  will  kefep.** 

"  Thank  you,  sir,»'  said  I  listlessly^ 
not  seeing  what  great  good  the  Lm 
of  Robert  Hall  could  do  me,  or  why 
the  same  medicine  should  suit  the  old 
weatherbeaten  undo,  and  the  nephew 
yet  in  his  teens. 

."I  have  sidd  nothing,"  resumed 
my  father,  slightly  bowing  his  broad 
temples,  ^^  of  the  Book  of  Books,  for 
that  is  the  lignum  vita^  tiie  oardinid 
medicine  for  all.  These  are  but  the 
subsidiaries :  for,  as  you  may  remem- 
ber, my  dear  Kitty,  that  I  have  said 
before— we  can  never  keep  the  system 
quite  right  unless  we  place  just  in 
the  centre  of  the  great  ganglionic 
system,  whence  the  nerves  carry  its 
influence  gently  and  smoothly  through 
the  whole  frame  —  the  Saffbon 
Bag!" 


CEAfTEBXLIV. 


After  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
I  took  my  hat  to  go  out,  when  my 
father,  looking  at  me,  and  seeuig  by 
my  countenance  that  I  had  not  dept, 
6aid  gently — 

s,  you  have 

rt." 


'said  I,  smil- 


ey on  go  out; 
|oy  your  walk 


I  confess  that  it  was  with  some  re- 
luctance I  obeyed.  I  went  back  to 
my  own  room,  and  sate  resolutely 
down  to  my  task.  Are  there  any  ^ 
you,  my  readers,  who  have  not  read 
the  Life  of  Robert  HeUf  If  so,  in 
the  words  of  the  great  Captain  Cuttle, 
^*  When  found,  make  a  note  of  it.** 
Never  mind  what  your  theological 
opinion  is — ^Episcopalian,  Presbyte- 
rian, Baptist,  Psedobaptist,  Inde* 
pendent,  Quid^er,  Unitarian,  Philo- 
sopher, Fi«ethinker— send  for  Ro- 
bert Hall  I  Yea,  if  there  exist  yet 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1840.] 


The  Cteifmf.— Porf  IX. 


43 


OB  eArth  descendants  of  tke  arch-here- 
sies, which  made  sneh  a  noise  in  their 
day — men  who  believe  with  Satnmi- 
nns  that  the  world  was  made  bf  seven 
angels ;  or  with  Basilides,  that  there 
are  as  many  heayens  as  there  are  days 
in  the  year ;  or  witii  the  NIoolaitanes, 
that  men  onght  to  hare  their  wives  in 
common,  (meaty  of  that  sect  still, 
•espedally  m  the  Red  Bepnblic ;)  or 
with  thdr  snecessocs,  the  Gnostics, 
who  believed  in  Jiddaboath ;  or  with 
the  Carpacratians,  that  the  world  was 
made  by  the  devil ;  or  with  the  Cerin- 
thians,  and  Ebioidtes,  and  Naaarites, 
fwfaidi  last  discovered  that  the  name 
of  Noah*s  wife  was  Ooria,  and  that 
she  set  the  ark  on  fire ;)  or  with  the 
Valentinians,  who  tao^t  that  there 
were  thirty  ifiones,  ages,  or  worlds, 
bom  ont  of  Profundity,  (Bathos,) 
male,  and  Sflenoe,  tooale ;  or  with  the 
Mardtes,  Colart>asii,  and  Heradeon- 
ites,  (who  stOl  kept  np  that  bother 
aboat.£ones,  Mr  Profhndity,  and  Mrs 
Silence ;)  or  with  the  Ophites,  who 
are  said  to  have  worshipped  the  ser- 
pent; or  the  Cainites,  who  inge- 
niously fbnnd  ont  a  reason  for  honour- 
ing Judas,  because  he  foresaw  what 
good  would  come  to  men  by  betraying 
our  Saviour;  or  with  the  Sethites, 
who  made  Seth  a  j^art  of  the  Divine 
substance;  or  with  the  Archonticks, 
AscotfayptA,  Oerdonlans,  Marclonites, 
the  dlsdples  of  Apelles,  and  Sevems, 
(the  last  wasateetotaUer,  and  sidd  wine 
was  begot  by  Satan !)  or  of  Tatian, 
who  tiiought  all  the  descendants  of 
Adam  were  irretrievably  damned  ex- 
ospC  themsdves,  (some  of  those  Ta- 
tiani  are  certidnly  extant  t)  or  the 
Oataphrygians,  who  were  also  cafled 
Tascodragitie,  because  tiiey  thrust 
their  fbrenneers  up  their  nostrils  to 
show  their  devotion ;  or  the  Fepusi- 
ans,  QuintQians,  and  Artotvrites ;  or 
— but  no  matter.  If  I  go  throurii  aU 
the  fblHes  of  men  in  search  of  the 
truth,  I  shall  never  get  to  the  end  of 
ray  chapter,  or  back  to  Kobert  Hall : 
whatever,  Aen,  thou  art,  orthodox  w 
lieterodox,  send  for  theZf/«  of  Robert 
ffoB.  It  is  the  Hfo  of  a  man  that  it 
does  good  to  manhood  itidf  to  con- 
temj^ite. 

I  had  finished  the  biography,  whidi 
is  not  long,  and  was  musing  over  it, 
when  I  heard  the  Captidn's  cork-leg 
apoB  the  stafars.    I  opened  the  door 


for  hhn,  and  he  entered,  book  in  hand, 
as  I,  also  book  in  hand,  stood  ready 
to  receive  him. 

*'  Well,  sir,"  said  Roland,  seathig 
himself,  ''  has  the  prescription  done 
you  any  good  V* 

"  Yes,  undo— great." 

*^  And  me  too.  By  Jnpiter,  Sisty, 
that  same  Hall  was  a  fine  fellow  I  I 
wonder  if  the  medicine  has  gone 
through  the  same  channels  in  both  ? 
Tell  me,  first,  how  it  has  afiiacted  yon." 

^  In^mmisy  then,  my  dear  unide,  I 
Uaicv  that  a  book  like  this  must  do 
good  to  all  who  live  in  the  world  in 
the  ordinary  manner,  by  admitting  ua 
into  a  drde  of  life  of  which  I  suj^ect 
we  think  but  little.  Here  is  a  man 
connecting  himself  directly  with  a 
heavenly  purpose,  and  cultivating 
ooasideiable  fiiculties  to  that  one  end ; 
seeking  to  accomplish  his  soul  as  fu 
as  he  can,  that  he  may  do  most  good 
on  earth,  and  take  a  higher  existaioe 
up  to  heaven ;  a  man  intent  upon  a 
sublime  and  spkitual  duty :  in  short, 
livhig  as  it  were  in  it,  and  so  filled 
with  the  consdonsness  of  immortality^ 
and  so  strong  in  the  link  between  Grod 
and  man,  that,  without  any  affected 
stoicism,  without  being  insensible  to 
pam — rather,  perhaps,  from  a  nervous 
temperament,  acutdyfedfaigit— he  yet 
has  a  happiness  wholly  independent 
of  it.  It  is  impossible  not  to  be  thrill- 
ed with  an  admiration  that  devates 
while  it  awes  you,  in  reading  that 
solemn  *  Dedication  of  himself  to 
God.*  This  offering  of  *  soul  and 
body,  time,  health,  reputation,  ta- 
lents,* to  the  divine  and  faivisible 
Prindple  of  Good,  calls*us  suddenly  to 
contemplate  the  selfishness  of  our  own 
views  and  hopes,  and  awakens  us  from 
the  cjgotism  that  exacts  all  and  resigns 
nothing. 

**•  But  this  book  has  mostly  struck 
upon  the  chord  in  my  own  heart,  in 
that  characteristic  whidi  my  father 
indicated  asbdongfng  to  all  biography. 
Here  is  a  life  of  remaikable  Jkiness^ 
ipreat  stndy,  great  t^ouafat,  and  great 
action;  and  yel,".Mid  I,  oolouring, 
*«  how  small  a  place  those  feelings, 
which  have  tyrannised  ovet  me,  and 
made  all  else  seem  blank  and  void, 
hold  in  that  life.  It  is  not  as  if  the 
man  were  a  cdd  and  hurd  ascetic; 
it  is  easy  to  see  in  him  not  only 
ffemadcable    tenderness  and    waim 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


44 


The  CaxtoM.'-'Part  IX. 


[Jan. 


affections,  bnt  strong  self-will,  and  the 

?assion  of  all  yigorons  natures.    Yes, 
understand  better  now  what  exist- 
ence in  a  true  man  should  be." 

**  All  that  is  very  well  said,"  quoth 
the  Captain,  ^^  bnt  it  did  not  strike  me. 
What  I  haye  seen  in  this  book  is 
courage.  Here  is  a  poor  creature 
rolling  ^on  the  carpet  with  agony ; 
from  childhood  to  death  tortured  by 
a  mysterious  incurable  malady  —  a 
malady  that  is  described  as  ^an  inter- 
nal apparatus  of  torture;*  and  who 
does,  by  his  heroism,  more  than  hear 
it  —  he  puts  it  out  of  power  to 
affect  him ;  and  though  (here  is  the 
passage)  ^his  appointment  b^  day 
and  by  night  was  mcessant  pam,  yet 
high  enjoyment  was,  notwithstanding, 
the  law  of  his  existence.*  Robert 
Hall  reads  me  a  lesson— me,  an  old 
soldier,  who  thought  myself  above 
taking  lessons— in  courage,  at  least. 
And,  as  I  came  to  that  passage  when, 
in  the  sharp  paroxysms  before  death, 
he  says,  ^I  have  not  complamed,  have 
I,  sir? — and  I  won*t  complain,* — ^when 
I  came  to  that  passage  I  started  up, 


and  cried,  *  Roland  de  Caxton,  thon 
hast  been  a  coward!  and,  an  thou 
hadst  had  thv  deserts,  thou  hadst 
been  cashierea,  broken,  and  drummed 
out  of  the  regiment  long  ago l" 

^^  After  all,  then,  my  father  was 
not  so  wrong— he  placed  his  guns 
right,  and  fired  a  good  shot." 

"  He  must  have  been  from  6*  to  9' 
above  the  crest  of  the  parapet,"  said 
my  uncle,  thoughtfully — "wMch,  I 
take  it,  is  the  best  devation,  both 
for  shot  and  shells,  in  enfilading  a 
work." 

^'  What  say  you,  then.  Captain?  up 
with  our  knapsacks,  and  on  with  the 
march  I" 

^^Ri^t  about— face  I"  cried  my 
undo,  as  erect  as  a  column. 

"  No  looking  bade,  if  we  can  hdp 
it." 

«( Full  in  the  front  of  the  enemy. — 
*  Up,  guards,  and  at  'em  V  " 

*^  ^England  expects  every  man  to  do 
his  duty!'" 

"Cypress  or  laurd!"  cried  m^ 
unde,  waving  the  book  over  his  he 


CHAFTSBXLV. 


I  went  out— and  to  see  Frauds 
Vivian;  for,  on  leaving  Mr  Treva- 
nion,  I  was  not  without  anxietyfor  my 
new  friend's  future  provision.  But 
Vivian  was  from  home,  and  I  strolled 
from  his  lodgings,  into  the  suburbs^on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  began 
to  meditate  seriously  on  the  best 
course  now  to  pursue.  In  quitting  my 
present  occupations,  I  resigned  pros- 
pects far  more  brilliant,  and  fortunes 
far  more  rapid  than  I  could  ever 
hope  to  realise  in  any  other  entrance 
into  life.  Bnt  I  fdt  the  necessity,  if 
I  deshred  to  keep  steadfost  to  that 
more  healthful  firame  of  mind  I  had 
obtained,  of  some  manly  and  continu- 
ous labour— some  eamestemployment. 
My  thouefats  flew  back  to  the  univer- 
si^ :  and  the  quiet  of  its  doisters — 
which,  until  I  had  been  blinded  by 
the  glare  of  the  London  worid,  and 
grief  had  somewhat  dulled  the  edge  of 
my  quick  desires  and  hopes,  had 
seemed  to  me  cheeriess  and  unalter- 
ing— took  an  inviting  aspect.  They 
presented  what  I  needed  most — a 
new  scene,  a  new  arena,  a  partial 


return  into  boyhood;  repose  for 
pasdons  prematnrdy  raised;  acti- 
vity for  the  reasoning  powers  in  fresh 
directions.  I  had  not  lost  my  time 
in  London:  I  had  kept  up,  if  not 
studies  purdy  dasdcal,  at  least  the 
habits^of  application;  I  had  sharpened 
my  geoieral  comprehension,  and  aug- 
mented my  resources.  Accordingly^ 
when  I  returned  home.  I  resolved  to 
speak  to  mv  father.  But  J  found  he 
had  forestaued  me ;  and,  on  entering, 
my  mother  drew  me  up  staurs  into  her 
room,  with  a  smile  kindled  by  my 
snule,  and  told  me  that  she  and  her 
Austin  had  been  thinking  that  it  was 
best  that  I  should  leave  London  as 
soon  as  possible;  that  my  father 
found  he  could  now  dispense  with 
the  library  of  the  Museum  for  some 
months;  that  the  time  for  which  they 
had  taken  their  lodgings  would  be  up 
in  a  few  daysj  that  the  summer  was 
tzx  advanced,  town  odious,  the  country 
beautiful— in  a  word,  we  were  to  go 
home.  There  I  could  prepare  mysdf 
for  Cambridge,  till  the  long  vacation 
was  over;  and,  my  mother  added 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Tke  CaxUm.^Part  IX. 


45 


hesitatingly,  and  with  a  prefatory 
cantion  to  spare  my  health,  that  my 
father,  whose  income  coold  ill  affoid 
the  requisite  allowance  to  me,  count- 
ed  on  my  soon  lightening  his  burden, 
by  getting  a  scholarship.  I  felt  how 
mudi  provident  kindness  there  was  in 
all  this— eren  in  that  hint  of  a 
scholarship,  which  was  meant  to 
rouse  my  faculties,  and  spur  me,  by 
affectionate  incentives,  to  a  new  am- 
bition. I  was  not  less  delighted  than 
gratefhl. 

•'  But  poor  Roland,''  said  I,  '^  and 
little  Blanche — ^will  they  come  with 
us?" 

"I  fear  not,"  said  my  mother,  "for 
Boland  is  anxious  to  get  back  to  his 
tower ;  and,  in  a  day  or  two,  he  will 
be  well  enough  to  move." 

"  Do  vou  not  think,  my  dear 
mother,  that,  somehow  or  other,  this 
lost  son  of  his  had  something  to  do 
with  his  iUness,— that  the  illness  was 
as  much  mental  as  physical?" 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  Slsty.  What 
a  sad,  bad  heart  that  young  man  must 
have!" 

"My  uncle  seems  to  have  aban- 
doned all  hope  of  finding  him  in 
London ;  otherwise,  ill  as  he  has  been, 
I  am  sure  we  could  not  have  kept 
him  at  homo.  So  he  goes  back  to  the 
old  tower.  Poor  man,  he  must  be  dull 
enough  there  I— we  must  contrive  to 
pay  him  a  visit.  Does  Blanche  ever 
speak  of  her  brother  ?  " 

"  No,  for  it  seems  they  were  not 
brought  up  much  together-— at  all 
evrats,  she  does  not  remember  him. 
How  lovely  she  is  1  Her  mother  must 
surely  h%ve  been  very  handsome." 

"  Sie  is  a  pretty  child,  certainly, 
thoufffa  in  a  strange  style  of  beauty^ 
such  mimense  eyes!— and  aflfectionate, 
and  loves  Roland  as  she  ought." 

And  here  the  conversation  dropped. 

Our  plans  being  thus  decided,  it 
was  necessary  that  I  should  lose  no 
time  in  seeing^  Vivian,  and  making 
some  arrangement  for  the  future.  His 
manner  had  lost  so  much  of  its  abrupt- 
ness, that  I  thought  I  could  venture 
to  recommend  him  personally  to 
Trevanion;  and  I  knew,  after  what 
had  passed,  that  Trevanion  would 
make  a  point  to  oblige  me.  I  re- 
solved to  consult  my  father  about  it. 
As  yet  I  had  cither  never  forced,  or 
never  made  the  opportunity  to  talk  to 


my  father  on  the  subject,  he  had  been 
so  occupied ;  and,  if  he  had  proposed 
to  see  my  new  friend,  what  answer 
could  I  have  made,  in  the  teeth  of 
Vivian's  cynic  objections?  However, 
as  we  were  now  going  away,  that  last 
consideration  ceased  to  be  of  import 
tance ;  and,  for  the  first,  the  student 
had  not  yet  entirely  settled  back  to 
his  books.  I  therefore  watched  the 
time  when  my  father  walked  down 
to  the  Museum,  and,  slipping  my  arm 
in  his,  I  told  him,  briefly  and  n^idly, 
as  we  went  along,  how  I  had  formed 
this  strange  acqudntance,  and  how 
I  was  now  situated.  The  story  did 
not  interest  my  father  quite  as  much 
as  I  expected,  and  he  did  not  under- 
stand all  the  complexities  of  Vivian's 
character  —  how  could  he?— for  he 
answered  briefly,  "I  should  think 
that,  for  a  young  man,  apparently 
without  a  sixpence,  and  whose  edu- 
cation seems  so  Imperfect,  any  resource 
in  lYevanion  must  be  most  temporary 
and  uncertain.  Speak  to  your  uncle 
Jack— he  can  find  him  some  place,  I 
have  no  doubt— perhaps  a  readership 
in  a  printer's  office,  or  a  reporter's 
place  on  some  journal,  if  he  is  fit  for 
it.  But  if  you  want  to  steady  him,  let 
it  be  something  regular." 

Therewith  my  father  dismissed  the 
matter,  and  vanished  through  the 
gates  of  the  Museum. — ^Readership  to 
a  printer,  reportership  on  a  journal, 
for  a  young  gentleman  with  the 
high  notions  and  arrogant  vanity  of 
Fnmcis  Vivian — ^hls  ambition  already 
soaring  for  beybnd  kid  gloves  and  a 
cabriolet!  The  idea  was  hopeless; 
and,  perplexed  and  doubtful,  I  took 
my  way  to  Vivian's  lod^gs.  I  found 
him  at  home,  and  unemployed,  stand- 
ing by  his  window,  with  folded  arms, 
and  in  a  state  of  such  reverie  that  he 
was  not  aware  of  my  entrance  till  I 
had  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Ha!"  siud  he  then,  with  one  of 
his  short,  quick,  impatient  sighs,  "  I 
thought  you  had  given  me  up,  and 
forgotten  me — ^but  you  look  pale  and 
harassed.  I  could  almost  think  you 
had  grown  thhmer  within  the  last  few 
days." 

"Oh!  never  mind  me,  Vivian  :  I 
have  come  to  speak  of  yourself.  I 
have  left  Trevamon ;  it  is  settled  that 
I  should  go  to  the  university— and 
we  all  quit  town  in  a  few  days." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


46 


The  Caxton$.^Pmrt  IX. 


[JaiL 


**  In  »  few  days!— rU! — wiio  sre 

^Mj  fiimily'-fiiUier,  mother,  micle, 
consul,  and  mysdt  Bat,  my  dear 
feUovr,  now  let  ns  think  seriooslT 
what  is  best  to  be  done  for  yon  ?  I 
can  present  yon  to  TroTanion." 

"Ha !" 

^^  Bnt  Treranion  is  a  hard,  though 
an  excdient  man ;  and,  moreover,  as 
he  is  always  dianging  the  subjects 
that  engross  hhn^  in  a  montii  or  so, 
he  may  have  nothing  to  glre  you. 
Yon  siud  you  would  work— will  yon 
consent  not  to  complain  if  the  work 
cannot  be  done  in  kid  ^yes  ?  Tonnff 
men  who  have  risen  h^  in  the  world 
have  begun,  it  Is  well  known,  as  re- 
porters to  the  press.  It  is  a  situatioa 
of  respectability,  and  in  request,  and 
not  easy  to  obtain,  I  &ncy ;  but 
still—" 

Vivian  interrupted  me  hastily — 

**  Thank  you  a  thousand  times  I 
bnt  what  you  say  confirms  a  resolu- 
tion I  had  taken  before  you  came.  I 
dudl  make  it  up  with  my  fomily,  and 
return  home." 

"  OhI  I  am  so  really  g^  How 
wise  in  you !" 

Vivian  turned  awi^  his  head  ab- 
ruptly— 

"  Tour  i^tnres  of  £unHy  Ufo  and 
domestic  peace,  you  see,"  he  said, 
*^  seduced  me  more  than  you  thought. 
When  do  you  leave  town  ?*' 

"  Why,  I  believe,  early  next  week." 

^  So  soon!"  said  Vivian,  thought- 
fully. **^  Well,  perhaps  I  may  ask  you 
yet  to  introduce  me  to  Mr  Trevanion ; 
for— idio  knows? — mv  £amily  and  I 
may  fall  out  again.  But  I  will  con- 
sider. I  think  I  have  heard  yon  say 
that  this  Trevanion  is  a  very  old 
fHend  of  your  father's,  or  nucleus? 

^^  He,  or  rather  Lady  EUinor,  is  an 
old  friend  of  both." 

^^  And  therefore  would  listen  to 
your  recommendations  of  me.  Bat 
perhaps  I  may  not  need  them.  So 
you  have  left — left  of  your  own  acccMrd 
— a  situation  that  seemed  more  enjoy- 
able, I  should  think,  than  rooms  in  a 
college; — ^left— whydid  you  leave?" 

And  Vivian  fixed  his  bright  eyes, 
fhll  and  piercingly,  on  mine. 

^^It  was  only  for  a  time,  for  a  trials 
that  I  was  there,"  said  I,  evasively : 
**  out  at  nurse,  as  it  were,  till  the 
Alma  Mater  opened  her  arms—oiiMa 


indeed  she  ought  to  be  to  my  fiUher's 
son." 

Vivian  looked  unsatisfied  with  my 
explanation,  but  did  not  cpiestion  me 
farther.  He  himaelf  was  the  first  to 
turn  the  converration,  and  he  did  tlus 
with  more  affoctiottate  oordiality  than 
was  common  to  him.  He  inquired 
into  our  general  plans,  into  the  proba- 
bilitiea  of  our  return  to  town,  and  ^w 
from  me  a  description  of  our  rural 
Tusculnm.  He  was  quitt  and  sub- 
dued; and  once  or  twice  I  thought 
there  was  a  moisture  in  those  lumi- 
nous eyes.  We  narted  with  mon  of 
the  unreserve  and  fondness  of  youth- 
ful friendship— at  least  on  my  part, 
and  seemin^y  on  his— than  haa  yet 
endeared  our  singular  intimapv;  for 
the  cement  of  c(Mrdial  attachment 
had  been  wantuig  to  an  intercourse  in 
which  one  party  refused  all  confidenoe, 
and  the  other  mm^ed  distrust  and 
foar  with  keen  interest  and  compas- 
sionate adnuratlon. 

That  evening,  before  lights  were 
brought  in,  my  father,  tumhig  to  me, 
abruptly  asked  if  I  had  seen  my 
friend,  and  what  he  was  about  to  do? 

'^  He  thinks  of  returning  to  his 
fomity,"saidL 

Bohiiid,  wlio  had  seemed  dosing, 
winced  uneasily. 

""Who  returns  to  his  fkmily?" 
asked  the  Csptain. 

"  Why,  you  must  know,"  said  my 
father,  "  that  Sisty  has  fished  t|p  a 
friend  of  whom  he  can  give  no  ac- 
count that  would  satisfy  a  policeman, 
and  whose  fortunes  he  thinks  himself 
under  the  necessity  of  protecting. 
You  are  veiy  lucky  that  he  has  not 

Sicked  your  pockets,  Sisty;  but  I 
aresayhehas?   What's  his  name?" 

"  Vivian,"  smd  I—"  Francis  Vi- 
vian." 

"  A  good  name,  and  a  Comlsb," 
said  my  father.  *^  Some  derive  it 
from  the  Bomans — ^Vivianus ;  others 
from  a  Celtic  word,  which  means" — 

"  Vivian  1"  interrupted  Boland— 
"  Vivian !— I  wonder  if  it  be  the  son 
of  Colonel  Vivian?" 

^^  He  is  certainly  a  gentleman's 
son,"  said  I ;  *^  bnt  he  never  told  me 
what  his  fomUy  and  connexions  were." 

"  Vivian,"  repeated  my  uncle — 
*' poor  Colonel  Vivian.  So  the  young 
man  is  going  to  his  fath^.  I  have  no 
doubt  it  is  the  same.    Ahl"— 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


^»«.3 


Ihi  WkHeNtk. 


47 


*«  WhAi  do  foa  know  of  Cokmel 
TlviaOfOrhissoa?''  said  L  '*  Pray, 
teH  nOt  I  am  80  interested  in  tliia 


L  know  notliing  of  eitkar,  ezoept 
kj  msip,**  said  mr  nnde,  moodily. 
*^  I  did  kear  that  Cokmel  Yiyian^  an 
•xceUent  offloer,  and  konoorable  man, 
kad  been  in— in— {BoUnd's  yoiee  M' 
tered)— in  great  grief  about  bis  son, 
wbom,  a  mere  boy,  he  liad  prevented 
from  some  imprc^  mamage,  and 
wko  kad  nm  away  and  left  bim— it 
was  SQMMsed  for  America.  Thestoiy 
afiectea  me  at  the  time,**  added  my 
nncte,  tiying  to  speak  caln^y. 
We  were  all  silent,  fbr  we  felt  wky 


Boland  was  so  distmbed,  and  why 
Colond  Viyian's  grief  should  have 
tonched  him  home.  Similarity  in 
affliction  makes  ns  brothers  even  to 
the  unknown* 

^^  You  say  ke  is  gofaig  kome  to  his 
£unOy--I  am  heartily  giiul  of  iti  *'  said 
the  enyying  old  solmer,  gallantly. 

The  lights  came  in  then,  and,  two 
minutes  after,  undo  Roland  and  I 
were  nestled  dose  to  eadi  other,  side 
by  side;  and  I  was  reading  over  his 
shoulder,  and  his  finger  was  silently 
resting  on  that  passage  that  had  so 
struck  him — ^^  I  have  not  complained 
—have  I,  sir? — uid  I  won't  com- 
plain 1'* 


THE  WHITB  MILB. 


Forr  vears  since,  the  book  before 
us  would  kave  earned  for  its  antkor 
tlie  sneers  of  critics  and  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  Mondiauaen:  atthe  present 
OM>re  tolerant  and  more  enlightened 
day,  ii  not  onlv  obtains  credit,  but 
exdtes  well-mented  admhration  of  the 
writer's  enterpdse,  energy,  and  petse- 
verance.  "  Xhe  rich  contents  and 
great  originali^  of  the  following 
WGffk,"  says  Profes8(ar  Cail  Bitter,  in 
kis  preface  to  Mr  Weme's  narrative, 
*^  will  esc^M  no  one  who  bestows  a 
tlance,  however  hasty,  upon  its  pages. 
It  gives  vivid  and  lUe*like  pictures 
of  tribes  and  territories  previously  un- 
visited,  and  is  wdcome  as  a  most  ac- 
ceptable addition  to  our  literature  of 
travel,  often  so  monotonous."  We 
quite  coincide  witb  the  learned  pro- 
wssor,  whose  laudatory  and  long- 
winded  sentences  we  have  thus  freely 
rendered.  His  friend,  Mr  Ferdinand 
Weme,  has  made  good  use  of  his 
opportunities,  and  has  produced  a  veiy 
intereating  and  praiseworthy  book. 

It  is,  perhaps,  hardly  necessanr  to 
remind  the  reader,  that  the  river  Nile 
is  formed  of  two  oonfluent  streams, 
the  Blue  and  the  White,  iHiose  junc- 
tion is  in  South  Nubia,  between 
16°  and  16'  of  North  Latitude.  The 
source  of  the  Blue  Nile  was  ascer- 
tained by  Bmce,  and  by  subsequent 


travellers,  to  be  in  ^e  mountains 
of  AbyssMa ;  but  the  course  of  the 
other  branch,  which  is  by  farthe  longest, 
had  beenfoUowed,until  very  latdy,only 
asforsoirthaslO^orir  N.  L.  Even 
now  the  river  has  not  been  traced  to 
its  origfai,  although  Mr  Weme  and  his 
companions  penetrated  to  4"  N.  L. 
Further  thev  could  not  go,  owing  to  the 
rapid  subsidence  of  the  waters.  The 
expedition  had  been  delayed  six  weeks 
by  the  culpable  dilatoriness  of  one  of 
its  members ;  and  this  was  fotal  to  the 
realisation  of  its  object. 

We  can  concdvefew  things  more 
exdting  than  such  a  voyage  as  Mr 
Weme  has  accomplished  and  recorded. 
Starting  frt>m  the  outposts  of  civflisa- 
tion,  he  sailed  into  the  very  heart  of 
Africa,  up  a  stream  whose  upper 
waters  were  then  for  the  first  time 
finrrowed  by  vessels  larger  than  a 
savage's  canoe  —  a  stream  of  such 
gigantic  proportions,  that  its  width,  at 
a  thousand  miles  from  the  sea,  gave 
it  the  aspect  of  a  lake  rather  than  of 
a  river.  The  brate  creation  were  in 
proportion  with  the  magnitude  of  the 
water-course.  The  hippopotamus 
reared  his  huge  snout  above  the  sur- 
face, and  wallowed  in  the  gullies  that 
on  dther  hand  run  down  to  the  stream; 
enormous  crocodiles  gaped  along  the 
shore ;  dephants  played  in  herds  upon 


Ftpwdmm  Mr  EMttMmng  der  Q«^^  des  Weinen  NU,  (1840.1841,)  Ton  Fbr- 
mnkMD  Wnott.    Hit  dMm  Yorwort  Ton  Carl  Bitter.    Berlin,  1848. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


48 


The  White  NOe. 


[Jan. 


the  pastures ;  the  tall  giraffe  stalked 
amongst  the  lofty  palms;  snakes  thick 
as  trees  lay  coiled  in  the  slimy  swamps ; 
and  ant-hills,  ten  feet  high,  towered 
above  the  rashes.    Along  the  thickly- 

themselves,  gaidng  in  wonder  at  the 
strange  ships,  and  making  ambignons 
gestures,  varionsly  constnied  by  the 
adventurers  as  signs  of  Mendship  or 
hostility.  Alternately  stuling  and 
towing,  as  the  wind  served  or  not ; 
constantly  in  sight  of  natives,  bnt 
rarely  communicating  with  them ;  often 
cut  off  for  days  from  land  by  inter- 
minable fields  of  tangled  we^,~the 
expedition  pursued  its  course  through 
innumerable  perils,  guaranteed  from 
most  of  them  by  the  liquid  rampart 
on  which  it  floated.  Lions  looked 
hungry,  and  savages  shook  their 
spears,  but  neither  showed  a  disposi- 
tion to  swim  off  and  board  the  flotilla. 
The  cause  of  science  has  countless 
obligations « to  the  cupidi^  of  poten- 
tates and  adventurers.  May  it  not 
be  part  of  the  scheme  of  Providence, 
that  sold  is  placed  in  the  most  remote 
and  barbarous  regions,  as  a  magnet 
to  draw  thither  the  children  of  civili- 
sation ?  The  expedition  shared  in  by 
Mr  Weme  is  an  argument  in  favour 
of  the  hypothesis.  It  originated  in 
appetite  for  lucre,  not  in  thirst  for 
knowledge.  Mehemet  All,  viceroy  of 
Egypt,  finding  the  lands  within  his 
control  unable  to  meet  his  lavish  ex- 
penditure and  constant  cry  for  gold, 
projected  working  mines  supposed  to 
exist  in  the  distncts  of  Eordovan  and 
Fazogl.  At  heavy  cost  he  procured 
Austrianminers  from  Trieste,  a  portion 
of  whom  proceeded  in  1886  to  the 
land  of  promise,  to  open  those  veins 
of  gold  whence  it  was  reported  the  old 
Venetian  ducats  had  been  extracted. 
Already,  in  imagination,  the  viceroy 
beheld  an  ingot-laden  fleet  safling 
merrily  down  the  Nile.  Ho  was  dis- 
appointed in  his  glowing  expectations. 
Russegger,  the  German  chief  of  the 
expediuon,  pocketed  the  pay  of  a  Bey, 
ate  and  drank  in  conformity  with  his 
rank,  rambled  about  the  country,  and 
wrote  a  book  for  the  amusement  and 
information  of  his  countrymen.  Then 
he  demanded  thirty  thousand  dollars 
to  begin  the  works.  An  Italian,  who 
had  accompanied  him,  offered  to  do 
it  for  loss ;  mistrust  and  disputes  arose. 


and  at  last  their  employer  would  rely 
on  neither  of  them,  but  resolved  to  go 
and  see  for  himself.  This  was  in  the 
autumn  of  1888;  and  it  might  well  be 
that  the  old  fox  was  not  sorry  to  get 
out  of  the  way  of  certain  diplomatic 
personages  at  Alexandria,  ana  thus  to 
postpone  for  a  while  his  reply  to 
troublesome  inquiries  and  demands. 

«*  It  was  on  the  15th  October  1838," 
Mr  Weme  says,  "  that  I— for  some 
time  past  an  anchorite  in  the  wilder- 
ness by  Tura,  and  just  returned  from  a 
hunt  in  the  ruins  of  Memphis — saw, 
from  the  left  shore  of  the  Nile,  the 
Abu  Dagn,  (Father  of  the  Beard,)  as 
Mohammed  All  was  designated  to  me 
by  a  Fellah  standing  by,  steam  past 
in  his  yacht,  in  the  direction  of  those 
regions  to  which  I  would  then  so 
S^adly  have  proceeded.  Already  in 
Alexandria  X  had  gathered,  over  a 
glass  of  wine,  from  frigate-cap- 
tain Achmet,  (a  Swiss,  named  Baum- 
spirtner,)  the  secret  plan  of  the  expe* 
dition  to  the  White  Stream,  (Bach'r 
el  Abiat,)  and  I  had  made  every  effort 
to  obtain  leave  to  join  it,  but  in  vdn, 
because,  as  a  Christian,  my  discretion 
was  not  to  be  depended  upon." 

The  Swiss,  whom  some  odd  caprice 
of  fate,  here  unexplained,  had  con- 
verted into  an  Egyptian  naval  cap- 
tdn,  and  to  whom  the  scientific  duties 
of  the  expedition  were  confided,  died 
in  the  following  spring,  and  his  place 
was  taken  by  Captm  Selim.  Mr 
Weme  and  his  brother,  who  had  long 
ardently  desired  to  accompanv  one  of 
these  expeditions  up  the  Nile,  were 
greatly  discouraged  at  this  change, 
which  they  look^  upon  as  destrac- 
tive  to  thcSr  hopes.  At  the  town  of 
Ghartum,  at  the  confluence  of  the 
White  and  Blue  streams,  they  wit- 
nessed, in  the  month  of  November 
1889,  the  departure  of  the  flrst 
flotilla ;  and,  although  sick  and  weak, 
from  the  effects  of  the  climate,  their 
hearts  were  wrung  with  regret  at 
being  left  behind.  This  expedition 
got  no  further  than  6'  85'  N.  L. ;  al- 
though, either  from  mistakes  in  their 
astronomical  reckoning  or  wishing  to 
give  themselves  more  importance,  and 
not  anticipating  that  others  would 
soon  follow  to  check  their  statements, 
they  pretended  to  have  gone  three 
decrees  ftirther  south.  But  Mehemet 
An,  not  satisfied  with  the  result  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  White  Nik. 


411 


thdr  voyage,  immediatdy  ordered  a 
second  expedition  to  be  fitted  out. 
Mr  Weme,  who  is  a  most  adventn- 
rons  person,  had  been  for  several 
months  in  the  Taka  country,  in  a 
district  previously  untrodden  by 
Europeans,  with  an  army  commanded 
by  Achmet  Bascha,  governor-general 
of  Sudan,  who  was  operating  against 
some  rebellious  trib^.  Here  news 
reached  him  of  the  projected  expedi- 
tion; and,  to  his  great  joy,  he  ob- 
tained from  Achmet  permission  to 
accompany  it  in  the  quality  of  pas- 
senger. His  brother,  then  body- 
physician  to  the  Bascha,  could  not  be 
spared,  by  reason  of  the  great  mor- 
tality in  the  camp. 

At  Chartum  the  waters  were  high, 
the  wind  was  favourable,  and  all  was 
readv  for  a  start  early  in  October,  but 
for  the  non-iq)pearance  of  two  French 
engineers,  who  lingered  six  weeks  in 
Korusko,  under  one  pretext  or  other, 
but  in  reality,  Mr  Weme  a£Snns, 
because  one  of  them,  Amaud  by 
name,  who  has  since  written  an  ac- 
count of  the  expedition,  was  desirous 
to  prolong  the  receipt  of  his  pay  as 
bimbasM^  or  mirior,  which  rank  he 
temp<muily  held  m  the  Egyptian  ser- 
vice. At  last  he  and  his  companion, 
Sabatier,  arrived :  on  the  23d  Novem- 
ber 1840  a  start  was  made ;  and,  on 
that  day  Mr  Weme  began  a  journal, 
regularly  kept,  and  most  minute  in  its 
details,  which  he  continued  till  the22d 
April  1841,  the  date  of  his  return  to 
Chartum.  He  commences  by  stating 
the  composition  of  the  expedition. 
*'It  consists  of  four  dahabies  from 
Kahira,  (vessels  with  two  masts  and 
with  cabins,  about  a  hundred  feet  long, 
and  twelve  to  fifteen  broad,)  eadi 
with  two  cannon ;  three  dahabies  from 
Chartum,  one  of  which  has  also  two 
guns:  then  two  kaias,  one-masted 
vessels,  to  carry  goods,  and  a  simdal, 
or  skifi;  for  intercommunication ;  the 
crews  are  composed  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  solmers,  (Negroes,  Egyp- 
tians, and  Surians,)  and  a  hunc&ed 
and  twenty  sailors  and  boatmen  from 
Alexandria,  Nubia,  and  the  land  of 
Sudim."  SoUman  fiLaschef  (a  Circas- 
sian of  oonsiden^le  energy  and  cou- 
rage, who,  like  Mr  Weme  himself, 
was  i»rotected  by  Achmet  Bascha) 
commanded  the  troops.  Captain 
Selim  had  charge  of  the  ships,  and  a 

VOL.  UCV. — NO.  COCXCIX. 


sort  of  general  direction  of  the  ex- 
pedition, of  which,  however,  Soliman 
was  the  virtual  chief  ;  the  second 
captain  was  Feizulla  Effendi  of  Con- 
stantinople; the  other  officers  were 
two  Kurds,  a  Russian,  an  Albanian, 
and  a  Persian.  Of  Europeans,  there 
were  the  two  Frenchmen,  already 
mentioned,  as  engineers  ;  a  third, 
named  Tliibaut,  as  collector;  and 
Mr  Weme,  as  an  independent  pas- 
senger at  his  own  charges.  The 
ships  were  to  follow  each  other  in 
two  lines,  one  led  by  Soliman,  the 
other  by  Selim ;  but  this  order  of 
sailing  was  abandoned  the  veiy  first 
day ;  and  so,  indeed,  was  nearly  all 
order  of  every  kind.  Each  man  sailed 
his  bark  as  he  pleased,  without  nauti- 
cal skill  or  unity  of  movement ;  and, 
as  to  one  general  and  energetic  super- 
vision of  the  whole  flotilla  and  its 
progress,  no  one  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing.  Mr  Weme  indulged  in  gloomy 
reflections  as  to  the  probable  results 
of  an  enterprise,  at  whose  very  outset 
such  want  of  zeal  and  dlsciptine  was 
dif^layed.  It  does  not  appear  to 
have  strack  him  that  not  the  least 
of  his  dangers  upon  the  strange  voy^-^ 
age  he  had  so  eagerly  undertaken, 
was  [from  his  shipmates,  many  of 
them  bigoted  Mahometans  and  reck- 
less, ferocious  fellows,  ready  with  the 
Imifo,  and  who  would  have  thought 
little  of  burthening  their  conscience 
with  so  small  a  matter  as  a  Chris- 
tian's blood.  He  is  evidently  a  cool, 
courageous  man,  prompt  in  action; 
and  ms  knowledge  of  the  slavish, 
treacherous  character  of  the  people 
he  had  to  deal  with,  doubtless  taught 
him  the  best  line  of  conduct  to  pursue 
with  thran.  This,  as  appears  from 
various  passases  of  his  joumal,  was 
the  rough  and  ready  style — a  blow 
for  the  slightest  impertinence,  and  his 
arms,  which  he  well  knew  how  to  use, 
always  at  hand.  He  did  not  scrapie 
to  interfere  when  he  saw  craelty  or 
oppression  practised,  and  soon  he 
made  himself  respected,  if  not  feared, 
b^  all  on  board;  so  much  so,  that 
Feizulla,  the  captain  of  the  vessel  in 
which  he  sailed,  a  dranken  old  Turk, 
who  passed  his  time  in  drinking  spirits 
and  mending  his  own  dotJ^es,  ap- 
pointed him  his  iocum  tenens  during 
his  occasional  absences  on  shore. 
During  his  five  months*  voyage,  Mv 

D 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


50 


The  WhiUNOe. 


[J«L 


Werne  had  a  fine  opporttmitj  of 
stadjing  the  pecnliarities  of  tbe  dif- 
ferent nations  with  individnalfl  of 
whidi  he  sailed ;  and,  althongh  his 
long  residence  in  AMca  and  the  East 
had  made  him  regard  such  matters 
with  comparative  indifferenoe,  the 
occasional  glimpses  he  gives  of  Turk- 
ish and  Egyptian  habits  are  aotongst 
the  most  interesting  passages  in  his 
book.  Already,  on  the  third  day  of 
the  voyage,  the  expiration  of  the 
Rhamadan,  or  fasting  month,  and  the 
setting  in  of  the  little  feast  of  Bairam, 
gave  rise  to  a  singnlar  scene.  The 
flotilla  was  passing  through  the  coon- 
try  governed  by  Achmet  Bascha,  in 
whidi  Soliman  was  a  man  of  great 
importance.  By  his  desure,  a  heird  of 
oxen  and  a  large  flock  of  i^e^  were 
driven  down  to  tha  diore,  for  the  nse 
of  the  expedition.  The  preference 
was  for  the  matt<m,  the  beef  in  those 
r^ions  being  usually  toni^  and  coarse, 
and  consequently  despised  by  the 
Turks.  ^^  This  qualitv  of  the  meat  is 
owing  to  the  nature  of  the  fodder,  the 
tender  grass  and  herbs  of  our  marsh- 
lands and  pastures  being  here  un- 
known— and  to  the  climate,  which 
hardens  the  animal  texture,  a  fact 
perceived  by  the  surgeon  when  opera- 
ting upon  the  human  body.  Our 
Arabs,  who,  like  the  Greeks  and  Jews, 
bom  butchers  and  flayers,  know  no 
mercy  with  beasts  or  mea,  fell  upon 
the  unfortunate  animals,  hamstrung 
them  in  all  haste,  to  obviate  any 
chance  of  resumption  of  the  gift,  a»d 
the  hecatomb  simk  upon  the  ground, 
pitiful  to  behold.  During  the  flay- 
ing and  quartering,  every  man  tried 
to  secrete  a  sippet  of  meat,  cot- 
^g  it  off  by  stealth,  or  stealing  it 
from  the  back  of  the  bearers.  These 
coveted  morsehi  were  stuck  upon 
skewers,  broiled  at  the  nearest  watch- 
fire,  and  ravenouslv  devoured,  to  pre- 
pare the  stomach  for  the  approaching 
banquet.  Although  they  know  how 
to  cook  the  liver  exceilently  well,  upon 
this  occasion  they  preferred  eating  it 
raw,  eirt  up  in  a  wooden  dish,  aad 
with  the  gall  of  the  slan^tered  beast 
poured  over  it  Thus  prepared,  and 
eaten  with  salt  and  pq)Der,  it  hae 
much  ^e  flavour  of  a  good  raw  beef- 
steak.'' The  celebration  of  the  Bairam 
was  a  scene  of  gluttony  and  gross 
levelry.    Arrack  was  served  oil  in- 


stead of  tiie  customary  ration  of  coffoe; 
and  many  a  Mussulman  drank  more 
than  did  him  good,  or  than  the  Pro- 
phet's law  aUows.  In  the  night.  Cap- 
tain Feiaolla  tumbled  out  of  bed  ; 
and,  having  spoiled  his  snbordinatea 
by  over-indulgenoe*  not  one  of  ttom 
stirred  to  his  assistance.  Mr  Werne 
]Mcked  him  up,  found  him  in  an  eiH- 
leptic  fit,  and  learned,  with  no  great 
ideasnre,  Feiaolla  being  his  cabin- 
mate,  that  the  thursty  skipper  was 
subject  to  such  attacks.  He  foresaw 
a  comfortless  voyage  on  board  the 
narrow  bark,  and  with  such  queer 
oompanions ;  bat  the  daily  increasing 
interest  of  the  scenery  and  surround- 
ing objects  again  distracted  his 
thoughts  firom  consideratLons  of  per-^ 
sonal  ease.  He  had  greater  difficult 
in  reconciling  himsdf  to  the  negli- 
gence and  indolence  of  his  associates. 
So  long  as  food  was  abundant  and 
work  scanty,  all  went  well  enough ; 
but  when  liquor  ran  low,  and  the 
flesh-pots  of  Egypt  were  empty, 
grumbling  began,  and  the  thoughts  of 
the  miyority  were  fixed  upon  a  speedy 
return.  Their  chiefs  set  them  a  poor 
exan^^.  Soliman  Eascbef  lav  in 
bed  till  an  hour  after  sunrise,  and  the 
signal  to  sail  could  not  be  given  till 
he  awoke ;  and  Feianlia,  when  his 
and  Mr  Weme's  stock  of  brandy  was 
out,  passed  one  half  his  time  in  dis- 
tilling spints  firom  stale  dates,  and  the 
other  moiety  m  getting  intoxicated  on 
the  turbid  extract  Uius  obtained. 
Thai  the  offieers  had  female  slaves  on 
board ;  and  there  was  a  Hcensed 
jester,  Abu  Hasdiis,  who  supplied 
the  expedition  with  buffoonery  and 
ribaldry ;  and  the  most  odtons  prac- 
tices prevailed  amongst  the  crews; 
for  fmther  details  ooneeming  aU  which 
matteis  we  refer  the  cnzious  to  Mr 
Werne  himself.  A  more  singularly 
oompoeed  esqpedition  was  perhaps 
never  fitted  01^  JUfxt  one  less  adapted 
effidctnally  to  perform  the  services  re- 
qmredofit  Cleanlinees  and  sobriety, 
so  incnmbent  upon  men  co<9ed  up  in 
small  craft,  in  a  climate  teraing  with 
pestilence  and  vermin,  were  lictie  re- 
garded -,  and  snbordinaftMn  and  visi- 
hnce,  essential  to  safety  amidst  Uie 
perils  of  an  unknown  navigatlen,  and 
in  the  dose  vidaity  of  bostue  savages, 
were  ntteriy  neg^ectedt— at  first  to  tiie 
great  laeasinessofMrWeiBe.    Bat 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


TkB  WkiieNOt. 


51 


after  a  whiles  flMm^  bo  cbaace  of 
aaesdaeDi,  and  hayiog  no  power  to 
rd^nka  or  connect  deficiencies,  he  re- 
peated tbe  eternal  ^^AiA^erwi/  (God 
ia  meroif al)  of  his  lutaliafe  ahipm^^s, 
aad  alept  aoundly,  wken  the  mosqaitoa 
penMtted,  under  the  good  gnard  of 
Pnmdence. 

On  tha  29th  Horemher,  tdie  ezpe* 
diti<Hi  pasaed  the  limit  of  Torco- 
Egyptian  domination.  The  land  ii 
had  now  reached  piud  no  triboie. 
*'  All  flUret,"  was  the  reply  of  Torks 
and  Arabs  to  Mr  Werners  inquiry  who 
the  inhabitants  were.  ^^  I  conld  not 
help  laaghing,  and  proving  to  them, 
to  their  great  vexation,  that  these 
men  were  free,  aad  mach  less  slaves 
.than  themselves ;  that  before  making 
alaves  of  them,  they  most  first  make 
them  prisonem,  a  process  for  which 
thay  had  no  particnLur  fancy, — ad^ 
mittfaig,  with  much  ruOveU,  that  the 
^slaves'  hereaboot  were  both  name- 
rons  and  brave.  This  contemptoonaly 
apokeniCidb  Abit,  (All  slaves,)  is  aboot 
oqoivalent  to  tha  ^  barbarian*  of  the 
anciaita-~the  same  classical  word  the 
modem  Greeks  have  learned  out  of 
foreign  sdiool-books." 

^  The  trees  and  branches  preventing 
oar  vessels  from  lying  alongside  the 
bank,  I  had  myself  caiiied  through  the 
water,  to  examine  the  coontry  and  get 
some  shooting.  Bat  I  ooold  not  m&e 
op  my  mind  to  use  my  gon,  the  only 
animals  to  aim  at  being  large,  long- 
tailed,  silv^-gray  apes.  I  hstd  shot 
one  on  a  former  occasion,  and  the 
brote  had  greatly  excited  my  com- 
pasaion  by  his  resemblance  to  a  hmnan 
bemg,  and  by  his  piteous  gestures. 
M.  Amand,  on  the  oontnury,  took 
particular  pleasnre  in  making  the 
rq>eated  observation  that,  on  the  ap- 
proach of  death,  the  gams  of  these 
beasts  torn  white,  like  those  of  a  dying 
man.  They  live  in  families  of  several 
bnndreds  together,  and  their  territory 
is  very  oircumscribed,  even  in  the 
forest,  as  I  myself  sabseqaently  aso^ - 
tained.  AUhon^  fearful  of  water,  and 
ewimming  unwillin^y,  they  always 
fled  to  the  branches  overtianging  the 
river,  and  not  unfireqaently  fell  in. 
When  this  occnrred,  their  first  care 
on  emerging  was  to  wq>e  the  water 
from  thek  fruses  and  ears.  However 
immtmant  ^eir  danger,  onl^  when  this 
iifieratiiMi  was  completed  did  thej 


agiia  climb  the  trees.  Such  a  nKmkey 
republic  is  really  a  droll  enough  sight ; 
its  members  alternately  fighting  and 
caressing  eadi  other,  combing  and 
vennin-hunting,  stealing  and  boxing 
each  other's  ears,  and,  in  the  mid^  of 
ail  these  important  oecnpalions,  ran- 
nmg  down  every  moment  to  drink, 
bat  contenting  themselves  with  a 
sin^^  draught,  for  foar  of  becoming  a 
mou^ol  for  the  watchful  crocodile. 
The  tame  monkeys  on  board  our 
vessels  turned  restless  at  sight  of  the 
joyous  vagabond  life  of  their  brethren 
in  the  bush.  First-lieutenant  Hussein 
Aga,  of  Kurdistan,  lay  alongside  us, 
and  was  in  raptures  with  his  monkey, 
shouting  over  to  me :  ^Scbuf!  el  naiiii 
uabr  (Seel  the  clever  sailor  I)  — 
meaning  his  pet  ape,  whidi  ran  about 
the  rigging  like  mad,  banging  on  by 
the  ropes,  and  looking  over  the  bnl* 
warics  into  the  water;  until  at  last  he 
jumped  on  the  back  <^  a  sailor  who 
was  wading  on  shore  with  dirty  linen 
to  wash,  and  thence  made  a  spring 
upon  land  to  visit  his  relations,  com- 
pared to  whom,  however,  he  was  a 
mere  dwarf.  Overboard  went  the 
long  Kurd,  with  his  gun,  to  shoot  the 
deserter;  but  doubtless  the  little 
seaman,  in  his  capaoity  of  Turidsh 
slave,  and  on  account  of  his  diminu- 
tive figure,  met  a  bad  reception,  for 
Hussein  wss  no  sooner  under  ^e  trees 
than  his  monkey  drc^ped  upon  his 
head.  He  came  to  visit  me  after- 
wards, brought  his  *  na^ti  taib*  with 
him,  and  told  me,  what  I  had  often 
heard  before,  how  apes  were  formerly 
men,  whom  God  had  cursed.  It 
really  is  written  in  the  Koran  that 
God  and  the  prophet  David  had 
turned  into  monkeys  the  Jews  who 
did  not  keep  the  Sabbath  holy.  There- 
fore a  good  Moslem  will  sddom  kiU 
or  injure  a  monkey,  fimin  Bey  of 
Fasogl  was  an  exception  to  this  rule. 
Bitting  at  table  with  an  Italian,  and 
about  to  thrust  into  his  mouth  a  frag- 
ment of  roast  meat,  his  monkey 
snatched  it  from  between  his  thumb 
and  fingers.  Whereupon  the  Bey 
quietly  ordered  the  robber's  hand  to 
be  cut  ofl^  which  was  instantly  done. 
The  pow  monkey  came  to  his  cruel 
master  and  showed  him,  with  his 
peculiariy  doleful  whme,  the  stomp  of 
his  fore-paw.  The  Bey  gave  orders 
to  kill  him,  but  the  Italian  begged  him 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


62 


The  WkUeNHe. 


[Jair. 


as  a  gift.  Soon  afterwards  the  foolish 
bmte  came  into  my  possession,  and, 
on  my  jonmey  back  to  Egypt,  contri* 
bnted  almost  as  much  to  cheer  me,  as 
did  the  filial  attentions  of  my  freed  man 
Hagar,  whom  my  brother  had  received 
as  a  present,  and  had  bequeathed  to 
me.  My  servants  would  not  beUeve 
but  that  the  monkey  was  a  trans- 
formed gobir^  or  caravan  golde,  since 
even  in  the  desert  he  was  always  in 
front  and  upon  the  right  road,  avail- 
ing himself  of  every  rock  and  hUlock 
to  look  about  him,  until  the  birds  of 
prey  again  drove  him  under  the  camels, 
to  complain  to  me  with  his  ^  Oehm- 
oehm;*  which  was  also  his  custom 
when  he  had  been  beaten  in  my  ab- 
sence by  the  servants,  whose  merissa 
Ta  sort  of  spirit)  he  would  steal  and 
orink  till  he  could  neither  go  nor 
stand.'' 

During  this  halt,  and  whilst  ram- 
bling along  the  bank,  picking  up  river  • 
oysters  and  tracing  the  monstrous 
footsteps  of  hippopotami,  Mr  Weme 
nearly  walked  mto  the  jaws  of  the 
largest  crocodile  he  had  ever  seen. 
His  Turkish  servant,  Sale,  who  at- 
tended him  on  such  occasions  and 
carried  his  rifle,  was  not  at  hand,  and 
he  was  glad  to  beat  a  rotreat,  dls- 
ehardng  one  of  his  barrels,  both  of 
whi<m  wero  laden  with  shot  only,  in 
the  monster's  face.  On  being  scolded 
for  his  absence.  Sale  very  coolly  ro- 
plied,  that  it  was  not  safe  so  near 
shoro ;  for  that  several  times  it  had 
occurred  to  him,  whilst  gazing  up  in 
the  trees  at  the  bhrds  and  monkeys, 
to  find  himself,  on  a  sudden,  face  to 
face  with  a  crocodUe,  which  stared  at 
him  like  a  ghost,  (Scheltan,  Satan,) 
and  which  he  dared  not  shoot,  lest  he 
should  slay  his  own  father.  Amongst 
the  numerous  Mahommedan  supersti- 
tions, there  is  a  common  belief  in  the 
transformation,  by  witches  and  sor- 
cerers, of  men  into  beasts,  especially 
kto  crocodiles  and  hippopotami. 

*^  Towards  evening,  cartridffes  were 
served  out  and  muskets  loaded,  for  we 
wero  now  in  a  hostile  county.  The 
powder-magazine  stood  open,  and 
lighted  pipes  passed  to  and  fit>  over 
the  hatchway.  AUah  Keriml  I  do 
my  best  to  rouse  mv  captain  frt>m  his 
indolence,  bv  drawing  constant  com- 
parisons with  the  English  sea-service; 
then  I  M  aaleep  myself  ^Hiilst  the 


powder  is  being  distributed,  and,  wak- 
mg  early  in  the  morning,  find  the 
magazine  stUl  open,  and  the  sentry, 
whose  duty  it  is  to  give  an  alarm 
should  the  water  in  the  hold  increase 
overmuch,  fast  asleep,  with  his  to- 
bacco-pipe in  his  hand  and  his  musket 
in  his  lap.  Feizulla  Capitan  beged 
me  not  to  report  the  poor  devil."  ^lis 
being  a  fair  specimen  of  the  prudence 
and  discipline  observed  during  the 
whole  voyage,  it  is  really  surprising 
that  Mr  Werne  ever  returned  to  write 
its  history,  and  that  his  corpse^ 
drowned,  blown  up,  or  with  a  kniie 
between  the  ribs — has  not  long  since 
been  resolved  into  the  elements  through 
the  medium  of  a  Nile  crocodile.  l£e 
next  day  the  meroifhl  Feizulla,  whose 
kindness  must  have  sprung  from  a 
fellow-feeling,  got  mad-drunk  at  a 
merry-making  on  an  island,  and  had 
to  be  brought  by  force  on  board  his 
ship.  He  seemed  disposed  to  "run 
amuck;"  msped  at  sabre  and  pistols, 
and  put  his  people  in  fear  of  their 
lives,  until  Mr  Werne  seized  him  neck 
and  heels,  threw  him  on  his  bed,  and 
held  him  there  whilst  he  struggled 
himself  weary  and  fell  asleep.  The 
ship's  company  were  loud  in  praise 
and  admiration  of  Mr  Werne,  who, 
however,  was  not  quite  eai^  as  to  the 
possible  results  of  his  bold  interfe- 
rence. "  Only  yesterday,  I  incurred 
the  hatred  of  the  roughest  of  our 
Effyptian  sailors,  as  he  sat  with  an- 
other at  the  hand-mill,  and  repeatedly 
applied  to  his  companion  the  word 
Nasrani^  (Christian,)  usinff  it  as  a 
term  of  insult,  until  the  whole  crew 
came  and  looked  down  into  the  cabin 
where  I  sat,  and  laughed— the  captain 
not  being  on  board  at  the  time.  At 
last  I  lost  my  patience,  jumped  up, 
and  dealt  the  fellow  a  severe  blow 
with  my  fist.  In  his  £uiatical  horror 
at  being  struck  by  a  Christian,  he 
tried  to  throw  himself  overboard,  and 
vowed  revenge,  which  my  servants 
told  me.  Now,  whilst  Feizulla  Oapi- 
tan  lies  senseless,  I  see  from  my  1^ 
this  tall  sailor  leave  the  fore-part  of 
the  ship  and  iq)proach  our  cabin,  his 
oomraaes  Mowing  him  with  their 
eves.  From  a  frmatic,  who  might  put 
his  own  construction  upon  my  recent 
fiiendlv  constraint  of  Cq>tainFeizulla, 
and  miight  convert  it  into  a  pretext,  I 
had  everything  to  iqtprehend.    But 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  White  NiU. 


53 


be  paused  at  the  door,  apologised,  and 
thanked  me  for  not  having  reported 
him  to  his  commander.  He  then 
kissed  my  right  hand,  whilst  in  my 
left  I  held  a  pistol  concealed  under 
the  blanket." 

Dangers,  annoyances,  and  squabbles 
did  not  prevent  Mr  Weme  firom  writ- 
ing np  his  log,  and  making  minnte 
obeeirations  of  the  sniroandlng 
scenery.  This  was  of  ever-yarying 
character.  Thickly -wooded  banks 
were  snoceeded  by  a  sea  of  grass,  its 
monotony  nnvaried  by  a  single  bosh. 
Thra  came  a  crowd  of  islands,  com-^ 
oosed  of  water-planta,  knit  together 
by  creepers  and  parasites,  and  alter- 
nately anchored  to  the  shore,  or  float- 
ing flJbwly  down  the  stream,  whose 
sluggish  current  was  often  impercep- 
tible. The  extraordinary  freshness 
and  luxuriance  of  the  yegetable  crea- 
tion in  that  i^on  of  combined  heat 
and  mdsture,  excited  Mr  Werners 
enthusiastic  admiration.  At  times  he 
saw  himself  surrounded  by  a  vast 
tapestry  of  flowers,  waving  for  miles 
in  eyery  direction,  and  of  countless 
Tarieties  of  tint  and  form.  Upon  land 
were  bowers  and  hills  of  blossom, 
groves  of  dark  mimosa  and  gold- 
gleaming  tamarind ;  upon  the  water 
and  swamps,  interminable  carpets  of 
lilac  convolvulus,  water-lilies,  flower- 
ing-reeds, and  red,  blue,  and  white 
lotas.  The  ambak  tree,  with  its  large 
yellow  flowers  and  acacia-like  leu, 
rose  fifteen  feet  and  more  aboye  the 
surface  of  the  water  out  of  which  it 
grew.  This  singular  plant,  a  sort  of 
link  between  the  forest-tree  and  the 
leed  of  the  marshes,  has  its  root  in 
the  bed  of  the  NQe,  with  which  it  each 
year  rises,  surpassing  it  in  swiftness 
of  growth.  Its  stem  is  of  a  soft 
i^ungy  nature,  more  like  the  pith  of 
«tree  than  like  wood,  but  having, 
seyertheless,  a  pith  of  its  own.  The 
lotus  was  one  of  the  most  striking 
features  in  these  scenes  of  floral  mag- 
<iiific6nce ;  its  brilliant  white  flower, 
whkh  opens  as  the  sun  rises,  and 
idoees  when  it  sets,  beaming,  like  a 
double  lily,  in  the  shade  it  prefers. 
Mr  Weme  made  the  interesting  ob- 
servadon,  that  this  beautiful  flower, 
where  it  had  not  some  kind  of  shelter, 
dosed  when  the  sun  approached  the 
senith,  as  though  unable  to  endure 
Ae  too  ardent  rays  of  the  luminary 


that  called  it  into  life.  Details  of  this 
kind,  and  fragments  of  eloquent  de- 
scription of  the  goi^geous  scenery  of 
the  Nile  banks,  occur  frequently  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  *^  Expedition," 
during  which  there  was  little  inter- 
course with  the  natives,  who  were 
dther  hostile,  uninteresting,  or  con- 
cealed. Amongst  other  reasons  for 
not  remaining  long  near  shore,  and 
especially  for  not  anchoring  there  at 
night,  was  the  torture  the  voyagers 
experienced  from  gnats,  camd-mes, 
and  small  wasps,  which  not  only  for- 
bade deep,  but  rendered  it  dmost  im- 
posdble  to  eat  and  drink.  To  escape 
this  worse  than  Egyptian  plague, 
the  yessels  lay  in  the  middle  of  the 
river,  which,  for  some  time  after  their 
departure,  was  often  three  or  four 
miles  across.  When  the  breeze  was 
fresh,  there  was  some  relief  frx)m  in- 
sect persecution,  but  a  lull  made  the 
attacks  insupportable.  Doubtless  a 
European  complexion  encouraged 
these.  Our  Gmnan  lifts  up  his 
yoice  in  agony  and  mdediction. 

**The  10th  December.— A  dead 
calm  all  nisht.  Gnats ! !  I  No  use 
creeping  under  the  bed-dothes,  at  risk 
of  stifling  with  heat,  compelled  as  one 
is  by  their  penetrating  sting  to  go  to 
bed  dressed.  Leave  only  a  little  hole  to 
breathe  at,  and  in  they  pour,  attack- 
ing lips,  nose,  and  ears,  and  forcing 
themselves  into  the  throat — thus 
provoking  a  cough  which  is  torture, 
since,  at  each  inspiration,  a  fresh 
swarm  finds  its  way  into  the  gullet. 
They  penetrate  to  the  most  sensitive 
parts  of  the  body,  creeping  in,  like 
ants,  at  the  smallest  aperture.  In 
the  morning  my  bed  contained  thou- 
sands of  the  small  demons  which  I  had 
crushed  and  smothered  by  the  per- 
petual rolling  about  of  my  martyred 
body.  As  I  had  forgotten  to  bring  a 
musquito  net  from  Chartum,  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  submisdon. 
Ndther  had  I  thought  of  providing 
myself  with  leather  gloves,  unbearable 
in  that  hot  dimate,  but  which  here, 
upon  the  Nile,  would  have  been  by 
far  the  lesser  evil,  since  I  was  com- 
pelled to  have  a  servant  oppodte  to 
me  at  supper-time,  waving  a  huge  fan 
so  dose  under  mv  nose,  that  it  was 
necessary  to  watdi  my  opportunity  to 
get  the  K>od  to  my  mouUi.  One  could 
not  smoke  one's  pipe  in  peace,  even 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


54 


TkeWhUeNtU. 


[Js 


though  keei^g  one's  hands  wrapped 
in  a  wooUen  bnmons,  for  the  Termin 
stnng  throngfa  this,  and  crept  np  under 
it  fr^  the  gnmnd.  The  black  and 
coloured  men  on  board  were  equallj 
iU*treated;  and  all  night  long  the  w<»d 
^  Bauda '  resounded  uirouffh  the  ship, 
with  an  accompaniment  or  curses  and 
flapping  of  doths.  The  banuia  re- 
semble onr  long-legged  gnats,  but 
have  a  longer  proboscis,  with  which 
they  bore  through  a  triple  fold  of 
strong  linen.  Their  head  ia  Uue,  thehr 
back  tawny,  aind  their  legs  are  covered 
with  white  specks  like  smi^  pearls,  * 
Another  sort  has  short,  strong  legs,  a 
thick  brown  body,  a  red  head,  and 
posteriors  of  varying  hues/'  These 
parti- coloured  and  persevering  blood- 
suckers caused  boils  by  the  severity  of 
their  sting,  and  so  exhausted  the 
sailors  by  depriving  them  of  sleep, 
that  the  ships  cotAd  hardly  be  worked. 
Bitterly  and  frequently  does  Mr 
Weme  recur  to  hie  sufferings  from 
theirrutbless  attacks.  Atlast  a  strange 
auxiliary  came  to  his  relief,  (hi 
Christmas-day  he  writes : — "  For  the 
last  two  nights  we  have  been  greatly 
disturbed  by  the  gnats,  but  a  small 
cat,  which  I  have  not  yet  seen  by  day- 
light, seems  to  find  particular  pleasure 
in  lickmg  my  face,  pulfing  my  beard, 
and  purring  continually,  thus  keeping 
off  the  insects.  Generally  the  cats  in 
Bellet-Sudan  are  of  a  very  wild  and 
fierce  nature,  which  seems  the  result 
of  their  indMFerent  treatment  by  the 
inhabitants.  They  walk  into  the 
poultry-houses  and  cany  off  the 
strongest  fowls,  but  care  little  for  ratB 
and  mice.  The  Barabras,  especially 
those  of  Dongola,  often  eat  them;  not 
so  the  Arabs,  who  spare  them  perse- 
cution— the  cat  havlngbeen  one  of  Ma- 
homet's favourite  animals— but  who, 
at  the  same  time,  hold  them  unclean." 
There  is  assuredly  no  river  in  the 
world  whose  banks,  for  so  great  a  dis- 
tance, are  so  thickly  peopled  as  those 
of  the  Nile.  Day  after  day  the  ex- 
pedition passed  an  unbroken  succes- 
sion of  populous  villages,  until  Mr 
Wcme  wondered  whence  the  inhabit- 
ants drew  their  nourishment,  and  a 
sapient  oflScer  from  Kurdistan  opined 
the  Schillnks  to  be  a  greater  nation 
than  the  French.  But  what  people, 
and  what  habitations!  The  former 
scarce  a  degree  above  the  brute,  the 


ktter  resembling  dog-kennels,  or  more 
frequently  thatched  bee-hives,  with  a 
round  hole  in  the  side,  through  which 
the  inmates  creep.  Stark-naked,  these 
savages  lay  in  the  high  grass,  whose 
seed  forms  part  of  their  f<^,  and  gib- 
bered and  beckoned  to  the  passing 
Turks,  who,  for  the  most  part,  disre- 
garded their  gestures  of  amity  and 
invitation,  shrewdly  suspecting  that 
their  intentions  were  treacherous  and 
their  lances  hidden  hi  the  herbage. 
Wild  rice,  finits,  and  seeds,  are  eaten 
by  these  tribes,  (the  Sdiilluks,  Dinkas, 
'and  others,)  who  have  also  herds  of 
cattle— oxen,  sheep,  and  goats,  and 
who  do  not  despise  a  hippopotiunns 
diop  or  a  <»t)codile  cutlet.  Where 
the  land  Is  unproductive,  fish  is 
the  chief  article  of  food.  They  have 
no  horses  or  camels,  and  when  they 
steal  one  of  these  animals  from  the 
Turks,  they  do  not  kill  it,  probaWy 
not  liking  its  flesh,  but  they  put  out 
its  eyes  as  a  punishment  for  having 
brought  the  enemy  into  their  country. 
In  one  hour  Mr  Weme  counted  seven- 
teen villages,  large  or  small;  and 
Soliman  Kaschef  assured  him  the 
Schilluks  numbered  two  millions  of 
souls,  although  it  is  hard  to  say  how 
he  obtained  the  census.  The  Bando 
or  king,  although  dwdling  only  two 
or  three  leagues  from  the  river,  did 
not  show  himself.  He  mistrusted  the 
Tuits,  and  all  night  the  great  war- 
drum  was  heard  to  beat.  His  savage 
majesty  was  quite  right  to  be  on  his 
guard.  "  I  am  well  persuaded,"  says 
Mr  Weme,  '*  that  if  Soliman  Kaschef 
had  once  got  the  dreaded  Bando  of 
the  Schilluks  on  board,  be  would  have 
sailed  away  with  him.  I  read  that  in 
his  face  when  he  was  told  the  Banda 
would  not  appear.  And  gladly  as  I 
would  have  seen  this  negro  sovereign, 
I  rejoiced  that  his  caution  frustrated 
the  projected  shameful  treachery.  He 
had  no  particular  grounds  for  welcom- 
ing the  Mnsselmans,  those  sworn  foes 
of  his  people.  Shortly  before  our 
departure,  he  had  sent  three  ambassa- 
dors to  Chartum,  to  put  him  on  a 
friendly  footing  with  the  Turks,  and 
so  to  check  the  marauding  expeditions 
of  his  Arab  neighbours,  of  Soliman 
Kaschef  amongst  the  rest.  The  three 
Schillnks,  who  could  not  speak  Arabic, 
were  treated  in  the  Divan  with  cus- 
tomary contempt  as  Abit,  (slave?*)  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


STke  WkiUNiU. 


^ 


urere  handed  orer  like  coBunon  men 
to  the  care  of  Sheikh  el  Bdlet  of 
Chartiim.  The  l^eikh^  who  receires 
■o  pi^,  and  peribrms  the  duties  of 
his  office  out  of  fear  rather  tham  for 
the  sake  of  the  honour,  showed  them 
mdi  excellent  hoepitalitj,  that  they 
came  to  vs  Fraaks  and  begged  a  few 
I^astres  to  bay  bread  ana  spirits." 
On  Mr  Weme's  representations  to 
tiie  Effeadi,  or  diief  man  at  Chartvm, 
dreoses  of  honour  (the  cnstomaiy 
inreseDts)  were  prepared  for  them,  bat 
they  denoted  stealthily  by  night ;  and 
their  master,  the  Bando,  was  rery 
indignant  on  learning  the  treatment 
they  hadreoeived. 

A  vast  green  meadow^  a  sort  of  ele- 
phant pastore,  separates  the  SchUlaks 
from  their  neighboars  the  Jengiihs, 
eoBcemini  whom  Mr  Weme  obtained 
some  partocolars  from  a  Tschaoss  or 
sergeant,  named  Marian  of  Monnt 
Habila,  the  son  of  the  Mak  or  King 
(tfthemoontainsof  Nuba.  His  father 
had  been  vanquished  and  murdered 
by  the  Turka|,  and  he  had  been  made 
a  slave.  This  sergeant-prince  was  of 
middle  height,  with  a  black  tatooed 
eoontenance,  and  with  ten  holes  in 
each  ear,  oat  of  which  his  captors  bad 
taken  the  g^  rings.  He  was  a  sen- 
sible, well-behaved  man,  and  had  been 
tidrteen  years  in  the  service,  but  was 
hopeless  of  promotion,  having  none  to 
recommend  him.  Besides  this  man, 
there  were  two  Dinkas  and  a  Jengah 
on  board ;  bat  from  them  it  was  im- 
possible to  extract  inf(mnatlon  with 
TCq)ect  to  the  manners  and  usages  of 
thcdr  coontiymen.  They  hcSd  it 
treachery  to  divulge  such  particulars. 
Many  of  the  soldiers  and  sailors  com- 
poeing  the  expedition  being  natives  of 
tiie  countries  through  whidi  it  sailed, 
^^)rdiensions  of  desertion  were  en- 
tertained, and  partially  realised.  On 
the  80th  December,  whilst  passing 
through  the  friendly  land  of  the  Keks, 
everybody  slept  on  shore,  and  in  the 
Bight  sixteen  men  on  guard  deserted. 
They  were  from  the  distant  country 
of  Nuba,  (a  district  of  Nubia,)  which 
it  seemed  scarcely  possible  they  should 
ever  reach,  with  their  scanty  store  of 
ammunition,  and  exposed  to  the 
assaults  of  hunger,  thirst,  and  hostile 
tribes.  Hussein  Aga  went  after  them 
with  fifty  ferocious  Egyptians,  likely 
to  show  little  mercy  to  the  runaways. 


with  whom,  however,  they  could  not 
come  up.  And  suddenly  the  drums 
beat  to  call  all  hands  on  board,  for 
there  was  a  report  that  all  the  negroes 
were  pluming  escape.  During  this 
halt  Mr  Weme  made  ornithological 
observations,  ascertaining,  amongst 
other  things,  the  species  of  certain 
white  birds,  which  he  had  observed 
sitting  impudently  upon  the  badis  <^ 
the  elephants,  picking  the  vermin  from 
their  thick  hides,  as  crows  do  in  Europe 
from  the  backs  of  pigs.  The  ele- 
phants evidently  disapproved  the  ope- 
ration, and  lashed  with  their  trunks 
at  their  tormentors,  who  then  flew 
away,  but  instantly  returned  to  re- 
commence what  Mr  Weme  calls  their 
"dry  fishing."  These  birds  proved 
to  be  small  herons.  Shortly  before  this, 
a  large  pelican  had  been  shot,  and  its 
crop  was  found  to  contain  twenty-four 
fresh  fish,  the  size  of  herrings.  Its 
gluttony  had  caused  its  death,  the 
weight  it  carried  impeding  its  flight. 
Prodigious  swarms  of  birds  and  water- 
fowl find  their  nourishment  in  the 
White  Stream,  and  upon  its  swampy 
banks.  In  s(Mne  places  the  trees  were 
white  with  their  excrements,  whose 
accumulation  destroyed  vegetable  life. 
There  is  no  lack  of  nourishment  for 
the  feathered  tribes — water  and  earth 
are  prolific  of  vermin.  Millions  of 
^w-worms  glimmer  in  the  mshes, 
the  air  resounds  with  the  shrill  cry  of 
myriads  of  grasshoppers,  and  with  the 
croaking  of  countless  frogs.  But  for 
the  birc&,  which  act  as  scavengers  and 
vermin-destroyers,  those  shores  would 
be  uninhabitable.  Tbe  scorching  sun 
fecundates  the  sluggish  waters  and 
rank  fat  marsh,  causing  a  never-ceas- 
ing birth  of  reptiles  and  insects. 
Monstrous  fish  and  snakes  of  all  sizes 
abound.  Concerning  the  latter,  tbe 
Arabs  have  strange  superstitions. 
They  consider  them  in  some  sort  su- 

geraatund  beings,  having  a  king, 
hach  Maran  by  name,  who  is  sup- 
posed to  dwell  in  Turkish  Kurdidtan, 
not  far  from  Adana,  where  two  villages 
are  exempted  from  tribute  on  condi- 
tion of  supplying  the  snakes  with 
milk.  Abdul-EUlab,  a  Kurd  officer  of 
the  expedition,  had  himself  offered  the 
milk-sacrifice  to  the  snakes ;  and  be 
swore  that  he  had  seen  their  king,  or 
at  any  rate  one  of  his  WohiU,  or  vice- 
gerents, of  whom  his  serpentine  nia- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


^6 


The  White  NOe. 


[Jan. 


jesty  has  many.  He  had  no  sooner 
ponred  his  milky  offering  into  one  of 
the  marble  basins  nature  has  there  hol- 
lowed ont,  than  a  great  snake,  with 
long  hair  npon  its  head,  stepped  ont  of 
a  hole  in  the  rocks  and  drank.  It 
then  retired,  without,  as  in  some 
other  instances,  speaking  to  the  sacri- 
ficer,  a  taciturnity  contritely  attributed 
by  the  latter  to  his  not  having  yet 
entirely  abjured  strong  drinks.  Two 
other  Kurds  vouched  for  the  truth  of 
this  statement,  addmg,  that  the  M<tr<m 
had  a  human  face,  for  that  otherwise 
he  could  not  speak,  and  that  he  never 
showed  himsedf  except  to  a  sultan  or 
to  a  very  holy  man.  To  the  latter 
character  the  said  Abdnl-EUiab  had 
great  pretensions,  and  his  bigotry, 
hypocrisy*  and  constant  quotations 
firom  the  Koran  procured  him  from 
his  irreverent  shipmates,  from  Mr 
Weme  amongst  the  number,  the  nick- 
name of  the  Paradise- Stormer^  it  being 
manifest  that  he  reckoned  on  taking 
by  assault  the  blessed  abode  promised 
by  Mahomet  to  the  faithful.  Pending 
his  admission  to  the  society  of  the 
houris,  he  solaced  himself  with  that  of 
a  young  female  slave,  who  often  ex- 
perienced cruel  treatment  at  the  hands 
of  her  saintly  master.  Having  one 
day  committed  the  heinous  offence  of 
preparing  merissc^  a  strong  drink  made 
from  com,  for  part  of  the  crew,  the 
Kurd,  formerly,  according  to  his  own 
admission,  a  stanch  toper,  beat  her 
with  a  thong  as  she  knelt  half-naked 
npon  the  deck.  "  As  he  did  not  attend 
to  my  calls  from  the  cabin,**  says  Mr 
Weme,  "but  continued  striking  her 
80  furiously  as  to  cut  the  skin  and 
draw  streams  of  blood,  I  jumped  out, 
and  pulled  hun  backwards,  so  that  his 
lep  flew  up  in  the  air.  He  sprang  to 
his  feet,  retreated  to  the  bulwark  of 
the  ship,  drew  his  sabre,  and  shouted, 
with  a  menacing  countenance, 
'Effendil'  instead  of  calling  me 
Kawagi,  which  sipifies  a  merdiant, 
and  is  the  usual  title  for  a  Frank.  I 
had  no  sooner  retnmed  to  the  cabin 
than  he  seized  his  slave  to  throw  her 
overboard,  whereupon  I  caught  up  my 
double-barrel  and  levelled  at  him, 
calling  out,  ^  Ana  oedrup!^  (I  fire.^ 
Thereupon  he  let  the  girl  go,  and  witn 
a  pallid  countenance  protested  she  was 
his  property,  and  he  could  do  as  he 
Jikea   with    her.    Subsequently   he 


complained  of  me  to  the  commandant, 
who,  knowing  his  malicious  and  hypo- 
critical character,  sent  him  on  board 
the  skiff,  to  the  great  delight  of  the 
whole  flotilla.  On  our  retum  to 
Chartum,  he  was  cringing  enough  to 
ask  my  pardon,  and  to  want  to  kiss 
my  hand,  (although  he  was  then  a 
captain)  bcK^use  he  saw  that  the 
Bascha  distinguished  me.  A  few  days 
previously  to  this  squabble,  I  had 
gained  tiie  affection  and  confidence  of 
our  black  soldiers,  one  of  whom,  a 
Tokrari  or  pilgrim  from  Darfur,  had 
quarrelled  with  an  Arab,  and  wounded 
him  with  his  knife.  He  jumped  over- 
board to  drown  himself,  and,  being  un- 
able to  swim,  had  nearly  accomplished 
his  object,  when  he  drifted  to  our  ship 
and  was  lifted  on  board.  They  wanted 
to  make  him  stand  on  his  head,  but  I 
had  him  laid  horizontally  npon  his  side, 
and  began  to  rub  him  with  a  woollen 
cloth,  but  at  first  could  get  no  one  to 
help  me  because  he  was  an  Abit^  a 
slave,  until  I  threatened  the  captain 
he  should  be  made  to  pay  the  Bascha 
for  the  loss  of  his  soldier.  After 
long-continued  rubbing,  the  Tokruri 
gave  signs  of  life,  and  the^  raised  him 
into  a  sitting  posture,  whilst  his  head 
stUl  hung  down.  One  of  the  soldiers, 
who,  as  a  Faki,  pretended  to  be  a  sort 
of  awaker  of  the  dead,  seized  him  from 
behind  under  the  arms,  lifted  him, 
and  let  him  fall  thrice  violently  upon 
his  hinder  end,  shouting  in  his  ear  at 
the  same  time  passages  from  the 
Koran,  to  which  the  Tokruri  at  last 
replied  by  similar  quotations.  The 
superstition  of  these  people  is  so  gross, 
that  they  believe  such  a  pilgrim  may 
be  completely  and  thoroughly  drowned, 
and  yet  retain  power  to  float  to  any 
part  of  the  shore  he  pleases,  and,  once 
on  dry  land,  to  resume  his  vitality." 

A  credulous  traveller  would  have 
been  misled  by  some  of  the  Strang 
fables  put  forward,  with  mat  plausi- 
bility, by  these  Arabs  andf  other  semi- 
savages,  who  have,  moreover,  a  strong 
tendency  to  exaggerate,  and  who, 
perceiving  the  avidity  with  which  Mr 
Weme  investigated  the  animal  and 
vegetable  world  around  him,  and  his 
desire  for  rare  and  curious  specimens, 
occasionally  got  up  a  lie  for  his  benefit. 
Although  kept  awake  many  nights  by 
the  merciless  midges,  his  zeal  for 
science  would  not  suffer  him  to  sleep 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


ThtWhiUNUe. 


67 


in  the  day,  because  be  bad  no  one  he 
.  conldtnut  to  note  the  windings  of  the 
river.  One  sultry  noon,  however, 
when  the  Arab  rowers  were  lazily 
impelling  the  craft  against  nnfovonr- 
able  breezes,  and  the  stream  was 
fi^-aight  for  a  long  distance  ahead,  he 
indn^;ed  in  a  siesta,  daring  which 
visions  of  a  happy  Grerman  home 
hovered  above  his  pillow.  On  awak- 
ing, bathed  in  perspuration,  to  the  dis- 
mal realities  of  the  pestilential  Badi*r 
el  Abiat,  of  inoessant  gnats  and  bar- 
barian society,  his  Arab  companions 
had  a  yam  cnt  and  dried  for  him. 
Daring  my  sleep  they  had  seen  a 
swimiodng-bird  as  large  as  a  young 
camel,  with  a  straight  beak  like  a 
pelican,  but  without  a  crop ;  they  had 
not  ^ot  it  for  fear  of  awaking  me, 
and  because  they  had  no  doubt  of 
meeting  with  scnne  more  of  these  un- 
known birds.  No  others  appeared, 
andMrWeme  noted  the  camel-bird 
as  an  Egyptian  lie,  not  as  a  natural 
curiosity. 

A  month^s  sail  carried  the  expedi- 
tion into  the  land  of  the  Keks,  a 
numerous,  but  not  a  very  prosperous 
tribe.  Thehr  tokuh  or  huts  were  en- 
tirely of  straw,  walls  as  well  as  roof. 
The  men  were  quite  naked,  and  of  a 
bluish-gray  colour,  from  the  slune  of 
the  Nile,  with  whic^  they  smear  them- 
selves as  a  protection  against  the  gnats. 
"There  was  something  melancholy 
in  the  way  in  which  those  poor  crea- 
tures raised  their  hands  above  their 
heads,  and  let  them  slowlv  fall,  by 
manner  of  greeting.  They  had  ivory 
rings  upon  their  arms,  and  one  of 
tbcsm  turned  towards  his  hut,  as  if  in- 
viting us  in.  Anotiier  stood  apart, 
lifted  his  arms,  and  danced  round  in 
a  circle.  A  Dinka  on  board,  who  is 
acquainted  with  their  language,  said 
they  wanted  us  to  give  them  durra,  (a 
sort  of  com,)  and  that  their  cows  were 
far  away  and  would  not  retum  till 
evoilng.  This  Dinka  positively  as- 
«eiled,  as  did  also  Marian,  that  the 
Keks  kill  no  animal,  but  live  entirely 
<m  grain  and  milk.  I  could  not  as- 
certain, with  certainty,  whether  this 
respect  for  brate  life  extended  itself 
to  game  and  fish,  but  it  is  universally 
aflkmed  that  theyeat  cattle  that  die 
a  natural  death.  This  is  done  to  some 
•extent  in  the  land  of  Sudan,  although 
not  by  the  genuine  Arabs :  it  is  against 


th0  Koran  to  eat  a  beast  even  that 
has  been  slain  by  a  ballet,  unless  its 
throat  has  been  cut  whilst  it  yet  lived, 
to  let  the  prohibited  blood  escape. 
At  Chartum  I  saw,  one  morning  eariy, 
two  dead  camels  lying  on  a  pabUc 
square;  men  cut  on  great  pieces  to 
roast,  and  the  dogs  looked  on  long- 
ingly. I  myself,  with  Dr  Fischer  and 
Prnner,  helped  to  consume,  in  Kahira, 
a  roasted  fragment  of  Clot  Bey's 
beautiful  giraf^,  which  had  eaten  too 
much  white  clover.  The  meat  was 
ver^  tender,  and  of  tolerably  fine 
gram.  The  tongue  was  quite  a  deli- 
cacy. On  the  other  hand,  I  never 
could  stomach  the  coarse-grained  flesh 
of  camels,  even  of  the  young  ones." 
Africa  is  the  land  of  strong  stomachs. 
The  Arabs,  when  on  short  rations, 
eat  locusts;  and  some  of  the  negro 
tribes  devour  the  fruit  of  the  elephant- 
tree,  an  abominable  species  of  pump- 
kin, coveted  by  elephants,  bat  rejected 
even  by  Arabs,  and  which  Mr  Werae 
found  wholly  impracticable,  although 
his  general  rule  was  to  try  idl  the 
productions  of  the  countiy.  His  gas- 
tronomical  experiments  are  often  con- 
nected with  curious  details  of  the  ani- 
mals upon  which  he  tried  his  teeth. 
On  the  12th  January,  whilst  suffering 
from  an  attack  of  Nile-fever,  which 
left  him  scarcely  strength  enough  to 
post  up  his  journal,  he  heard  a  shot, 
and  was  informed  that  Soliman  Kaschof 
had  killed  with  a  single  bullet  a  laree 
crocodile,  as  it  lay  biu^g  on  a  sandy 
promontory  of  the  bank.  The  Cir- 
cassian made  a  present  of  the 
skin  to  M.  Arnaud,  an  excellent  ex- 
cuse for  an  hour's  pause,  that  the 
Frenchman  might  get  possession  of 
the  scaly  trophy.  Upon  such  trifling 
pretexts  was  the  valuable  time  of  the 
expedition  frittered  away.  '*  Having 
enough  of  other  meat  at  that  moment, 
the  people  neglected  cutting  off  the 
tail  for  food.  My  servants,  however, 
who  knew  that  I  had  ahready  tasted 
that  sort  of  meat  at  Chartum,  and  that 
at  Taka  I  had  eaten  part  of  a  snake, 
prepared  for  me  by  a  dervish,  brought 
me  a  slice  of  the  crocodile.  Even  had 
I  been  in  health,  I  could  not  have 
touched  it,  on  account  of  the  strong 
smell  of  musk  it  exhaled ;  but,  ill  as  I 
was,  they  were  obliged  to  throw  it 
overboard  immediately.  When  first 
I  was  in  oxKodile  countries,  it  was 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


58 


The  WkiteNik. 


[J« 


ineoiajn^enBible  to  me  bow  the  boat- 
nen  scented  from  afar  the  presence  of 
these  creatures ;  bnt  on  my  jovmej 
from  Ejihira  to  Sennaar,  when  they 
offered  me  in  Komsko  a  yonng  one 
lor  sale,  I  found  my  own  ol£»ctories 
had  become  vm^  sensitive  to  the  peca- 
liar  odour.  When  we  entered  the 
Blue  Stream,  I  could  smell  the  croco- 
diles six  hundred  paces  off,  before  I 
had  seen  them.  The  glands,  contain- 
ing a  secretion  resembUng  musk,  are 
situated  in  the  hinder  part  of  the  ani- 
mal, as  in  the  civet  cats  of  Bellet 
Sudan,  which  are  kept  in  cages  for  the 
collection  of  the  peiiume." 

As    the    travellers   asc^ded   the 
river,  their  intercourse  with  the  natives 
became  much  more  frequent,  inas- 
much   as  these,  more  remote  from 
£g3rptian  aggression,  had  less  ground 
for  mistrustnil  and  hostile  feelings. 
Captain  Selim  had  a  stock  of  colourod 
shirts,  and  an  immense  bale  of  beads, 
with  which  he  might  have  purchased 
the  cattle,  villages,  goods  and  chattels, 
and  even  the  bodies,  of  an  entire  tribe, 
had  he  been  so  disposed.    The  value 
attached  by  the  savages  of  the  White 
Stream  to  the  most  worthless  objects 
of  European  manufacture,   enabled 
Mr  Weme  to  obtain,  in  exchange 
for  a  few  glass  beads,  a  large  col- 
lection   of   their   arms,    ornaments, 
household  utensils,  &c.,  now  to  be 
seen  in  the  Royal  Museum  at  Berlin. 
The  stolid  simplicity  of  the  natives  of 
those  regions  exceeds  belief.     One 
can  hardly  make  up  one's  mind  to 
consider  them  as  men.    Even  as  the 
ambah  seems  the  link  between  useful 
timber  and  worthless  rushes,  so  does 
the  Kek  appear  to  partake  as  mudi  of 
brute  as  of  human  nature.    He  has 
at  least  as  much  affloiity  with  the  big 
gray  ape,  whose  dying  agonies  ex- 
cited Mr  Weme's  compassion  at  the 
commencement  of  his  voyage,  as  with 
the  civilised  and  intellectuaU  man  who 
describes  their  strange  appearance  and 
manners.     A  Kek,  who  had  been 
sleepmg  in  the  ashes  of  a  fire,  a  com- 
mon practice  with    that  tribe,  was 
found  standing  upon  the  shore  by  some 
of  the  crew,  who  brought  him  on 
board  Selim's  vessel.     ^^  Bending  his 
body  forward  in  an  awkward  ape-like 
manner,  intended  perhaps  to  express 
submission,  be  approached  the  cabin, 
and,  oil  finding  himself  near  it,  dropped 


«poB  his  knees  and  crept  forward  upoa 
tiiem,  uttering,  in  his  gibberish,  re-  . 
peated  exclamations  of  greeting  and 
wonderment.   He  had  numerous  holes 
through  the  rims  of  his  ears,  whkh 
contained,  however,  no  other  orna- 
ment than  (me  little  bar.  Tbey  threw 
strings  of  beads  over  his  nedE,  and 
there  was  no  end  to  his  joy ;  he  jmnped 
and  rolled  upon  the  dedk,  kissed  Um 
planks,  doubled  himself  up,  extended 
his  hands  over  all  our  heads,  as  if 
bleasing  us,  and  then  began  to  sing. 
He  was  an  angular,  high-shouldered 
figure,  about  thirty  years  of  age.  Hi» 
attitude  and  gestures  were  very  con- 
strained, whidi  arose,  perhaps,  frt>na 
the  novelty  of  his  situation ;  his  back 
was  bent,  his  head  hung  forward,  his 
long  legs,  almost  calf-less,  were  as  if 
broken  at  the  knees;  in  his  whole 
person,  in  short,  he  resembled  an 
orang-outang.      He   was   perfectly 
naked,  and  his  sole  <»naments  con- 
sisted of  leathern  rings  upon  the  right 
arm.    How  low  a  grade  of  humanity 
is  this !  The  poor  natural  touches  one 
with  his  childish  joy,  in  which  he  is 
assuredly  happier  than  any  of  us.  By 
the  help  of  the  Dinka  interpreter,  he  is 
instructed  to  tell  his  countr3rmen  they 
have  no  reason  to  retreat  before  such 
honest  people  as  those  who  man  the 
flotilla.  Kneeling,  jumping,  creeping^ 
Idssing  the  ground,  he  is  then  led  away^ 
by  the  hand  like  a  child,  and  would 
assuredly  take  all  he  has  seen  for  % 
dream,  but  for  the  beads  he  bears 
with  him."    Many  of  these  tribes  are 
comi>osed  of  men  of  gigantic  stature. 
On  the  7th  January,  Mr  Weme  being 
on  shore,  would  have  measured  some 
of  the  taller  savages,  but  they  ob- 
jected.   He  then  gave  his  servants 
long  reeds  and  bade  them  stand  beside 
the  natives,  thus  ascertaining   their 
average  height  to  be  from  six  to  seven 
Bhenish  feet.     The  Egyptians  and 
Europeans  looked  like  pigmies  beside 
them.    The  women  were  in  propor- 
tion with  the  men.    Mr  Weme  tells 
of  one  lady  who  looked  dear  away 
over  his  head,  although  he  describes 
himself  as  above  the  middle  height. 

At  this  date,  (7th  January)  the  flo- 
tilla reached  a  large  lake,  or  inlet  of 
the  river,  near  to  whidi  a  host  of 
elephants  grazed,  and  a  multitude  of 
light-brown  antelopes  stood  still  and 
stared  at  the  introders.    The  sight  of 


Digitized  by  V^jOOQIC 


Id49.] 


TU  Tn^NSe, 


59 


the  anlelopei,  wlikh  w«re  of  a  spedes 
called  miel^  wboee  flesh  is  pertiealarly 
well-flaTomd,  was  too  mwA  tor  SoU- 
masKaschef  to  resist.  Therewaeno 
wiad ;  he  ga^e  orders  to  eease  towiog, 
aad  went  on  shore  to  shoot  his  supper. 
The  aatdopes  retreated  when  the  ships 
grated  against  the  bank ;  and  as  the 
rash'jm^  was  Ifr  no  means  safe, 
beaats  of  prey  benig  wont  to  hide 
theve  to  cateh  the  antelopes  as  they 
go  to  waier  at  snnset,  a  few  sokHera 
were  sent  forward  to  dear  the  way. 
Nerertheiess,  *^on  oarretnm  fron  the 
ehase,  doriag  which  not  a  sfaigle  shot 
was  fir^  we  lost  two  bdltascki^  (car- 
peaten  or  sappers,)  and  all  onr  signals 
were  inanfident  to  bring  them  back. 
They  were  Egyptians,  steady  Mows^ 
and  Most  nnlUidy  to  desert ;  but  their 
comrades  did  not  tronlde  themseires 
to  look  for  them,  shmgged  their  shovi- 
dera,  and  sopposed  uiey  had  been 
devonred  by  the  a$9ad  or  thenmir— -the 
lion  or  tiger.  The  word  nimr  is  here 
improperly  iq)plied,  there  being  no 
tigers  ID  Africa,  bat  it  is  the  general 
term  for  panthers  and  leopards."  Here, 
at  fomr-and-twenty  degrees  of  latitude 
soaCh  of  Alexandria,  this  extraordi- 
nary river  was  nearly  four  hundred 
paces  wide.  Mr  Weme  specolates  on 
the  erigia  of  this  astonishing  water- 
coarse,  and  donbts  the  possibility 
that  the  spirngs  of  the  White  Stream 
sopply  the  iminmerable  lakes  and 
creeks,  and  the  immense  tracts  of 
manh  contignons  to  it;  that,  too,  un- 
der an  African  sun,  which  acts  as  a 
powarfol  and  constant  pump  upon  the 
immense  Uqnid  snrfoce.  When  he 
started  on  his  Toyage,  the  annual 
rains  had  long  terminated.  What 
treoMndoua  springs  thoee  must  be, 
that  coidd  keep  this  vaet  watery  terri- 
tory full  and  OTcrflowing  I  Then  the 
slnggishnMB  of  the  current  is  another 
mixale.  Were  the  Nile  one  stream, 
Mr  Weme  observes — referring,  of 
coorse,  to  the  White  NUe — it  must 
flow  ftteCer  than  it  does.  And  he  con- 
dodee  it  to  have  tributaries,  which, 
owing  to  the  level  nature  of  the 
ground,  and  to  the  resistance  of  the 
main  stream,  stagnate  to  a  certain 
extent,  rising  and  falling  with  the 
titer,  and  contributing  powerfully  to 
its  nourishment.  But  the  notion  of 
exploriBg  all  these  watery  intricacies 
with  a  flotilla  of  heavy-sailing  barges, 


manned  by  las^  Turks  and  Arabs,  and 
commanded  by  men  who  care  more 
for  getting  dnmk  on  arrack  and  going 
a-birding,  than  for  the  great  results 
activity  and  intelligence  might  obtain, 
is  essentially  aben^.  The  proper 
squadron  to  explore  the  BacnV  el 
Abiat,  through  tbeeontinuedwim&^is, 
and  up  the  numerous  inlets  depicted 
in  Mr  Mahlmann's  miq),  is  one  con- 
sisting of  three  small  steamers,  draw- 
ing very  little  water,  with  steady 
well-disdplinedEng^h  crews,  accus- 
tomed to  hot  dimates,  and  commanded 
by  exp^i^iced  and  sdentific  officers. 
With  the  strongest  interest  should  we 
watch  the  departure  and  antidpate 
the  letum  of  such  an  expedition  ae 
this.  **Mnch  might  be  done  by  a 
steam-boat,"  says  Mr  Weme ;  who 
then  entmierates  the  obstacles  to  ita 
employment.  To  brmg  it  over  the 
cataracts  of  the  Nile,  (below  the  junc- 
tion of  the  Blue  and  White  Streams,) 
it  would  be  necessary  to  take  the  pad- 
dles entirely  out,  that  it  might  be 
dragged  up  with  ropes,  like  a  sailing 
vessd.  Or  else  it  might  be  built  at 
Chartum,  but  for  the  want  of  proper 
wood ;  the  sunt-tree  timber,  although 
very  strong,  being  exceedingly  brittle 
and  ill-adfq>ted  for  ship-building» 
The  greatest  difficulty  would  be  tl^B 
fuel — the  establishment  and  guard  of 
coal  stores ;  and  as  to  burning  char- 
coal, although  the  lower  portion  of  the 
White  Stream  has  forests  enough,  they 
are  wanting  on  its  middle  and  upper 
banks ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  loss  of 
time  in  felling  and  preparing  the  wood,, 
of  the  danger  of  attadu  from  natives, 
&c,  &c.  If  some  of  these  difficultiea 
are  really  formidable,  others,  on  the 
contrary,  might  easily  be  overcome, 
and  none  are  insuperable.  Mr  Weme 
hardly  makes  snffident  allowanoe  for 
the  difference  between  Soliman  Kas- 
chef  and  a  European  naval  officer, 
who  would  turn  to  profit  the  houra 
and  days  the  gallant  Circassian  spent 
in  antelope-shooting,  in  laughing  at 
Abu  Hascbis  the  jester,  and  in  a  sort 
of  travelling  seraglio  he  had  arranged 
in  his  inner  cabin,  a  dark  nook  with 
closely-shut  jalousies,  that  served  as 
prison  to  an  unfortunate  slave-girl, 
who  lay  all  day  upon  a  carpet,  with 
scarcely  space  to  turn  herself,  guarded 
by  a  ennach.  Not  a  glimpse  of  the 
country  did  the   poor  thing  obtain 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


60 


ne  White  Nik. 


[Jan. 


daring  the  whole  of  the  voyage ;  and, 
even  veiled,  she  was  forbidden  to  go 
on  deck.  Besides  these  oriental  re- 
laxations, an  occasional  practical  joke 
beguiled  for  the  commodore  the 
tedium  of  the  voyage.  Feiznlla, 
the  tailor  -  captain,  whose  strange 
passion  for  thimble  and  thread 
made  him  frequently  neglect  his  nau- 
tical duties,  chanced  one  day  to  bring 
to  before  his  superior  gave  iJie  signal. 
*^  Soliman  Easchef  had  no  sooner  ob- 
served this  than  he  fired  a  couple  of 
shots  at  Feizulla  Capitan,  so  that  I 
myself,  standing  before  the  cabin  door, 
heard  the  bullets  whistle.  Feizulla 
did  not  stir,  although  both  he  and  the 
sailors  in  the  riggmg  afterwards  af- 
firmed that  the  balls  went  within  a 
hand's-breadth  of  his  head:  he  mere- 
ly said,  ^  Maksch'-hue  biUah^'  O^t  is 
nothing— he  jests ;)  and  he  shot  twice 
in  return,  pointing  the  gun  in  the  op- 
posite direction,  Siat  l^liman  mi^ 
understand  he  took  the  friendly  greet- 
ing as  a  Turkish  ioke,  and  that  he,  as 
a  bad  shot,  dared  not  level  at  him." 
Soliman,  on  the  other  hand,  was  far 
too  good  a  shot  for  such  a  sharp  jest 
to  be  pleasant.  The  Turks  account 
themselves  the  best  marksmen  and 
horsemen  in  the  world,  and  are  never 
weary  of  vaunting  their  prowess.  Mr 
Weme  says  he  saw  an  Amaut  of  Soli- 
man*s  shoot  a  running  hare  with  a 
single  ball,  which  entered  in  the  ani- 
mal's rear,  and  came  out  in  firont.  And 
it  was  a  common  practice^  during  the 
voyage,  to  bring  oown  the  fruit  fifom 
lofty  trees  bv  cutting  the  twigs  with 
bullets.  All  these  pastunes,  however, 
retarded  the  progress  of  the  expedi- 
tion. The  wind  was  frequently  light 
or  unfavourable,  and  the  lazy  Africans 
made  little  way  with  the  towing  rope. 
Then  a  convenient  place  would  often 
tempt  to  a  premature  halt ;  and,  not- 
withstanding Soliman's  shaip  practice 
with  poor  Feizulla,  if  a  leadmg  mem- 
ber of  the  party  felt  lazily  disposed, 
inclined  for  a  hunting-party,  or  for  a 
visit  to  a  negro  village,  he  seldom  had 
much  difficulty  in  bnnginff  the  flotilla 
to  an  anchor.  In  a  strai^t  line  from 
north  to  south,  the  exj^tion  tra- 
versed, between  its  departure  from 
€hartum  and  its  return  thither,  about 
sixteen  hundred  miles.  It  is  difficult 
to  calculate  the  distance  gone  over ; 
and    probably    Mr  Weme   himself 


would  be  puzzled  exactly  to  estimate 
it ;  but  adding  20  per  cent  for  wind- 
ings, obliquities,  and  digressions,  (a 
very  liberal  allowance,)  we  get  a  total 
of  nearly  two  thousand  miles,  accom- 
plished in  five  months,  including  stop- 
pages, being  at  the  very  m<^erate 
rate  of  about  13  mUes  a  day.  And 
this,  we  must  remember,  was  on  no 
rapid  stream,  but  up  a  river,  whose 
current,  rarely  faster  than  one  mile 
in  an  hour,  was  more  frequently  only 
half  a  mile,  and  sometimes  was  so 
feeble  that  it  could  not  be  ascertained. 
The  result  is  not  surprising,  bearing 
in  mmd  the  quality  of  ships,  crews, 
and  commanders:  but  write  "British** 
for  "  £g3rptians,"  and  the  tale  would 
be  rather  different. 

The  upshot  of  this  ill-conducted 
expedition  was  its  arrival  in  the  king- 
dom of  Bari,  whose  capital  city,  Pel- 
enja,  is  situated  in  4"  N.  L.,  and  which 
is  inhabited  by  an  exceedingly  nume- 
rous nation  of  tall  and  powerful  build ; 
the  men  six  and  a-half  to  seven  French 
feet  in  height — equal  to  seven  and 
seven  and  a-half  English  feet— athletic, 
well-proportioned,and,  although  black, 
with  nothing  of  the  usual  negro  char- 
acter in  the&  features.  The  men  go 
naked,  with  the  exception  of  sandals 
and  ornaments ;  the  woman  wear 
leathern  aprons.  They  cultivate  to- 
bacco and  difiiorent  kinds  of  gnun: 
from  the  iron  found  in  their  moun- 
tains they  manufiusture  weapons  and 
other  implements,  and  barter  them 
with  other  tribes.  They  breed  cattle 
and  poultry,  and  are  addicted  to  the 
chase.  About  fifteen  hundred  of  these 
bhicks  came  down  to  the  shore,  armed 
to  the  teeth— a  sight  that  inspired  the 
TnskA  with  some  uneashiess,  although 
they  had  several  of  their  chiefs  on 
board  the  fiotilla,  besides  which,  the 
fi-ank  cordiality  and  good-humoured 
intelligent  countenances  of  the  men  of 
Bari  forbade  the  idea  of  hostile  ag- 
gression. "  It  had  been  a  fine  op- 
portunity for  a  painter  or  sculptor 
to  delineate  these  colossal  figures, 
admirably  proportioned,  no  fat,  all 
musde,  and  magnificentiy  limbed. 
None  of  them  have  beards,  and  it 
would  seem  they  use  a  cosmetic  to 
extirpate  them.  Captain  Selim,  whose 
chin  was  smooth -shaven^  pleased 
them  far  better  than  the  long-bearded 
Soliman    ELaschef;    and  when   the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


7%e  WkUeNiU. 


61 


Utter  showed  them  his  breast,  covered 
with  a  fell  of  hair,  they  exhibited  a 
sort  of  disgust,  as  at  something  more 
appropriate  to  a  beast  than  to  a  man." 
lake  most  of  the  tribes  on  the  banks 
of  the  White  Nile,  thej  extract  the 
foor  lower  incisors,  a  cnstom  for  which 
Mr  Weme  is  greatly  pnasled  to 
aocoont,  and  concenung  which  he 
hazards  many  ingenioos  conjectores. 
Amongst  the  ape-like  Eeks  and 
Dinkas,  he  fancied  it  to  originate  in  a 
desire  to  distingnish  themselyes  from 
the  beasts  of  the  field— to  which  they 
in  so  many  respects  assimilate ;  bnt 
he  was  shaken  in  this  opinion,  on 
finding  the  practice  to  prevail  amongst 
the  intelligent  Bari,  who  need  no 
such  mariL  to  establish  their  diffe- 
rence from  the  bmte  creation.  The 
Dinkas  on  board  confirmed  his  first 
hypothesis,  saying  that  the  teeth  are 
taken  oat  that  they  may  not  resemble 
the  jacksfls  which  in  many  other 
respects  they  certainly  do.  The 
Torks  takeitto  be  a  rite  equivalent  to 
Mahomedan  circumcision,  or  to  Chris- 
tian baptism.  The  Arabs  have  a  much 
more  extravagant  supposition,  which 
we  refrain  from  stating,  the  more  so 
as  Mr  Weme  discredits  it.  He  sug- 
gests the  possibility  of  its  being  an 
act  of  incoqxffaticm  in  a  great  Ethio- 
pian nation,  divided  into  many  tribes. 
xbe  operation  is  performed  at  the  age 
of  piwerty:  it  is  unaccompanied  by 
any  particular  ceremonies,  and  wo- 
men as  well  as  men  undergo  it.  Its 
motive  still  renudns  a  matter  of  doubt 
to  Mr  Weme. 

Bef((»e  Lakono,  sultan  of  the  Bari, 
and  his  favourite  sultana  iBchok,  an 
ordinary  -  looking  lady  with  two 
leathern  aprons  and  a  shaven  head, 
came  <m  l)oard  Sdto's  vessel,  the 
TuriLS  made  repeated  attempts  to 
obtain  information  from  some  of  the 
Sheiks  concerning  the  gold  mines, 
whose  discovery  was  the  main  object 
of  the  expedition.  A  sensible  sort  of 
negro,  (me  Lomb^  replied  to  their 
questions,  and  extinguished  their 
hopes.  There  was  not  even  copper, 
he  said,  in  the  land  of  the  Bari, 
althou^  it  was  brought  thither  from 
a  remoter  country,  and  Lakono  had 
several  specimens  of  it  in  his  treasunr* 
On  a  gold  bar  being  shown  tohhoii,  he 
took  it  for  copper,  whence  it  was  in- 
ferred that    tne   two  metals  were 


blended  in  the  specimens  possessed 
by  the  sultan,  and  that  the  mountains 
of  the  copper  country  also  yielded  the 
more  precious  ore.  This  country, 
however,  lay  many  days*  loumey 
distant  from  the  Nile,  and,  had  it  even 
bordered  on  the  river,  there  would 
have  been  no  possibility  of  reaching 
it.  At  a  very  short  distance  above 
Palenja,  the  expedition  encountered 
a  bar  of  rocks  thrown  across  the 
stream.  And  although  Mr  Weme 
hints  the  possibility  of  having  tried 
the  passage,  the  Tuj^  were  sick  of 
the  voyage  and  were  heartily  glad  to 
tumback.  At  the  period  of  the  floods 
the  river  rises  eighteen  feet;  and 
there  then  could  be  no  dlfScolty  in 
surmounting  the  barrier.  Now  the 
waters  were  falling  fast.  The  six 
weeks  lost  by  Amaud*s  fault  were 
again  bitterly  deplored  by  the  ad- 
venturous German — ^the  only  one  of 
the  pargr  who  really  desired  to  pro- 
ceed. Twenty  days  sooner,  and  the 
rocks  could  neither  have  hindered  an 
advance  nor  afforded  pretext  for  a 
retreat.  To  Mr  Weme's  proposal, 
that  they  should  wait  two  months 
where  they  were,  when  the  setting 
in  of  the  rains  would  obviate  the 
difficulty,  a  deaf  ear  was  tumed — an 
insufficient  stock  of  provisions  was 
objected;  and  although  the  flotilla 
had  been  stored  for  a  ten  months* 
▼oyage,  and  had  then  been  little  more 
than  two  months  absent  from  Char- 
tum,  the  wastefulness  that  had  pre- 
vailed gave  some  validity  to  the  objec- 
tion. One-and-twenty  guns  were  fired, 
as  a  farewell  salute  to  the  beautiful 
country  Mr  Weme  would  so  gladly 
have  explored,  and  which,  he  is  fully 
convinced,  contains  so  much  of  inter- 
est ;  and  the  sluggish  Egyptian  barks 
retraced  their  course  down  stream. 

It  is  proper  here  to  note  a  shrewd 
conjecture  of  Mr  Weme's,  that  above 
the  point  reached  bv  himself  and  his 
compimions,  the  difficulties  of  ascend- 
ing tne  river  would  greatly  and  rapidly 
increase.  The  bed  becomes  rocky, 
and  the  BadiV  el  Abiat,  assuming  in 
some  measure  the  character  of  a 
mountain  stream,  augments  the  rapi- 
dity of  its  current :  so  much  so,  that 
Mr  Weme  insists  on  the  necessity  of 
a  strong  north  wmd,  believing  that 
towing,  however  willingly  and  vigor- 
ously attempted,  would  be  found  un- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


62 


ne  WkUeNOe. 


[•Ta 


availmg.  TkLs  is  another  strong 
argument  in  favour  of  employing 
steamboats. 

Although  the  narrative  of  t^  home- 
ward voyage  is  by  no  means  nninter- 
esting,  and  contains  details  of  the 
riv«r's  oourse  valoable  to  the  geogra- 
pher and  to  the  fatore  explore*,  it  has 
not  the  attraction  of  the  up-stream 
narrative.  The  freshness  is  worn  off ; 
the  waters  sink^  and  the  writer^s  spirits 
seem  disposed  to  follow  theur  example ; 
there  is  all  the  difference  between 
attacl^  and  retreat— between  acheerful 
and  hopeful  advance,  and  a  retrograde 
movement  befbre  the  work  is  half  done. 
But,  vexed  as  an  entiiusiastic  and 
intrepid  man  might  naturally  feel  at 
seeing  his  hopes  frustrated  by  the 
indolent  indifforenoe  of  hisoompanionB, 
Mr  Weme  could  hardly  deem  his  five 
months  thrown  away.  We  are  quite 
sure  those  who  read  his  book  will 
be  of  opinion  that  the  time  was 
most  industriously  and  profitably  em- 
ployed. 

A  sorrowful  welcome  awaited  our 
traveller,  after  his  painful  and  fatiguing 
voyage.  There  dwelt  at  Chartum  a 
renegade  physician,  a  Palermitan 
named  Pasquali,  whose  Turkish  name 
was  SoUman  Effendi,  and  who  was 
notorious  as  a  poisoner,  and  for  the 
unscrupulous  promptness  with  which 
he  removed  persons  in  the  slightest 


degree  unpleasing  to  himself  or  to  hia 
patron  Achmet  Baaeha.  In  Arabia, 
it  was  cnrrently  believed,  he  had  onoe 
poisoned  thirty-liiree  soldim,  with 
the  sole  view  of  bringing  odinm  upon 
the  physician  and  ^Mtheeary,  tw:o 
Frenchmen,  who  attended  tiiem.  In 
Chartum  he  was  well  known  to  have 
committed  various  mvden. 

^Although  this  man,"  says  Mr 
Weme,  ^*  was  most  friendly  and  soci- 
able with  me,  I  had  ev^ything  to 
fear  from  him  on  account  of  my 
Inrother^  by  whom  the  Bascha  had 
declared  his  intention  of  replacing  him 
in  the  posted  medical  inspector  of 
Bellet-Sudim.  It  was  therefore  in  the 
most  solemn  earnest  that  I  tiireatened 
him  with  death,  if  upon  my  return  I 
found  my  brother  dead,  and  learned 
that  they  had  oome  at  all  in  contact. 
^Dio  guardcj  che  csffrxnOoP  was  his 
reply ;  and  he  quietly  drank  off  his 
glass  of  rum,  the  same  affiont  having 
already  been  offered  him  in  the 
Bascha's  divan;  the  reference  being 
natmidly  to  ^b»  poisonings  laid  to  his 
charge  in  Arabia  and  here." 

At  Chartum  Mr  Weme  found  his 
brother  alive,  but  on  the  eleventh  day 
after  his  return  he  died  in  his  arms. 
The  renegade  had  had  no  occasion  to 
employ  hiB  venomous  drags;  the  work 
had  been  done  as  surely  by  the  fatal 
influence  of  the  noxious  climate. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18^.] 


Art  and  Artkt$  m  Spam, 


63 


ABT  ASD  ABTISTB  IN  BPAIN. 


Ths  aooompliahments  brought  back 
¥y  our  gr«iid£ikUieri  from  tae  Con- 
tineot  to  ^praoe  the  drawing-rooniB 
of  May  Fair,  ox  enliven  the  eolitiides 
of  Yorkshire^  were  a  iavoarite  sub- 
ject for  satiriBta,  some  *^  sixty  years 
since/'    Admitting  the  descriptions 
to  be  correct,  it  most  be  remem- 
bered that  the  grand  tonr  had  become 
at  OBoe  moootOQons  and  deleterions, 
— from  Calais  to  Paris,  from  Paris 
to  Genera,  frt»n  GenoFa  to  Milan, 
from  Milan  to  Florence,   thence  to 
Borne,  and  thence  to  Naples,  the  Eng- 
lish   ^^  my  lord,"  with    his    bear- 
leader,  was   conducted  with   regu- 
larity, if  not  with  q^eed;  and  the 
same  com»e  of  sights  and  society  was 
prescribed  for,  and  taken  by,  genera- 
tion after  generatioa  of  Oxonians  and 
Cantabs.    Then,  again,  the  Middle 
Ages,  with  their  countless  gracefrd 
restiges,  their  magnificent  architec- 
ture,  which   even    archaic    Evelyn 
tbouigbt   and   called    *^  barbarous,** 
their  chivahxras    customs,   religious 
observances,   rude    yet  picturesque 
arts,  and  fiindful  literature,  were  lite- 
raUy  blotted  out  frtun  the  note-book 
of  the  English  tourist.  Whatever  was 
clasaicai  or  modem,  that  was  worthy 
of  regard ;  but  whatever  belonged  to 
'«  Enrope's  middle  night,''  ikai  the 
^toscendants  of  Saxon  thanes  or  Nor- 
Ban  knights  disdained  even  to  look 
at.  Even  had  there  been  no  Pyrenees 
to  OKws,  or  no  Bay  of  Biscay  to  en- 
«ouiter,  so  Gothic  a  country  as  Spain 
was  not  likely  to  attract  to  its  dusky 
fliertaa,    frequent   monasteries,   and 
medisBval  towns,  the  fine  gentlemen 
and  Mohawks  of  those  enlightened 
days ;  nor  need  we  be  snrpruwd  that 
the  natural  beanties  of  that  romantic 
land— its  wekd  mountams,  primeval 
feests,  and  fertile  plains,  firagrant 
with  orange  groves,  and  bright  with 
flowers  of  every  hue,  unknown  to  Eng- 
Urii    gardens — remained  unexplored 
1^  the  countiTmen  of  Gray  and  Gold- 
smith, who  have  put  on  record  their 
mariked  dis^Hurobadon  of  Nature  in 
her  wildest  and  moat  sublime  mood. 
Huts,  then,  it  was  that,  with  rare 


exceptions,  the  pleasant  land  of  Spain 
was  a  sealed  book  to  Englishmen,  un- 
til the  Great  Captain  rivalled  and 
eclipsed  the  feats  and  triumphs  of  the 
Black  Prince  in  every  province  of  the 
Peninsula,    and  enabled  guardsmen 
and  hussars  to  admire  the  treasures  of 
Spanish  art  in  many  a  church  and 
convent  unspoiled  by  French  rapa- 
city.   Nor  may  we  deny  our  obliga- 
tions to  Gallic  plunderers.    Many  a 
noble  picture  that  now  delights  the 
eyes  of  thousands,  exalts  and  purifies 
the  taste  of  youthful  painters,  and 
sends,  on  the  purple  wings  of  European 
frmie,  the  name  of  its  CasUlian,  or 
Yaloician,    or    Andalusian   creator 
down  the  stream  of  time,  but  for 
Soult  or  Sebastiani,  might  still  have 
continued  to  waste  its  sweetness  on 
desert  air.    Thenc^orward,  in  spite 
of    brigands    and   captain-generals, 
rival   constitutions   and    contending 
princes,  have  adventurous  English- 
men been  found  to  delight  in  rambling, 
like  Inglis,  in  the  footsteps  of  Don 
Qaixote,^^mulating    the   deeds   of 
Peterborough,    like    Ranelagh    and 
Henningsen,  or  throwing  themselves 
into  the  actual  life,  and  studying  the 
historic  manners  of  Spain,  like  Car- 
narvon and  Ford.    Still,  though  sol- 
dier and  statesman,  philosopher  and 
litt^teur,  had  put  forth  their  best 
powers  in  writing  of  the  country  that 
so  worthily  interested  them,  a  void 
was  ever  left  for  some  new  comer  to 
fill ;  and  right  well,  in  his  three  hand- 
some, elaborate,  and  most  agreeable 
volumes,  has  Mr  Stirling  filled  that 
void.    Not  one  of  the  goodly  band  of 
Spanish  painters  now  lacks  a  *^  sacred 
poet"  to  inscribe  his  name  in  the 
tomple  of  fame.    With  indefatigable 
rese^xih,  most  discriminating  taste, 
uid  happiest  success,  has  Mr  Stirling 
pursued  and  completed  his  pleasant 
labour  of  love,  and  presented  to  the 
worid    ^^  Annals  of   the  Artists  of 
Spain"  worthy— can  we  say  more? 
—of  recording  the  trinomhis  of  El 
Mudo  and  El  Greco,  Mjirillo  and 
Yelasquee. 
At   least  a   century  and   a  half 


By  WiLLiAX  SiiBLiKG,  HJL     8  vols.  London : 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


64 


Art  and  Artists  in  l^xxin. 


[Jao. 


before  Holbein  was  limning  the 
barly  frame  and  eorgeons  dress  of 
bluff  King  Hal^  and  creating  at  once 
a  school  and  an  appreciation  of  art 
in  England,  were  tne  early  painters 
of  Spain  enriching  their  magnificent 
cathedrals,  and  religioos  honses,  with 
pictures  displaying  as  correct  a 
knowledge  of  art,  and  as  rich  a  tone 
of  colour,  as  the  works  of  that  great 
master.  There  is  something  singular 
and  mysterious  in  the  contrast  afforded 
by  the  early  history  of  painting  in  the 
two  countries.  While  in  poetry,  in 
paintmg  on  glass,  in  science,  in  manu- 
factures, in  architecture,  England 
appears  to  have  kept  pace  with  other 
countries,  in  painting  and  in  sculpture 
she  appears  always  to  have  lagged 
far  behind.  Gower,  Chaucer,  Fnar 
Bacon,  William  of  Wyckham,  Wayn- 
fleete,  the  unknown  builders  of  ten 
thousand  churches  and  convents,  the 
manufacturers  of  the  glass  that  still 
charms  our  eyes,  and  baffles  the 
rivalry  of  our  Willements  and  Wailes, 
at  York  and  elsewhere — ^the  illumi- 
nators of  the  missals  and  religious 
books,  whose  delicate  fancy  and 
lustrous  tints  are  even  now  teaching 
our  highborn  ladies  that  long-forgot- 
ten art— yielded  the  palm  to  none  of 
their  brethren  in  Europe ;  but  where 
and  who  were  our  contemporaneous 
painters  and  sculptors  ?  In  the  luxu- 
rious and  graceful  court  of  Edward 
rv.,  who  represented  that  art  which 
Dello  and  Juan  de  Castro,  under 
royal  and  ecclesiastical  patronage, 
had  carried  to  such  perfection  in 
Spain?  That  no  English  painters  of 
an^  note  flourished  at  that  time,  is 
evident  from  the  silence  of  all  histori- 
cal documents ;  nor  does  it  appear 
that  foreign  artists  were  induced,  by 
the  hope  of  gain  or  fame,  to  instruct 
our  countrymen  in  the  art  to  whidi 
the  discoveries  of  the  Van  Eycks  had 
imparted  such  a  lustre.  It  is  true 
that  the  desolating  Wars  of  the  Roses 
left  scant  time  and  means  to  the 
sovereigns  and  nobility  of  Englamd 
for  fostering  the  arts  of  peace ;  but 
still  great  progress  was  being  made  in 
nearly  all  those  arts,  save  those  of 
which  we  speak ;  and,  if  we  remember 
rightly,  Mr  Pngln  assigns  the  tri- 
umph of  English  architecture  to  this 
troublous  epoch.  Nor,  although  Juan 
I.,  Pedro  the  Cruel,  and  Juan  U., 


were  admirers  and  patrons  of  paint- 
ing, was  it  to  royal  or  noble  favour 
that  Spanish  art  owed  its  chiefest 
obligations.  The  church — which,  af- 
ter the  great  iconoclastic  struggle  of 
the  eighti)  century,  had  steadUy  acted 
on  the  Horatian  maxim, 

**  S«gniafl  irritant  aaimofl  demissa  per  anres, 
Qnam  qua  aunt  ocalis  lobjeeta  fidelibas  ** — 

in  Spain  embraced  the  young  and 
diffident  art  with  an  ardour  and  a 
munificence  which,  in  its  palmiest  and 
most  prosperous  days,  that  art  never 
forgot,  and  was  never  wearied  of 
requiting.  Was  it  so  in  England? 
and  do  we  owe  our  lack  of  ancient 
English  picture  to  the  reforming  zeal 
of  our  iconoclastic  reformers?  Did 
the  religious  pictures  of  our  Rmcons, 
our  Nufiez,  and  our  Borgofias,  share 
the  fate  of  the  libraries  that  were 
ruthlessly  destroyed  by  the  ignorant 
myrmidons  of  royal  rapadty  ?  If  so, 
it  is  almost  certain  that  the  records 
which  bewail  and  denounce  the  fate 
of  books  and  manuscripts,  would  not 
pass  over  the  destruction  of  pictures ; 
while  it  is  still  more  certain  that  the 
monarch  and  his  courtiers  would  have 
appropriated  to  themselves  the  pic- 
tured saints,  no  less  than  the  holy 
vessels,  of  monastery  and  convent. 
It  cannot,  therefore,  be  said  that  the 
English  Beformation  deprived  our 
national  sdiool  of  painting  of  its  most 
munificent  patrons,  and  most  ennob- 
lingand  purestsubjects,  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  monasteries,  and  the 
spoliation  of  churches.  That  the 
Church  of  England,  had  she  remained 
unreformed,  might,  in  the  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth  centuries,  have  emu- 
lated her  Spanish  or  Italian  sister  in 
her  patronage  of,  and  beneficial  influ- 
ence npon,  the  arts  of  painting .  and 
scnlpture,  it  is  needless  either  to 
deny  or  assert ;  we  fear  there  is  no 
room  for  cont^iding  that,  since  the 
Beformation,  she  has  in  any  way 
fostered,  guided,  or  exalted  either  of 
those  religious  arts. 

In  Spam,  on  the  contrary,  as  Mr 
Stirling  well  points  out,  it  was  under 
the  august  shadow  of  the  church  that 

gainting  first  raised  her  head,  gidned 
er  fijBt  triumphs,  executed  her  most 
glorious  works,  and  is  even  now  pro- 
longing her  miserable  existence. 

The  venerable  cathedral  of  Toledo 
was,  in  effect,  the  cradle  of  Spanish 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1W9.] 


Art  and  Artists  in  l^xsin. 


C6 


] 


Minting.     Founded  in  1226  by  St 
F^inand,  it  remained,  to  quote  Mr 
Stiiiing^s  words,  ^^for  four  hundred 
years  a  nucleus  and  gathering-place 
for  genins,  where  artists  swarmed  and 
laboured  like  bees,  and  where  splen- 
did prelates — ^the  popes  of  the  Penin- 
sula—lavished their  princely  revenues 
to  make  fair  and  glorious  the  temple 
of  God  intrusted  to  their  care."  Here 
Dolfin  introduced,  in  1418,  painting  on 
glass;    here  the  brothers  Rodrigues 
displayed  their  forceful  skill  as  sculp- 
tors, in  figures  which  still  surmount  the 
great  poital  of  that  magnificent  cathe- 
dral ;  and  hereRincon,  the  first  Spanish 
painter  who  quitted  the  stiff  medisBval 
style,  loved  best  to  execute  his  graceful 
works.   Nor  when,  with  the  house  of 
Austria,  the  genius  of  Spanish  art 
ouitted  the  Bourbon- governed  land, 
did  the  custodians   of  this    august 
temple  forget  to  stimulate  and  reward 
the  detestable  conceits,  and  burlesque 
sublimities,  of  such  artists  as  the  de- 
praved taste  of  the  eighteenth  century 
delighted  to  honour.     Thus,  in  1721, 
Nardso  Tome  erected  at  the  back  of 
the  choir  an  immense  marble  altar- 
piece,  called  the  Trasparente,  by  order 
of  Archbishop  Diego  de  Astorgo,  for 
which  he  received  two  hundred  thous- 
and ducats ;  and  thus,  fifty  years  later, 
Bayeu  and  Maella  were  employed  to 
paint  in  firesco  the  cloisters  that  had 
once  ^ried  in  the  venerable  paintings 
of  JuandeBorgofia.  At  Toledo,  then, 
under  the  aus^^es  of  the  great  Cas- 
tilian  queen,  Isabella,  may  be  said  to 
have  risen  the  Castilian  sdiool  of  art. 
The  other  great  schools  of  Spanish 
painting  were  those  of  Andalusia,  of 
Yalendk,  and  that  of  Arragon  and 
Catalonia ;  but,  for  the  mass  of  Ens;- 
Ush  readers,  the  main  interest  lies  In 
tlw  two  first,  the  schools  that  pro- 
ANid  or  acquired  £1  Mudo  ana  £1 
Qtmns  Velasquez  and  Murillo.    The 
HMfca  of   the   two    last- mentioned 
IMM*  are  now  so  well  known,  and  so 
ft%Hf  Appreciated  in  Engird,  that 
Hi.  are  tempted  to  postpone  for  the 
any  notice  of  that  most  de- 
part of  Mr  Stirling's  book 
(tats  of  them,  and  invite  our 
^  trace  the  course  of  ^art  in 
II  old  city  to  which  we  have 
refcrred,  Toledo. 
I  llie  grave  had  dosed  upon 
nvains  of  Rincon,  Juan  de 

aCT.— KO.  OCCXCTXI 


Borgofia  had  proved  himself  worthy 
of  wielding  the  Castilian  pencil,  and, 
under   the   patronage  of   the  great 
Toledan  archbishop,  Ximenes  de  Cis- 
neros,    produced    works    which  still 
adorn  the  winter  chapter-room  of  that 
cathedral.     These  are  interesting  not 
only  as  specimens  of  art,  but  as  mani- 
festations  of  the   religious   rfios   of 
Spain  at  the  commencement  of  the 
sixteenth   century:    let  Mr  Stirling 
describe  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
of  these  early  paintings: — *'  The  lower 
end  of  the  finely-proportioned,  but 
badly-lighted  room,  is  occupied  by  the 
^  Last   Judgments'  a  large  and  re- 
markable composition.    Immediately 
beneath  the  figure  of  our  Lord,  a 
hideous  fiend,  in  the  shape  of  a  boar, 
roots  a  fair  and  reluctant  woman  out 
of  her  grave  with  his  snout,  as  if  she 
were  a  trufle,  twining  his  tusks  in  her 
long  amber  locks.     To  the  left  are 
drawn  up  in  a  line  a  party  of  the 
wicked,  each  figure  being  the  incarna- 
tion of  a  sin,  of  which  the  name  is 
written  on  a  label  above  in  Gothic 
letters,  as  *  SkohvAU,'  and  the  like. 
On  their  shoulders  sit  little  malicious 
imps,  in  the  likeness  of  monkeys,  and 
round  their  lower  limbs,  fiames  dimb 
and  curl.    The  forms  of  the  good  and 
faithful,  on  the  right,  display  far  less 
vigour  of  fancy."    So  the  good  char- 
acters in  modem  works  of  fiction  are 
more  feebly  drawn,  and  excite  less 
interest,  than    the  Rob   Roys  and 
Durk  Hattericks,  the    Conrads    and 
the  Manfreds.    Nor  was  Toledo  at 
this  time  wanting  in  the  sister  art  of 
sculpture:    while    the  Rincons,   and 
Berruguete,  and  Borgolia,  were  en- 
riching the  cathedral  with  their  pic- 
tures and  their  firescoes,  Yigamy  was 
daborating  the  famous  high  altar  of 
marble,  and  the  stalls  on  the  epistle 
side.    In  conduding   his   notice   of 
Yigamy,  '^the  first  great  Castilian 
sculptor,"  Mr  Stirling  gives  a  sketch 
of  the  s^le  of  sculpture  popular  in 
Spain.    Like  nearly  all  the  **  Cosas 
d'  Espana,"  it  is  peculiar,  and  owes 
its  peculiarity  to  the  same  cause  that 
has  impressed  so  marked  a  character 
on    Spanish   painting  and   Spanish 
pharmacopeia—religion. 

Let  not  the  English  loyer  of  the 
fine  arts,  invited  to  view  the  master- 
pieces of  Spanish  sculpture,  imagine- 
that  his  eyes  are  to  be  feasted  on  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


66 


Aft  €md  AriitU  m  JS^xdm, 


lJ§a. 


ftnde,  though  Hftrdlyindeoenl  Ibms  of 
YeBoseB  aiid  ApoUos,  Grm  jmedes  and 
Andromedas. 

Beaatifiil,  and  breatiiing,  and  fiill 
of  imaginstion,  indeed,  those  Spaniiii 
statues  are — *^  idols,'*  as  otir  anthor 
genenUlj  teniis  them ;  bat  the  idola- 
tiy  they  represent  or  ev<^e  a  hea- 
venly, not  earthly — spiritnial,  not  sen- 
snooB.  Chiselled  out  of  a  blockof  oedar 
or  lime- wood,  with  the  most  remential 
care,  the  image  of  the  Qneen  of  HeaToa 
enjoyed  the  most  exquisite  and  deli- 
cate senrices  of  the  rival  sister  arts, 
and,  *^  copiedfrom  the  loveliest  models, 
was  presented  to  her  adorers  sweetly 
amiHng,  and  gloriously  afmarelled  in 
clothing  of  wrought  gold.  But  We 
doubt  whether  any  EngUshman  i«1io 
has  not  seen  can  understand  the 
marvellous  beauty  of  tiiese  painted 
wooden  images.  Thus  Bernignete, 
who  combing  both  arts  in  perfection, 
executed  in  1539  the  arehbish(^*s 
throne  at  Toledo,  **  over  which  hovers 
an  airy  and  graceful  figure,  carved  in 
dark  walnut,  representing  our  Lord 
on  the  Mount  of  Transfiguration,  and 
remarkable  for  its  fiae  and  floating 
drapery." 

Continuing  our  list  of  Tdedan 
artists,  '^  whose  whole  lives  and  la- 
bours lay  widiin  the  shadow  of  that 
great  Toledan  church,  whose  genius 
was  spent  in  its  service,  and  whose 
names  were  hardly  known  beyond  its 
walls,"  (vol.  i.  p.  150,)  we  come  to 
T.  Comontes,  who,  among  other  works 
ft>r  that  munificent  Alma  Mato",  exe- 
cuted from  the  dengns  of  Yigamy  the 
retabk)  (reredos)  for  the  chapel  *'  de 
los  Reyes  Nuevos,"  in  1538.  It  was 
at  Toledo  that  £1  Mudo,  the  Danish 
Titian,  died,  and  at  Toledo  tiiat  Bias 
del  Prado  was  bom.  When  hi  1593 
the  Emperor  of  Morocco  asked  tiiat 
the  best  painter  of  SMin  might  be  sent 
to  his  court,  Philip  II.  i^apointed  Bias 
del  Prado  to  Mfil  the  Mussulman's 
artistic  desires :  previous  to  this,  the 
chapter  of  Tolc^  had  named  him 
their  second  painter,  and  he  had 
painted  a  large  ahar-pieoe,  and  other 
pictures,  for  thdr  cathedral  But 
perhaps  the  Toledan  annals  of  art 
contain  no  loftier  name  than  that  of 
ElGreoo.  Domemi8Theotoo(^mli,who, 
bom,  it  is  surmised,  at  Venice  in  1546, 
is  found  in  1577  painting  at  Toledo,  Ibr 
the  cathedral,  his  fhrnous  picture  of 


The  Parting  of  onr  Lord*s  GsnMBt, 
on  which  he  bestowed  the  labour  of  m 
decade,  and  of  which  we  |^  Mr 
Stiiling*8  inetnresque  description. 

^  The  august  figmre  of  tiie  Saviour, 
airayed  in  a  red  robe,  occupies  the 
eentre  of  the  canvass;  ^h^d,  with 
its  kmg  dark  locks,  is  superb ;  and  tihe 
Boble  and  beantiful  eountenanoe  seeraa 
to  mourn  for  the  madness  of  them  who 
'knew BOt  what  tiray  did;*  his  right 
arm  is  folded  on  his  bosom,  seeming^ 
unconscious  of  the  rope  wfaidi  eodr- 
des  his  wrist,  and  is  violently  dragged 
downwards  by  two  executionov  in 
fromL  Around  and  behind  him  ap- 
pears a  throng  of  priests  and  warrioffs, 
amongst  whom  the  Gre^  himself 
figures  as  the  centurion,  in  black  ar- 
mour. In  drawing  and  oompositicm, 
this  picture  h  truly  admnrable,  and 
the  colouring  is,  on  the  wh(^  rich 
and  efiectiven-although  it  is  here  and 
tiiere  laid  on  in  that  spotted  streal^ 
maimer,  whidi  afterwards  became  tiie 
mat  and  prominent  defect  <^  £1 
Greco's  style." 

Summoned  finom  the  cathedral  to  the 
court,  £1  Greco  painted,  by  royal  com- 
mand, a  large altar-piece,for1lie  church 
at  the  Escnnal,  om  the  martyrdom  of  St 
Maurice;  '*  little  less  extravagant  and 
atrocious,"8ayBOurlivelyauti[iOT,^*  than 
the  massacre  it  recorded."  Neither 
kin|  nor  court  painters  could  praise  this 
performance,  and  the  effect  of  his  failure 
at  the  Escuriid  appears  to  have  been 
his  return  to  Toledo.  Here,  in  1584, 
he  painted,  by  order  of  the  Archfoidiop 
Quiroga,  "  The  Burial  of  the  Count  of 
Orgae,"  a  picture  then  and  now  es- 
teemed as  his  master-piece,  and  still 
to  be  seen  in  the  church  of  S«ito 
Tom^.  Warm  is  the  encomium,  and 
eloquently  expressed,  whidi  Mr  Stir- 
ling bestows  upon  this  gem  of  Toledan 
art.  "  Tlie  artist,  or  lover  of  art,  who 
has  once  beheld  it,  will  never,  as  he 
rambles  among  the  windhig  streets  of 
the  ancient  city,  pass  the  pretty  brick 
b^fiy  of  «that  church — full  <tf  horse- 
shoe niches  and  Moorish  reticulations, 
•—wiUKNit  turning  aside  to  gase  upon  its 
superb  picture  once  more.  It  hangs 
to  yomr  left,  on  the  wall  oiq[K>8ite  to 
the  high  altar.  Gensalo  Ruic,  Count 
of  Orgaz,  head  of  a  house  fionous  in 
romance,  rebuilt  the  Mric  of  the 
church,  and  was  in  aU  respects  so  re- 
ligious and  gradons  a  gnndee,  that, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


iMa.] 


AHm^mJS^fak. 


67 


be  WB8  borfed  in  1828^  wttUa 
t  wery  walla,  fit  Steftoi  and  St 
AagMtinecainedownfimn  heayeii,  aod 
laid  Mb  bodyin  tke  tomb  with  thdrown 
bolj  bandB — aa  incident  which  fonus 
tiMasbfectoftbepictve.  St  Stephen, 
«  daik-baived  jovth  of  noble  coonte- 
■■Bcn,  and  St  Aogaatine,  a  hoary  eld 
aun  wearing  a  sitie,  both  of  them 
arrajed  ia  rick  pontifical  Testments 
«f  goUen  tiMBe,  support  the  dead 
Cemtin  tbeir  arau,  and  genilj  lower 
Mm  into  the  gra^e,  ahnraded  ltl»  a 
imnm  «f  Roeiin  ^in  liis  iron  panopJjJ 
Keibing  can  be  finer  than  the  execa- 
tioB  and  the  contrast  of  these  three 
beads  ;  never  was  the  image  of  the 
peaceM  death  of  ^  the  just  man' 
BMm  bi4>ptl7  conveyed,  than  ia  the 
yboid  £aoe  and  powdrless  lurm  of  the 
warrior:  sordid  Giorgione or Utiaa 
ever  OKcel  the  splendid  ooloaring  of 
bis  black  ansoar,  rich'  with  gold 
damasoeufi^.  To  tbe  right  of  the 
nietnre,  behmd  St  St^hen,  kneels  a 
nir  begr  ia  a  daric  dress,  perhaps  the 
son  of  Ibe  Count ;  beyond  rises  the 
atately  fixat  of  a  gray  friar ;  to  the 
left,  near  St  Angnstme,  stand  two 
priests  ingorgeoas  Teetments,  holding, 
tbe  one  a  bo(^,  and  the  other  a  taper. 
Behind  this  principal  groop  appear 
tbe  noble  company  of  moamers,  hi- 
dalgos and  old  Christians  all,  with 
dive  iaoes  and  beards  of  formal  cot, 
looking  cm  with  tme  Castilian  gravity 
and  phlegm,  as  if  the  transaction  were 
an  erery-day  occnrrenoe.  As  they 
an  mostly  portraits,  periuips  some  of 
tbe  originals  did  actually  stand,  a  few 
years  later,  with  the  like  awe  in  tbeir 
hearts  and  calm  on  their  dieeks,  in 
tbe  royal  presenoe-diamber,  when  the 
news  came  to  court  that  theprood 
Armada  of  Spain  bad  been  van- 
foi^ed  by  tbe  galleys  of  Howard, 
and  cast  away  on  the  rocks  of  the 
Hebrides."  We  make  no  apology  for 
tbns  fireely  qnotini  from  Mr  Stirling's 
pa^BS  his  description  of  this  picture ; 
tbe  extract  brings  vividly  before  our 
i-eaders  at  once  the  merits  (^  the  old 
Toledan  painter,  and  his  acooflq)lished 
iMOgraphcr  and  critic.  After  embel- 
Uabang  his  adopted  city,  not  only  with 
pictures  such  as  this,  but  with  works 
of  acnljftaDe  and  architecture,  and 
vindicating  his  graceful  profession 
firom  the  unsparing  exactions  of  the 
tax-gatbefeBB— «  daas  who  i^ipear  to 


bave  waged  an  nnrelenting  though 
intermittent  war  against  tbe  fine  arts 
in  Spaim— be  died  tbeee  at  a  green 
old  age  in  1625,  and  was  b«r^  in 
tbe  cbnreb  of  St  Bartoleaid.  Even 
tbe  paintefB  moat  einpleyed  at  the 
mmi^oent  and  artrlovingoonrt  4^  the 
seoond  and  tbbd  Fbil^w,  fbond  time  to 
paint  for  the  venenble  caihedraL 
Tbas,  m  1615,  Vinoencio  Caidadio, 
the  Florentine,  painted,  with  Erogenio 
Caxes,  a  series  of  frescoes  in  the 
chapel  of  the  Sagrario;  and  thus  £a- 
genio  Caxes,  lea^g  the  worios  at  the 
Pardo  and  Madrid,  painted  for  tbe  ca- 
thedral of  Toledo  tbe  Adoration  of  the 
Magi,  and  other  independent  pictores. 
Meanwhile  the  school  of  £1  Greoo 
was  producing  worthy  fiait ;  finom  it, 
in  the  ]n£uu^<tf  tbe  seventeaith  cen- 
tury, came  forth  Lds  Tristan,  an  artist 
even  now  almost  unknown  in  London 
and  Edinbuigh,  but  whose  st^le  Ye- 
iasqnea  did  not  disdain  to  imitate, 
and  whose  praises  he  vras  never  tired 
of  sounding.  *^Bom,  bred,  and 
sped^'  in  Totedo,  or  its  neighbonrhood, 
MB  Morales  was  emphatically  the 
painter  of  Bad^oa,  so  may  Tristan 
be  termed  the  painter  <^  Toledo. 
No  foreign  graces,  no  classical  models, 
adorned  or  vitiated  his  stem  Spanish 
style ;  yet,  in  his  portrait  xd  Ardi- 
btthop  Sandoval,  he  is  said  by  Mr 
Stirling  to  haye  united  the  daborato 
execntMm  of  Sanchea  Coello  with 
mocbef  tiko  spirit  of  Titian.  And  of 
him  is  the  pleasant  story  veeorded, 
that  having,  while  yet  a  stripling, 
painted  for  the  Jeronymito  convent  at 
Toledo  a  Last  Supper,  ibr  which  be 
a^ed  two  hundred  ducats,  and  being 
denied  payment  by  the  frugal  friars,  be 
mpealed  with  them  to  the  arbitration 
of  his  old  master,  El  Greco,  who,  having 
viewed  the  incture,  called  the  young 
painter  a  rogne  and  a  novice,  for 
asking  only  two  for  a  painting  worth 
fbre  hundred  dncats.  In.  the  same 
Toledan  cbnrdi  thatcontaias  tbe  ashes 
of  bis  great  master,  Ues  tbe  Mnrcian 
Pedro  Orrente,  called  by  oar  author 
''the  Bassano,  or  tbe  fioos^tbe 
great  sheep  and  cattle  master  of 
SfMidn  :^'  be  too  was  employed  l^  the 
art-encoaraging  chapter,  and  the  ca- 
thedral poseessed  several  of  his  finest 
pictures.  But  with  Tristan  and  Or- 
rente the  glories  of  Toledan  art  paled 
and  waned;  mad^  trusting  that  our 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


68 


Art  and  Artisti  in  Spabu 


[Jan. 


readers  have  not  been  nniuterested  in 
following  our  brief  sketch  of  the  re- 
markable men  who  for  four  hundred 
years  rendered  this  quaint  old  Gothic 
city  famous  for  its  artistic  splendours, 
we  retrace  our  steps,  halting  and  per- 
plexed among  so  many  pleasant  ways, 
blooming  flowers,  and  brilliant  bowers, 
to  the  magnificent,  albeit  gloomy 
Escurial,  where  Philip  II.  lavished 
the  wealth  of  his  mighty  empire  in 
calling  forth  the  most  vigorous  ener- 
gies of  Spanish  and  of  foreign  art. 

For  more  than  thirty  years  did  the 
astonished  shepherds  of  the  Guada- 
ramas  watch  the  mysterious  pile 
growing  under  scaffolding  alive  with 
armies  of  workmen ;  and  often,  while 
the  cares  of  the  Old  World  and  the 
New — to  say  nothing  of  that  other 
Worid,  which  was  seldom  out  of 
Philip^s  thou^ts,  and  to  which  his 
cruel  fanaticism  hurried  so  many 
wretches  before  their  time — ^might 
be  supposed  to  demand  his  attention 
at  Madrid,  were  they  privileged  to 
see  their  mighty  monarch  perched 
on  a  lofty  l^ge  of  rock,  for  hours, 
intently  gazing  upon  the  rising  walls 
and  towers  which  were  to  redeem  his 
vow  to  St  Laurence  at  the  battle  of 
Saint  Quentin,  and  to  hand  down, 
through  all  Spanish  time,  the  name 
and  fame  of  the  royal  and  religious 
founder.  On  the  23d  of  April  1568, 
the  first  stone  of  this  Cyclopean 
palace  was  laid,  under  the  airection 
of  Bantiste  di  Toledo,  at  whose  death, 
in  1567,  the  work  was  continued  by 
Juan  de  Herrera,  and  finally  perfected 
by  I^oni  (as  to  the  interior  decora- 
tions) in  1597.  Built  in  the  quaint 
unshapely  form  of  St  Laurence^s 
gridiron,  the  Escurial  is  doubtless 
open  to  much  severe  criticism ;  but 
the  marvellous  grandeur,  the  stem 
beauty,  and  the  characteristic  effect 
of  the  gigantic  pile,  must  for  ever 
enchant  the  eyes  of  all  beholders, 
who  are  not  doomed  by  perverse  fate 
to  look  through  the  green  spectacles 
of  gentle  dulness.  But  it  is  not  our 
purpose  to  describe  the  Escurial ;  we 
only  wish  to  bring  before  our  readers 
the  names  and  merits  of  a  few  of  the 
Spanish  artists,  who  found  among  its 
gloomy  corridors  or  sumptuous  halls 


niches  in  the  temple  of  fame,  and  in. 
its  saturnine  founder  the  most  gra- 
cious and  munificent  of  patrons. 
Suffice  it,  then,  to  say  of  the  palaces- 
convent,  in  Mr  Stirling's  graceful 
words,  that  "  Italy  was  ransacked  for 
pictures  and  statues,  models  and 
designs ;  the  mountains  of  Sicily  and 
Sardinia  for  jaspers  and  agates ;  and 
every  sierra  of  Spain  furnished  its 
contribution  of  marble.  Madrid, 
Florence,  and  Milan  supplied  the 
sculptures  of  the  altars ;  Guadalajara 
and  Cuenca,  gratings  and  balconies ; 
Saragossa  the  gates  of  brass ;  Toledo 
and  the  Low  Countries,  lamps,  can- 
delabra, and  bells ;  the  New  Worid, 
the  finer  woods ;  and  the  Indies,  both 
East  and  West,  the  gold  and  gems  of 
the  custodia,  and  the  five  hundred 
reliquaries.  The  tapestries  were 
wrought  in  Flemish  looms ;  and,  for 
the  sacerdotal  vestments,  there  was 
scarce  a  nunnery  in  the  empire,  from 
the  rich  and  noble  orders  of  Brabant 
and  Lombardy  to  the  poor  sisterhoods 
of  the  Apulian  highlands,  but  sent 
an  offering  of  n^lework  to  the 
honoured  fathers  of  the  Escurial." 

We  could  wish  to  exclude  from  our 
paper  all  notice  of  the  foreign  artists^ 
whose  genius  assisted  in  decorating 
the  new  wonder  of  the  world ;  but 
how  omit  from  any  Escurialian  or 
Philippian  catalogue  the  names  of 
Titian  and  Cell&ii,  Cambiasb  and 
Tibaldi?  For  seven  long  years  did 
the  great  Venetian  labour  at  his 
famous  Last  Supper,  painted  for, 
and  placed  in  the  rectory ;  and  count- 
less portraits  by  his  fame-dealing 
pencil  graced  the  halls  and  galleries 
of  the  Palatian  convents.  In  addition 
to  these,  the  Pardo  boasted  eleven  of 
his  portraits ;  among  them,  one  of  the 
hero  Duke  Emmanuel  Philibert  of 
Savoy,  who  has  received  a  second 
grant  of  renown — let  us  hope  a  more 
lasting  one* — firom  the  poetic  chisel 
of  Marochetti,  and  stands  now  in  the 
great  square  of  Turin,  the  very  im- 
personation of  chivalry,  horse  and 
hero  alike— -itvdfi  yoMoy. 

The  magnificent  Florentine  con- 
tributed **  the  matchless  marble  cruci- 
fix behind  the  prior's  seat  in  the 
choir,"  of  which  Mr  Sthrling  says- 


All  these  portraits  were  destroyed  by  fire  in  the  reign  of  Philip  III. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Art  and  ArtisU  in  Spain, 


69 


**  Never  was  marble  shaped  into  a 
sublimer  Image  of  the  great  sacrifice 
for  man's  atonement."  Lnca  Cam- 
biaao,  the  Genoese,  painted  the. 
Martyrdom  of  St  Laurence  for  the 
high  altar  of  the  chnrch — a  pictare 
thiU  must  have  been  regarded,  from 
its  subject  and  position,  as  the  first  of 
all  the  £scarial*s  religions  pictures, 
— besides  the  vault  of  the  choir,  and 
two  great  frescoes  for  the  grand  stair- 
case. 

Pellegrino  Tibaldi,  a  native  of  the 
Milanese,  came  at  Philip's  request  to 
the  Escurial  in  1586.  He,  too, 
pamted  a  Martyrdom  of  Saint  Lau- 
rence for  the  high  altar,  but  apparently 
with  no  better  success  than  his  im- 
mediate predecessor,  Zuccaro,  whose 
work  his  was  to  replace.  But  the 
ceiling  of  the  library  was  Tibaldi's 
field  of  fame ;  on  it  he  painted  a  fi-esco 
194  feet  long  by  30  wide,  which  still 
speaks  to  his  skill  in  composition  and 
brilliancy  in  colouring.  Philip  re- 
warded him  with  a  Milanese  mar- 
qnisate  and  one  hundred  thousand 
crowns. 

Morales,  the  first  great  devotional 
painter  of  Castile,  on  whom  his  ad- 
miring countrymen  bestowed  the  sou- 
Kriquet  of  "  divine" — with  more  pro- 
priety. It  must  be  confessed,  than  their 
descendants  have  shown  in  conferring 
it  upon  Arguelles— contributed  but  one 
mctnre  to  the  court,  and  none  to  the 
Eacnrial;  but  in  Alonzo  Sanchez 
Coello,  born  at  Benifayrd,  in  Valen- 
cia, we  find  a  famous  native  artist 
decorating  the  superb  walls  of  the  new 
palace.  While  at  Madrid  he  was 
lodged  in  the  Treasury,  a  building 
whk^  communicated  with  the  palace 
by  a  door,  of  which  the  King  kept  a 
key ;  and  often  would  the  royal  Ma- 
cenas  slip  thus,  unobserved  by  the 
artist,  into  his  studio.  Emperors  and 
popes,  kings  and  queens,  princes  and 
princesses,  were  alike  his  friends  and 
subjects ;  but  we  are  now  only  con- 
cerned to  relate  that,  in  1582,  he 
painted  *^  five  altar-pieces  for  the  Es- 
curial, each  containing  a  pair  of 
saints."  Far  more  of  interest,  how- 
ever, attaches  itself  to  the  name  and 
memory  of  Juan  Fernandez  Nava- 
rete,  *^  whose  genius  was  no  less  re- 
markable-than  his  infirmities,  and 
whose  name — El  Mudo,  the  dumb 
painter — Is  as  familiar  to  Europe  as 


his  works  are  unknown,"  (vol.  i.  p. 
250.)  Born  at  Logrollo  in  1526,  he 
went  in  his  youth  to  Italy.  Here  he 
attracted  the  notice  of  Don  Luis 
Manrique,  grand-almoner  to  Philip, 
who  procured  him  an  invitation  to 
Madrid.  He  was  immediately  set  to 
work  for  the  Escurial ;  and  in  1571 
four  pictures,  the  Assumption  of  the 
Virgin,  the  Martyrdom  of  St  James 
the  Great,  St  Philip,  and  a  Re- 
penting St  Jerome,  were  hung  in  the 
sacristy  of  the  convent,  and  brought 
him  five  hundred  ducats.  Li  1576  he 
painted,  for  the  reception-hall  of  the 
convent,  a  large  picture  representing 
Abraham  receiving  the  three  An- 
gels. "  This  picture,"  says  Father 
Andres  Ximenes,  quoted  by  Mr  Stir- 
ling, (vol.  i.  p.  255,)  *^  so  appropriate 
to  the  place  it  fills,  though  the  first  of 
the  master*s  works  that  usually  meets 
the  eye,  might,  for  its  excellence,  be 
view^  the  last,  and  is  well  worth 
coming  many  a  league  to  see."  An 
agreement,  bearing  date  the  same 
year,  between  the  painter  and  the 
prior,  by  which  the  former  cove- 
nanted to  paint  thirty-two  large  pic- 
tures for  the  side  altars,  is  preserved 
by  Cean  Bermudez ;  but  £1  Mudo 
unfortunately  died  when  only  eight  of 
the  series  had  been  painted.  On  the 
28th  of  March  1579  this  excellent  and 
remarkable  painter  died  in  the  53d 
year  of  his  age.  A  few  years  later, 
Juan  Gomez  painted  from  a  design  of 
Tibaldi  a  large  picture  of  St  Ursula, 
which  repla^  one  of  Cambiaso's 
least  satisfactory  Escurialian  per- 
formances. 

While  acres  of  wall  and  ceiling  were 
being  thus  painted  in  fresco,  or  cover- 
ed by  large  and  fine  pictures,  the  Es- 
curial gave  a  ready  home  to  the  most 
minute  of  the  fine  arts:  illuminators  of 
missals,  and  painters  of  miniatures, 
embroiderers  of  vestments,  and  de- 
signers of  altar-cloths,  found  theur 
labours  appreciated,  and  their  genius 
called  forth,  no  less  than  their  more 
aspiring  compeers.  Fray  Andrez  de 
Leon,  and  Fray  Martin  de  Palenda, 
enriched  the  Escurial  with  exquisite 
specimens  of  their  skill  in  the  arts  of 
miniature- paintipg  and  illuminating ; 
and  under  the  direction  of  Fray  Lo- 
renzo di  Monserrate,  and  Diego  Ruti- 
ner,  the  conventual  school  of  embroi- 
dery produced  froutals  and  dalmatics, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


70 


Art 


oopes,  chftsnbles,  and  altar-doCln,  €f 
rsresi  beaotj  and  happiest  desigsa. 
The  goldsmitha  and  i#fWsmith8,  loo^ 
lacked  not  enocmragenent  in  thia  great- 
est of  temples.  CMow  was  tieskillf 
and  conning  tiie  haod^  which  ih- 
shioned  the  tewer  of  gold  and  jasper 
tocontainthe  Escniial's  hoMestreiiqiie, 
— a  nrasde,  shiged  and  charred,  of  St 
Lanrence — and  no  devbt  that  akin 
was  noblj  rewarded. 

In  1599,  clasping'  to  his  hreast  the 
Te9  of  Oir  Lady  cf  M oosenrat,  in  s 
Httle  alcore  h«rd  hy  the  dinrch  of  the 
Escnrial,  died  Its  grim,  nnignHleeBt 
founder.  He  had  iHtnessed  the  com- 
pletion of  his  gigantic  derigns:  pateee 
and  conrent,  there  H  steed— a  monv- 
ment  alike  of  his  pietj  and  his  pride, 
and  a  proof  of  the  grandeur  and  re- 
sources  of  the  mighty  empire  OYet 
which  he  rnled.  fist  he  appears  to 
have  tiionfght  with  the  poet    ' 

*«  Wogiwd  lA  tha  balMM,  hexo-diut 
la  Tile  M  iBortal  day  '^^ 

for  be  bnilt  m»  stately  MHHolenm, 
merely  m  common  Taulty  to  receive  the 
imperial  dead.  This  omisaioD,  in  liU7, 
FMl^ni.  nnderteok  to  sappty;  nod 
Giovanni  Battista  Creaoenai,  an  Ita* 
lian,  was  selected  as  the  aiebitect. 
Forthkty-foor  years  did  he  and  his 
sQCcesBors  hihov  at  this  royal  necro- 
polis, wliich  when  finlriMd  ^  brramci, 
under  the  name  of  the  Pantheon,  the 
most  splendid  chnaiher  of  the  £scu- 
rial."— (Vol.  i.  p.  412.  i 

Mr  Sthrlingl^  seeenct  Tohmie  opev 
with  a  graphic  aoeonot  of  the  deci|f  of 
Spanish  power  under  Philip  IV.,  and 
an  eqaaUy  gnnihie  description  of  this, 
tin  chief  arehitectnral  triumph  of  hia 
long  higloriou  reign.  ThePaatheoo 
was  "^an  octagonal  chaanber  113  feet 
in  diouniBrence,  and  38  feet  in 
height,  ftom  the  pnTemeat  t»  the 
centre  of  the  deined  vank.  Each  of 
its  eight  sides,  exoepthig  the  two 
which  an  ocevpied  hy  km  entrance, 
and  the  altar,  oontaia  fear  niches  and 
fbur  marhle  nms;  the  walla,  Co- 
rinthian pilasters,  oomiees  and  dome, 
are  fcrmed  of  the  finest  marbles  of 
Toledo  and  Biscay,  Tortoea  and  Ge- 
noa; and  the  hnsea,  capitals,  scrolls, 
and  other  omameats,  areof  gilt  hrsoae. 
Placed  beneath  the  prtabytery  of  the 
church,  and  approached  by  the  long 
descent  of  s  stately  marble  stahrcase, 


[Jan. 

tfiia  hall  of  royal 
'  with  gold  and  polished  jmi^v,  i 
a  creation  of  Eastern  romance,  * .  .  . 
Hither  Philip  IV.  wnnld  eeme,  when 
melancholy— the  fatal  taint  of  his 
blood  was  strong  iqpon  him— to  hear 
mass,  and  meditate  on  deati^  sitting 
hi  the  niche  which  was  shortly  to 
receiye  his  bones.**  Yet  this  was  tfao 
monarch  whose  qoidc  ^e  delected 
the  early  yenlas  of  Yelasqnes,  and 
who  bore  the  palm  as  a  patron  iren» 
aU  the  prfamea  of  his  hons^  and  aU 
the  sovereigns  of  Europe*  Wdl  did 
the  great  painter  repay  the  discrimi- 
nating friendship  of  the  king,  and  so 
long  as  Spanish  art  endures,  will  tho 
features  of  PhU^  IV.  be  known  in 
ereryEor^wanconntiy;  andhisfrur^ 
hair,  melaacholj  mien,  iaipaasim 
counteasnce  and  coid  eyes,  rcTcai  to 
all  thne  the  hereditary  characteristics 
of  the  phlegmatic  house  of  Austria. 

Diego  SodrigBea  de  Silva  y  Yelas- 
quez  was  bom  at  Seville  in  1599* 
Here  be  entered  the  sdiool  of  Herrem 
the  Elder,  a  dashing  pamtcr,  and  n 
violent  man,  who  was  for  ever  losing 
a^ke  his  temper  and  his  scholars. 
Yelasqaea  soon  left  ids  turbnle^  ndo 
for  the  gentler  instmction  of  Frandson 
Pucheco.  In  his  stodio  the  yonn^ 
artist  worked  ^ilgmtly,  while  he  took 
lessons  at  the  same  time  of  a  yet 
more  finished  artist  —  natnre;  the 
nature  of  bright,  sanny,  graeefai 
Andalusia.  Thus,  while  Velasquen 
cannot  bocaHed  a  self-taugfe^  painter, 
he  retained  to  the  last  that  freedooa 
finom  mannerism,  and  that  gay  fideii^ 
to  nature,  which  so  oflen— not  in  hte 
case  —  compensate  for  »  departam 
flroM  the  highest  rules  and  requnre- 
ments  of  art. 

While  he  was  thus  stndyhig  and 
painrhig  the  lowers  and  the  fruits^ 
the  damsels  and  the  beggars,  of  sunny 
Seville,  there  arrived  is  that  beastifnl 
city  a  collection  of  Italian  and  Span- 
ish pictures.  These  exercised  no  smsU 
influence  on  the  taste  and  style  of  rho 
young  artist;  but,  true  to  his  country, 
and  with  the  happy  inspiration  of  ge- 
nius, it  was  to  Lais  Tristan  of  Toledo, 
rather  than  to  any  foreign  master,  that 
he  dtrecled  his  chief  attention;  and 
hence  the  future  chief  of  the  Castihan 
school  was  enabled  to  combine  wiib 
its  UMfits  the  excellencies  of  both  tho 
other  great  divisions  of  Spanish  art. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18i9.] 


AHmtdArtiMMimJ^fmm. 


ouHEried  PaelK 


lPaeheoo*ftclfti«li- 
i  aU  his  krty  jMit' 
(•Ad  raeoetsesy  sad  dosed  kis 
Mag  mt.  At  the  age  of  twentj- 
Imey  YelMqiMB^  aaxioio  to  eniarge 
Ui  aoqitetttaMe  wkh  the  mMter- 
pieees  of  other  school^  west  to  Ma- 
drid; b«t  after  spendng  a  iswMOttths 
ttera,  aMi  at  theEecamlyheietanMd 
to  SofiUe— MOD*  howvyer,  to  he  ra- 
eailod  at  the  biddhig  of  the  great 
ariairter  aad  Macrae,  (Mivavea. 
Noir,  in  1623,  set  in  the  tide  of  Airoar 
and  of  ftmer  which  heneeforward 
was  not  to  flag  or  ebb  till  the  great 
painter  lay  stretched,  ont  of  its  reach, 
on  the  cold  bank  of  death.  Daring 
Wa  snaimer  he  {MUDted  the  noble 
portrait  of  the  kinc  on  horsebadc, 
which  was  exhibited  1^  rojal  order 
infinottt  of  thechvcfa  of  San  Felipe, 
and  which  canied  the  aU-powerfid 
Connt-dBke  to  esetainh  that  nntil 
now  las  BNyesty  had  never  been 
pninUd,  Charmed  and  ddi^^hted 
with  the  ptctore  and  the  painter, 
Philip  declared  no  other  artist  ahoald 
in  Ihtare  paint  his  ro^ral  fiu»;  andMr 
StirUDg  maUdoofiiy  adds  that  ""  this 
resolntion  he  kept  far  More  religioaslj 
than  his  Barriage  Yows,  for  he  appears 
to  have  departed  finom  it  during  the 
Ife-tine  of  his  dioeen  artist,  in 
flmNv  onljr  of  Rabens  and  CraTer.** 
(Vol.  M.  p.  692.)  On  the  Slst  of 
Oetober  1G29,  Yelasqaea  was  formally 
appointed  painter  in  ordinary  to  the 
klag,  and  in  1626  was  pnyvided  with 
apttrtmentsfai  the  Treasory.  To  this 
period  Mr  Stiriing  assigns  his  beat 
nheafes  of  the  eqnes tiiaa  monarch,  of 
which  he  says — ^^  Far  more  pleasing 
any  other  representation  oi  the 
,  it  is  also  one  of  the  finest  por- 
in  the  worU.  The  king  is  in 
the  glow  of  yonth  and  health,  aad  in 
the  fhU  enjoyment  of  his  fine  horse, 
and  the  breeae  blowing  fi-eshly  firam 
the  distant  hUls ;  he  wears  dark  ar- 
■oar,  orerwhidi  flatters  a  crimson 
scarf;  a  hat  with  black  phunes  covers 
his  head,  and  his  right  hand  graq»  a 
tmncheon."— (P.  696.) 

In  1628,  Vehwqnes  bad  the  pleasure 
of  showing  Rubens,  who  had  come  to 
Madrid  as  envoy  from  the  Low  Coon« 
tries,  the  galleries  of  that  dty,  and 
the  wonders  of  the  Escnrial;  and,  fol- 
lowing the  advice  of  that  mighty 


71 

r,  he  visited  Italy  the  next  year. 
On  that  painier-prododng  soil,  his 
steps  were  first  toraed  to  the  dty  of 
Titian ;  bat  the  son  ei  art  was  going 
down  over  the  ^luaysaad  palaoesof 
once  i^oriona  Yenicev  and,  harrying 
throngh  Ferram  aad  Bologna,  the 
ea^  pilgrim  soon  reached  Rome.  In 
this  BMtirQpolia  of  reUgloa,  learnings 
and  art,  the  yoong  Spaniard  spent 
numy  a  pleasant  and  profitable  month : 
nor,  whUe  feasting  his  eyes  and  stor- 
ing Ins  meaaovy  with  ^its  thoosaad 
forma  of  beauty  and  deligbt,''  did  he 
allow  his  peadl  a  perfect  holiday. 
The  Forge  of  Yokan  and  Jo- 
seph's Coat  were  painted  in  the 
Eternal  City.  After  a  tew  weeks  at 
Kaplesy  he  returned  to  Madrid  in  the 
spring  of  16S1.  Portrait-paintiiig  for 
his  r^ral  patron,  who  woakl  visit  his 
stndio  every  day,  and  sit  there  long 
homrs,  seeaia  to  have  been  now  his 
maittoccapation;  and  now  was  he  able 
to  reqnite  the  friendly  aid  be  had  re- 
odved  from  the  Count-dake  of  Oli- 
varea,  whose  image  remains  reflected 
on  the  stream  of  time,  not  after  the 
hideous  caricatare  of  Le  Sage,  bat  as 
limned  by  the  trathfnl — albeit  grac^ 
oonforring— pencil  of  Yelasqaez. 

In  16S9,  leaving  king  aad  coortiers, 
lords  and  ladies,  and  soaring  above 
the  earth  on  which  he  had  made  his 
st^  so  sare,  Ydasqaea  aspired  to  the 
grandest  theme  of  poet,  moralist,  or 
painter,  and  wMj  did  his  genias  jus- 
tify the  flight.  His  Crucifixion  is 
one  of  the  snblimest  representaUona 
concdved  by  the  intdleet,  aad  por- 
trayed by  the  hand  of  man,  of  that 
stnpendons  event  '^  Unrelieved  by 
the  vsaal  dim  landscape,  or  lowering 
ckmds,  the  cross  in  this  picture  has 
no  fooUng  upon  earth,  but  is  placed 
on  a  plain  dark  ground,  like  an  ivory 
carving  on  its  vdvet  pall.  Never  was 
that  great  agony  more  powerfaUy  de- 
picted. The  bead  of  our  Lord  drops 
on  his  right  siionlder,  over  which  faUs 
a  mass  of  dark  hair,  while  drops  (tf 
blood  trickle  from  his  thom-pterced 
brows.  The  anatomy  of  the  naked 
body  and  limbs  is  executed  with  as 
mudi  precidon  as  in  Cellini's  marble, 
which  may  have  served  Yelasquea  as 
amodd;  and  the  linen  doth  wrapped 
about  the  loins,  and  even  the  fir- wood 
of  the  cross,  display  his  accurate  at- 
tention to  the  smallest  details  of  a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


72 


Art  and  Artists  m  Spttm, 


[Jan. 


great  subject." — (Vol.  il.  p.  619.) 
This  masterpiece  now  haogs  in  the 
Royal  Galleiy  of  Spain  at  Madrid. 

The  all-powerful  Olivarez  under- 
went, in  1643,  the  fate  of  most  favour- 
ites, and  experienced  the  doom  de- 
nounced by  the  great  English  satirist 
on  ^^  power  too  great  to  keep,  or  to 
resign."  He  had  declared  his  inten- 
tion of  making  one  Julianillo,  an  ille- 
gitimate child  of  no  one  exactly  knew 
who,  his  heir ;  had  married  him  to  the 
daughter  of  the  Constable  of  Castile, 
decked  him  with  titles  and  honours, 
and  proposed  to  make  him  governor  of 
the  heir- apparent.  The  pencil  of 
Velasquez  was  employed  to  hand 
down  to  posterity  the  features  of  this 
low-bom  cause  of  his  great  patron^s 
downfall,  and  the  portrait  of  the  ex- 
ballad  singer  in  the  streets  of  Madrid 
now  graces  the  collection  of  Bridge- 
water  House.  The  disgrace  of  Oli- 
varez served  to  test  the  fine  character 
of  Velasquez,  who  not  only  sorrowed 
over  his  patron*s  misfortunes,  but  had 
the  courage  to  visit  the  disgraced 
statesman  in  his  retirement. 

The  triumphal  entrance  of  Philip 
IV.  into  Lerida,  the  surrender  of 
Breda,  and  portraits  of  the  royal 
family,  exercised  the  invention  and 
pencil  of  Velasquez  till  the  year  1648, 
when  he  was  sent  by  the  king  on  a 
roving  mission  into  Italy— not  to  teach 
the  puzzled  sovereigns  the  mysterious 
privileges  of  self-government,  but  to 
collect  such  works  of  art  as  his  fine 
taste  might  think  worthy  of  transpor- 
tation to  Madrid.  Landing  at  Grenoa, 
he  found  himself  in  presence  of  a  troop 
of  Vandyck*s  gallant  nobles :  hence  he 
went  to  Milan,  Padua,  and  Venice. 
At  the  latter  city  he  purchased  for  his 
royal  master  two  or  three  pictures  of 
Tintoret's,  and  the  Venus  and  Adonis 
of  Paul  Veronese.  But  Rome,  as  in 
his  previous  visit,  was  the  chief  object 
of  his  pilgrimage.  Innocent  X.  wel- 
comed him  gladly,  and  commanded 
him  to  paint,  not  only  his  own  coarse 
features,  but  the  more  delicate  ones  of 
Donna  Olympla,  his  "  sister-in-law 
•ftnd  mistress."  So,  at  least,  says  our 
author ;  for  the  sake  of  religion  and 
buman  nature,  we  hope  he  is  mis- 
taken. For  more  than  a  yeai*  did 
Velasquez  sojourn  in  Rome,  pur- 
chasing works  of  art,  and  enjoying  the 
society  of  Bernini  and  Nicolas  Poussin , 


Pietro  da  Cortona  and  AlgardL  ^^  It 
would  be  pleasing,  were  it  possible,  to 
draw  aside  the  dark  curtain  of  cen- 
turies, and  follow  him  into  the  palaces 
and  studios — to  see  him  standing  by 
while  Claude  painted,  or  Algardi 
modelled,  (enjoying  the  hospitalities  of 
Bentivoglio,  perhaps  in  that  foir  hall 
glorious  with  Guido's  recent  fresco  of 
Aurora)~or  minglingin  the  group  that 
accompanied  Poussin  in  his  evening 
walks  on  the  terrace  of  Trinitk  de 
Monte."— (Vol.  ii.  p.  643.)  Mean- 
while the  king  was  impatiently  wait- 
ing his  return,  and  at  last  insisted 
upon  its  being  no  further  delayed ;  so 
in  1651  the  soil  of  Spain  was  once 
more  trod  by  her  greatest  painter. 
Five  years  later,  Velasquez  produced 
his  extraordinary  picture,  Las  Me- 
ni&as — the  Maids  of  Honour,  ex- 
traordinary alike  in  the  composition, 
and  in  the  skill  displayed  by  the 
painter  in  overcoming  its  many  difil- 
culties.  D  warfs  and  maids  of  honour, 
hounds  and  children,  lords  and  ladies, 
pictures  and  furniture,  are  all  intro- 
duced into  this  remarkable  picture, 
with  such  success  as  to  make  many 
judges  pronounce  it  to  be  Velasqnez^s 
masterpiece,  and  Luca  Giordano  to 
christen  it "  the  theology  of  painting." 
The  Escnrial,  from  whose  galleries 
and  cloisters  we  have  been  thus  lured 
by  the  greater  glory  of  Velasquez,  in 
1656  demanded  his  presence  to  arrange 
a  large  collection  of  pictures,  forty-one 
of  which  came  from  the  dispersed  and 
abused  collection  of  the  only  real  lover 
of  the  fine  arts  who  has  sat  on  Eng- 
land's throne — that  martyr-monarch 
whom  the  pencil  of  Vandyck,  and  the 
pens  of  Lovelace,  Montrose,  and  Ola- 
rendon  have  immortalised,  though 
their  swords  and  counsels  failed  to 
preserve  his  life  and  crown.  In  1659, 
the  cross  of  Santiago  was  formally 
conferred  on  this  "  king  of  painters, 
and  painter  of  kings ;"  and  on  St  Pros- 
per*s  day,  in  the  Church  of  the  Car- 
bonera,  he  was  installed  knight  of  that 
illustrious  order,  the  noblest  grandees 
of  Spain  assisting  at  the  solemn  cere- 
monial. The  famous  meeting  on  the 
Isle  of  Pheasants,  so  full  of  historic 
interest,  between  the  crowns  and 
courts  of  Spain  and  France,  to  cele- 
brate the  nuptials  of  Louis  XIV.  and 
Maria  Theresa,  was  destined  to  ac- 
quire an  additional  though  melancholy 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Art  and  Artists  in  Spain. 


fame,  as  the  last  appearance  of  the 
^reat  painter  in  public,  and  the  pos- 
sible proximate  cause  of  his  death. 
To  him,  as  aposentador-mayor^  were 
confided  all  the  decorations  and  ar- 
rangements of  this  costly  and  fatiffu- 
ing  pageant :  he  was  also  to  find  lodg- 
ing on  the  road  for  the  king  and  the 
eourt ;  and  some  idea  of  the  magni- 
tude of  his  official  cares  may  be  derived 
from  the  fact,  that  three  thousand  fiye 
hundred  mules,  eighty-two  horses, 
aeyenty  coaches,  and  seventy  baggage- 
waggons,  formed  the  train  that  fol- 
lowed the  monarch  out  of  Madrid. 
On  the  28th  of  June  the  court  re- 
turned to  Madrid,  and  on  the  6th  of 
August  its  inimitable  painter  expired. 
The  merits  of  Velasquez  are  now 
guierally  appreciated  in  England; 
and  the  popular  voice  would,  we  think, 
ratify  the  enthusiastic  yet  sober  dic- 
tum of  Wilkie,  **  In  painting  an  intelli- 
gent  portrait  be  isneariy  unrivalled.^* 
Yet  we  have  seen  how  he  could  rise 
to  the  highest  subject  of  mortal  ima- 
gination in  the  Crucifixion ;  and 
the  one  solitary  naked  Venus,  which 
Spanish  art  in  four  hundred  years 

Eroduced,  is  his.  Mr  Stirling,  though 
e  mentions  this  picture  in  the  body 
of  his  book,  assigns  it  no  place  in 
his  valuable  and  laboriously-compiled 
catalogue,  probably  because  he  was 
unable  to  trace  its  later  adventures. 
Brought  to  England  in  1814,  and  sold 
Ibr  £500  to  Mr  Morritt,  it  still  re- 
mains the  gem  of  the  library  at  Boke- 
by.  Long  may  the  Spanish  queen  of 
love  preside  over  the  beautiful  bowers 
cf  that  now  classic  retreat  I  We  sum 
up  our  notice  of  Velasquez  in  Mr  Stir- 
ling's words: — "No  artist  ever  fol- 
lowed nature  with  more  catholic  fide- 
lity; his  cavaliers  are  as  natural  as 
^  boors ;  he  neither  refined  the  vul- 
gar, nor  vulgarised  the  refined.  .  .  . 
We  know  the  persons  of  Philip  IV. 
and  Olivarez  as  familiarly  as  if  we 
hMd  paced  the  avenues  of  the  Pardo 
with  Digby  and  Howell,  and  perhaps 
we  think  more  favourably  of  their 
characters.  In  the  portraits  of  the 
monarch  and  the  minister, 

'The  bonoding  iteodi   they  pompouslj  be- 
stride, 
Bhsn  with  their  lords  the  pleMure  and  the 
pride,' 

and  enable  us  to  judge  of  the  Cordo- 
▼eeo  horse  of  that  day,  as  accurately 


73 

as  if  we  had  lived  with  the  horse- 
breeding  Carthusians  of  the  Betls. 
And  this  painter  of  kings  and  horses 
has  been  compared,  as  a  painter  of 
landscapes,  to  Claude ;  as  a  painter  of 
low  life,  to  Teniers :  his  fruit-pieces 
equal  those  of  Sanchez  Cotan  or  Van 
Kessel ;  his  poultry  might  contest  the 
prize  with  the  fowls  of  Hondekooter 
on  their  own  dunghill ;  and  his  dogs 
might  do  battle  with  the  dogs  of 
Sneyders."— (Vol.  U.  p.  686.} 

While  Velasquez,  at  the  height  of 
his  glory,  was  painting  his  magnificent 
Crucifixion,  a  young  lad  was  display- 
ing  hasty   sketches   and   immature 
daubs  to  the  venders  of  old  clothes, 
pots,  and  vegetables,  the  gipsies  and 
mendicant  friars  that  fi*eqnented  the 
Feria,   or  weekly  fair  held  in   the 
market-place  of   All  Saints,  in  the 
beautiful  and  religious  city  of  Seville. 
This  was  Bartolem^  Estevan  Murillo, 
who,  having  studied  for  some  time 
under   Juan    del  Castillo,    on   that 
master's  removal  to  Cadiz  in  1640, 
betook  himself  to  this   popular  re- 
source of  all  needy  Sevillian  painters. 
Struck,  however,  by  the  m^eat  im- 
provement which  travel  had  wrought 
in  the  style  of  Pedro  de  Moya,  who 
revisited  Seville  in  1642,  the  yonng 
painter  scraped  up  money  sufficient  to 
carry  him  to  Madrid,  and,  as  he  hoped, 
to  Rome.    But  the  kindness  of  Velas- 
quez provided  him  a  lodging  in  his 
own  house,  and  opened  the  gallenes  of 
the  Alcazar  and  the  Escurial  to  his 
view.     Here  he  pursued  his  studies 
unremittingly,  and,  as  he  thought,  with 
a  success  that  excused  the  trouble  and 
expense   of  an   Italian   pilgrimage. 
Returning,  therefore,  in  1645  to  Se- 
ville, he  commenced  that  career  which 
led  him,  among  the  painters  of  Spain, 
to  European  renown,  second  only  to 
that  of  Velasquez.     The  Franciscans 
of  his  native  city  have  the  credit  of 
first  employing  his  yonng  genius,  and 
the  eleven  large  pictures  with  which 
he  adorned  their  convent-walls    at 
once  established  his  reputation  and 
success.    These  were  pamted  in  what 
is  technically  called  his  first  or  cold 
style ;  this  was  changed  before  1660 
into    his    second,    or   warm    style, 
which  m  its  turn  yielded  to  his  last, 
or  vapoury  style.    So  warm,  indeed, 
had  his   colouring   become,  that   a 
Span'ish  critic,  in  the  nervous  phrase- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


74 


Jaft  WMlAfnttt  M  SpwMm 


[J«. 


ology  of  Spain,  dedared  bis  flerii-tliiti 
were  now  painted  witk  blood  aad 
milk.  In  this  style  did  lie  paint 
fiM*  the  chapter  The  Katiritj  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  in  which  the  ladies 
eC  Seville  admired  ttud  envied  the 
loondnesa  of  a  iniaistering  maiden's 
nalced  ann ;  and  a  large  picture  of 
8t  AnthoBj  of  Padoa,  which  stiU 
adorns  the  walls  of  the  cathedral 
baptistery.  Of  this  famoas  gem  some 
carious  stories  are  told:  Don  Fer- 
nando Farlan,  for  iastaaeey  relates 
that  birds  had  been  seen  attempting 
to  perch  open  some  lilies  in  a  vase  by 
the  side  of  the  kneding  saint;  and 
Monsienr  V  iardot  {Mm&g  d'Espagme^ 
p,  146)  informs  ns  that  a  reverend 
canon,  who  showed  htm  the  pietnre, 
lecoimted  how  that,  in  1813,  the  Dnke 
ef  Wellington  offered  to  pnrchase  it 
ibr  as  many  gold  onzas  as  woold 
cover  its  sorfaoe;  while,  in  1843^  Ca{^ 
tain  Widdriogtott  was  assmred  that  a 
lord  had  expressed  Ids  readiDess  to 
give  £40,000  for  the  bord-delading 
pictmv.  The  beUef  in  the  gnlUbility 
of  travelers  is  traly  remai^able  and 
wide-spread ;  thM,  at  Genoa,  in  1839, 
onr  excellent  dceroae  gratified  as 
with  the  iniormation,  that,  sixteen 
years  before,  the  English  Dnke  Bal- 
Ibar  had  in  vain  offered  £1600  for 
Canova's  beantlfol  basso-relievo  of  the 
Virgin  Clasping  the  Corpse  of  oar 
Saviour,  which  graces  the  ngly  chnreh 
ef  the  poor-hotse  in  that  superb  city. 
In  1658,  Morillo  laboored  to  establish 
a  pnblic  academy  of  art ;  and,  in  spite 
<rf  the  jealonsies  and  contentions  of 
rival  artists,  on  the  Ist  of  Janaary 
1660,  he  witnessed  its  inangoratioo. 
The  rules  were  few  and  simple ;  bat 
the  declaration  to  be  signed  by  each 
member  on  adausskm  wonld  rather 
astonish  the  directors  of  the  Royal 
Academy  in  London.  We  woold  re- 
commend it  to  the  consideration  of 
those  Protestant  divines  who  are  so 
anxious  to  devise  a  new  test  of  heresy 
in  the  Church  of  England:  thus  it 
ran — '^  Praised  be  the  most  holy  sacra- 
ment, and  the  pore  conception  of  Onr 
Lady."  Nothing,  perhaps,  can  show 
more  strongly  tl^  immense  inflnence 
rdigion  exercised  on  art  in  Spain  than 
the  second  danse  of  this  declaration. 
It  was  the  favourite  dogma  of  Seville : 
for  hundreds  of  years  sermons  were 
preached^  books  were  written,  pictnrea 


painted,  legeods  recorded  in  hono«r 
of  Onr  Lsidy's  spotless  concepticm ; 
and  round  many  a  pictopa  by  Canoy  or 
Vargas,  or  Joaaes,  is  yet  to  be  read 
the  magic  wnrds  thai  had  power  to 
deetrMy  a  popidaoe,— "*  Sfai  Pecado 
Ooncdiida.'*  The  histitntion  tlvu 
cemaenced  flowisbed  fbr  many  jrearsy. 
and  answered  the  generons  expecta- 
tiooa  of  its  illnskrions  fonnder. 

The  attentioo  of  the  picas  Do» 
Mignel  Maliarade  Leca,  the '^benevo- 
leni  Howard "  of  SevOlOr  was  attract* 
ed  abont  1661  to  the  pidable  state  of 
the  brotherhood  of  the  hobr  charity, 
and  its  hospital  of  San  Jorge:  he 
resolved  to  restore  it  to  its  pristine 
glory  and  nselhlness ;  and,  perseverini^ 
against  all  disoonragemeDts  and  diffi- 
cnlties,  in  leas  than  twenty  years,  9t 
an  expense  of  half-a-miffioB  of  ducats^ 
he  accomplxriied  his  pkras  design* 
For  the  restored  dinrchMnrfflo  paint* 
ed  eleven  pictnres,  of  which  eighty 
acoOTdhig  to  Mr  StbUne,  are  the 
fiaestworfcsof themaster.  Fiveof these 
were  carried  off  by  phmdering  Soalt> 
but  ^*  the  two  colossal  compositioBa 
of  Moses,  and  the  Loaves  and  ilshes, 
•till  hang  beneath  the  cornices  whence 
springs  the  dome  of  Hxe  chnreh,  ^^  like 
ripe  oranges  on  the  bongh  where  tb^ 
originally  bndded.**  Long  may  they 
cover  thefar  native  ^  walls,  and  enrich^ 
as  well  as  adorn,  Ae  institation  of 
Mafiara!  In  the  pictvre  of  the  great 
mhrade  of  the  Jtmisk  dispensation, 
the  Hebrew  prophet  stands  beside  the 
rock  in  Horeb,  with  hands  pressed 
together,  and  uplifted  ^es,  thankmg 
the  Almighty  for  the  stream  which 
has  jnst  gashed  forth  at  ^e  stroke  of 

Iris  myst^rioas  rod As  a. 

composition,  this  wonderful  picture 
can  hardly  be  sorpassed.  The  rod^ 
»  huge,  isolated,  brown  crag,  much 
resembles  in  form,  siae,  and  colonr, 
that  wfakh  is  still  pofaited  out  as  the 
rock  of  Moses,  l^  the  Greek  monks  of 
the  oonfent  of  St  Catherine,  in  the 
real  wildeness  of  Horeb.  It  forms 
the  central  obfect,  rising  to  the  top  of 
the  canvass,  and  dividlog  it  into  two 
unequal  portions.  In  nront  of  the 
rock,  the  eye  at  once  sin^^  out  the 
erect  figure  of  the  prophet  standing 
forward  firom  the  throng;  and  the  lofty 
emotion  of  that  great  leader,  looking^ 
whh  gratitude  to  heaven,  is  finely 
contrasted  with  the  downward  regard 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Girer  in  th*  maMiptKlkm  or  tks 
•>ioy—rt  of  ti»gift>  Each  ha>i 
and  figwe  is  aa  ahriMrafet  ttody ;  aadi 
eoaatsMaeehaa  a  dittinclive  <teroe- 
t«r;  aadtrai  of  tba  sixleai  fiwili 
Iragiii  la  tba  miag,  ao  two  na 
alike  n  fws.**— (YoL  fi.  ^  86».>  Bol 
Oaa  Ikfadii,  i^a  eaiimcl  tha 
pririkga  af  aeaiiif  aO  Iheaa  cigkt 
■Mtaiph  cui  kangiag  tagatlwr  ia  tfcetr 
own  saoai  hm^  wn§und  Tha 
FrodSgaTa  Ra«WB,  aniSt  SMaahetk 
af  Hangarf— with  wlwaa  tiathiag 
liialary  tha  afe^MBl  pcM  a#tiia  Coam 
MoBlataibart  aiMl  Mr  A.  nmpfm 
hafe  BNMto  «  fiuailhuh- ta  aB  the 


mS^mm. 


7* 


apal- 


Tha  IVandaeaB  ooaTcirt,  wMaal 
the  city  walls,  was  jat  iMre  iHrtBBata 
than  tlie  hospitia  af  Maflan,  §n  il 


poosessad  apwarcia  of  ftweatj  of  tiiia    Caan 
leligioaa  paMer^  warha.    Now,  sal    ""  AI 


la  digaiff  Aa 

deawtad  doblan  of  thai 


teen  of  thtsa  pietarca  are  pr 

iBa  oerMe  JsassaHi  •    aai* 


lOag  Ibeoi 
M ariHo^s  awn  finroarile— tkat  which 
ha  ased  to  caB  "«  his  own  pictore"— 
the  charity  of  St  Thoaus  of  VHla- 
naeva.  la  lg7($,MiiriUo  painted  thiaa 
pictBTCS  ft>rthe  Hoapkal  do  loa  Yne- 
lablea,  two  af  which,  the  Mjrstery 
of  the  Imnacalate  ConcaptioB,  and 
St  Peter  Weeping,  were  placed  in 
thechapeL  "^  The  thhrd  adorned  the 
refectory,  aad  picsenttd  la  the  gaae 
of  tha  YeaersMss,  dariag  their  repasts, 
thehieased  Vifgin  enthroned  on  cicada, 
with  her  dirine  Babe,  who,  from  a 
hasket  borne  by  aagefe,  hcstowad 
on  three  aged  priests.**  These 
nearly  his  last  works ;  for  tha 
art  he  so  loTcd  was  now  aboat  to 
destroy  lier  ftiToarite  son:  he  waa 
Bonntiag  a  scallblding  ta  paint  tlM 
higher  parts  of  a  great  altar-piece  Isr 
tiw  Capacbia  charcb  at  Cadis,  repre- 
acnting  the  espoasals  of  St  Catlierine, 
when  lie  BtanDied,  and  rapCircd  hhn- 
sdf  soserersty,  as  to  die  ef  the  injory. 
On  the  Sd  of  ApHI  1M2,  he  expired 
in  the  arms  of  Iris  oM  and  faithAil 
Meed,  Bon  Jaslrno  Keve,  and  was 
bnried  in  the  parish  church  of  St  Cnn, 
a  stone  slab  with  his  aaaie,  a  skHeton 
and  ^  Vive  moritnras,**  narking  the 


the  ""Yaadal"  Frendi 
the  hurt  resting-place  of 
that  great  painter,  whoaa  works  they 
so  naacrmalon^  appeopriaied.  Was 
tiie  hurt  Lofd  of  Petworth  awaie  of 
this  short  epitaph,  when  be  ceased  to 
ha  iMcribed  on  the  l^ntifkl  semarial 
to  hia  aaceetoffs  imdi  adorna  St 
Thomas's  Chapd  ia  Petwortii  Chon^ 
the  pr^dietic*  sdema  woids— "^Mor- 
Msmeritaras?*' 

We  hare  ranked  MariOa  neact  U> 
Ydasqnea :  doabtless  there  aia  mai^ 
in  England  who  would  demnr  to  this 
classification;  and  we  own  there  are 
charms  in  the  style  of  tiw  great  reli- 
gions painter,  whidt  it  wonh)  be  vain 
to  look  for  in  any  other  master.  In 
taadataess  of  devodon,  anda  certain 
soft  sohUmity,  his  rriigioas  pwtnraa 
are  nnasat^ed;  whfle  ia  oohwring,. 
Caaa  Bemndea  moat  jnstly  si^s — 
tha  peeoliar  beastiea  of  the 
aehoolof  Andalosia  itshappynse  of 
red  and  brown  tints,  the  local  ec^oora 
of  the  region,  its  skUl  ia  the  manage- 
■ent  of  diapei^,  ita  distant  prospecta 
of  bare  sierraa  aad  smiling  Tales,  its 
dondot  light  and  diaphanous  as  ia 
nature,  its  flowers  and  transparent 
waters,  aad  its  harmonious  depth  aad 
richness  of  tone— are  to  be  found  in 
fall  perfection  hi  ike  works  of  Mn- 
riBo."— (Yol.  iL  p.  90^y  Mr  Stirling 
draws  a  distinctk)n,  and  we  think  with 
laasan,  between  the  faroorite  Yirgin 
of  the  Immaculate  Conception  and  tlie 
other  Yirgms  of  MuriUo:  the  ^^of  the 
fbrmer  is  far  more  derated  and  sphi- 
taaKsed  that  that  of  any  of  the  Utter 
dass ;  bat,  even  in  his  most  ordinary 
and  nrandaae  ddioeation  of  the  sin- 
less Mary,  how  sweet,  and  pure,  and 
holy,  as  wdi  as  beaatiftd,  doea  onr 
Lard^s  mother  appear!  Bat  perhapa 
it  is  as  a  painter  of  children  that 
Murilio  ia  most  appreciated  ia  Eng- 
land; nor  can  we  wonder  that  sacb 
should  be  the  case,  when  we  remem- 
ber what  the  pictarea  are  which  hare 
thus  impressed  MuriUo  on  the  English 
Bund.  The  St  John  Bmtist  with  yie 
.I^Amb,  in  the  National  Galleiy ;  Lord 
Westminster's  picture  of  the  same 
sabfect ;  the  Baroness  do  Rothschild^s 
gem  at  Gnnnersbory,  Our  Lord,  the 
Good  Shepherd,  as  a  CbiM;  Lord 
Wemyss's  hardly  inferior  repetition  of 


*  Bm^UikmymtfcOmmag, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Art  and  ArtiiU  m  Spam.  [Jan. 

Chiirch ;  and  on  tbe  ground  are  kneel- 
ing the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  with  the 
founder  of  the  college,  Archbbhop 
Diego  de  Deza,  and  a  train  of  eccle- 
siastics. Mr  Stirling  says  of  this  sin- 
gular pictore,  *^The  colouring  through- 


76 

it ;  the  picture  of  our  Lord  as  a  child, 
holding  in  his  hands  the  crown  of 
thorns,  in  the  College  at  Glasgow; 
with  the  other  pictures,  in  private  col- 
lections, of  our  Lord  and  St  John  as 
diildren,  have  naturally  made  Murillo    „       . 

to  be  regarded  in  England  as  empha-  out  is  rich  and  effective,  and  worthy 
tically  the  painfer  of  children:  and  the  school  of  Roelas;  the  heads  are 
how  exquisite  is  his  conception  of  the 
Divine  Babe  and  His  saintly  pre- 
cursor !  what  a  sublime  consciousness 
of  power,  what  an  expression  of  bound- 
less love,  are  seen  in  the  fac6  of  Him 
who  was  yet 

<*  ft  litUe  child. 


Taught  bj  degTMS  to  pray  ; 
By  father  dear,  and  mother  mild, 
Instructed  day  by  day." 


all  of  them  admirable  studies;  the 
.draperies  of  the  doctors  and  eccle- 
siastics are  magnificent  in  breadth  and 
amplitude  of  fold ;  the  imperial  mantle 
is  painted  with  Venetian  splendour ; 
and  the  street  view,  receding  in  the 
centre  of  the  canvass,  is  admirable  for 
its  atmospheric  depth  and  distance.** 
—(Vol.  ii.  p.  770.)  In  1650,  PhUip  IV. 
invited   him  to  Madrid,  and    com- 


The   religious   school  of  Spanish  ,  manded  him  to  paint  ten  pictures,  re- 

•«*.. 1-^^  J* z  !_  -Kr-^u^.  'presenting  the  labours  of  Hercules, 

for  a  room  at  Buen-retiro.  Almost 
numberless  were  the  productions  of 
his  facile  pencil,  which,  however, 
chiefly  dcdighted  to  represent  the  le- 
gends of  the  Carthusian  cloister,  and 
portray  the  gloomy  features  and  som- 
bre vestments  of  monks  and  friars;  yet 
those  who  have  seen  his  picture  of  the 
Vimn  with  the  Infant  Saviour  and 
St  John,  at  Stafford  House,  will  agree 
with  Mr  Stirling  that,  **  unrivalled  in 
such  subjects  of  dark  fanaticism,  Zur- 
baran  could  also  do  ample  justice  to 
the  purest  and  most  lovely  of  sacred 
themes.**— (Vol  u.  p.  775.) 

Alonzo  Cano,  bom  at  Grenada  in 
1601,  was,  like  Mrs  Malaprop's  Cer- 
berus, **  three  gentlemen  in  one  ;**  that 
is,  he  was  a  great  painter,  a  great 
sculptor,  and  a  great  architect.  As  a 
painter,  his  powers  are  shown  in  his 
fall-length  picture  of  the  Blessed 
Virdn,  with  the  infant  Saviour  asleep 
on  her  knees,  now  in  the  Queen  of 
Spain*8  gallery;  in  six  lar^e  works, 
representing  passages  in  the  life  of 
Mary  Magdalene,  which  still  adorn 
the  great  brick  church  of  Getafe,  a 
small  viUage  near  Madrid ;  and  in  his 
famous  picture  of  Our  Lady  ofBelom, 
in  the  cathedral  of  Seville.  Mr  Stir- 
ling ffives  a  beautifully-executed  print 
of  this  last  Madonna,  which,  *'in 
serene,  celestial  beauty,  is  excelled  by 
DO  image  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  ever 
devised  in  Spain.**— (P.  803.) 

Cano  was,  perhaps,  even  greater  in 
sculpture  than  in  painting;  and  so 
fond  of  the  former  art,  that,  when 
wearied  of  pencil  and  brush,  he  would 


painting  reached  its  acmd  in  Murillo ; 
and,  at  the  risk  of  being  accounted 
heterodox,  we  must,  in  summing  up 
his  merits,  express  our  difference  from 
Mr  Stirling  in  one  respect,  and  decline 
to  rank  the  great  Sevillian  after  any 
of  the  Italian  masters.  Few  of  Mu- 
rillo*s  drawings  are  known  to  be  in 
existence.  Mr  Sturling  gives  a  list 
of  such  as  he  has  been  able  to  dis- 
cover, nearly  all  of  which  are  at  the 
Louvre.  We  believe,  in  addition  to 
those  possessed  by  the  British  Mu- 
seum and  Mr  Ford,  there  are  two  in 
the  collection  at  Belvoir  Castle :  one, 
a  Virgin  and  Child ;  the  other,  an  old 
man — possibly  St  Francis— receiving 
a  flower  from  a  naked  child. 

After  Velasquez  and  Murillo,  it 
may  seem  almost  impertment  to  talk  of 
the  merits, of  other  Spanish  painters ; 
yet  Zurbaran  and  Cano,  Bibera  and 
Coello,  demand  at  least  a  passing 
notice.  Francisco  de  Zurbaran,  often 
called  the  Caravaggio  of  Spain,  was 
bom  in  Estremadura  in  1598.  His 
father,  observing  his  turn  for  painting, 
sent  him  to  the  school  of  Boelas,  at 
Seville.  Here,  for  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  he  continued  painting 
for  the  magnificent  cathedral,  and  the 
churches  and  religious  houses  of  that 
fair  city.  About  1625,  he  painted,  for 
the  college  of  St  Thomas  Aquinas,  an 
altar-piece,  regarded  by  all  judges  as 
the  finest  of  all  his  works,  it  repre- 
sents the  angelic  doctor  ascending 
into  the  heavens,  where,  on  clouds  of 
fflory,  the  blessed  Trinity  and  the 
virgin  wait  to  receive  him;  below, 
in  mid  ahr,  sit  the  four  doctors  of  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Art  and  Artists  in  i^xtin. 


call  for  his  chisel,  and  work  at  a  statue 
by  way  of  rest  to  his  hands.  On 
one  of  these  occasions,  a  papil  ventnr- 
ing  to  remark,  that  to  sabstitnte  a 
mallet  for  a  pencil  was  an  odd  sort 
of  repose,  was  silenced  by  Canons 
philosophical  reply,  —  "  Blockhead, 
don't  yon  perceive  that  to  create 
form  and  relief  on  a  flat  surface  Is  a 
greater  labour  than  to  fashion  one 
shape  into  another  ?**  An  image  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin  in  the  parish  church 
at  Lebrija,  and  another  in  the  sacristy 
of  the  Grenada  cathedral,  are  said 
to  be  triumphs  of  Spanish  painted 
statnary.— (Vol.  lii.,  p.  806.)  After  a 
life  of  strange  yicissitudes,  in  the 
course  of  which,  on  suspicion  of  hav- 
ing murdered  his  wife,  he  underwent, 
the  examination  by  torture,  he  died, 
honoured  and  beloved  for  his  mag- 
nificent charities,  and  religious  hatred 
of  the  Jews,  in  bis  native  city,  on  the 
3d  of  October  1667. 

The  old  Valencian  town  of  Xativa 
claims  the  honour  of  producing  Jos^ 
dc  RIbera,  el  Spagnoletto ;  but  though 
Spain  gave  him  birth,  Italy  gave  him 
instruction,  wealth,  fame;  and  al- 
though in  style  he  is  thoroughly 
Spanish,  we  feel  some  difficulty  in 
writing  of  him  as  belonging  wholly  to 
the  Spanish  school  of  art,  so  com- 
pletely Italian  was  he  by  nurture, 
long  residence,  and  in  his  death. 

Bred  up  in  squalid  penury,  he  ap- 
pears to  have  looked  upon  the  world 
as  not  his  friend,  and  in  his  subse- 
quent good  fortunes  to  have  revelled 
in  describing  with  ghastly  minute- 
ness, and  repulsive  force,  all  *Uhe 
worst  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to.**  We 
well  recollect  the  horror  with  which 
we  gazed  spell-bound  on  a  series  of 
his  horrors  in  the  Louvre — fkughl 
At  Grosford  House  are  a  series  of 
Franciscan  monks,  such  as  only  a 
Spanish  cloister  could  contain,  painted 
with  an  evident  fidelity  to  nature,  and 
the  minutest  details  of  dress  that  is 
almost  oflbnsive — even  the  black  dirt 
under  the  unwashed  thumb  nail  is 
carefhlly  represented  by  his  odiously- 
accurate  and  powerful  pencil. 

**  N<m  ragioniam  di  lor 
MagQArdaei 


Had  the  bold  buccaneers  of  the 
seventeen^  century  required  the  ser- 
vices of  k  painter  to  perpetuate  the 
memory  of  their  inventive  brutality. 


77 

and  inconceivable  atrocities,  they 
would  have  found  in  £1  Spagnoletto 
an  artist  capable  of  delineating  the 
agonies  of  their  victims,  and  by  taste 
and  disposition  not  indisposed  to  their 
way  of  life.  Yet  in  his  own  peculiar 
line  he  was  unequalled,  and  his  merits 
as  a  painter  will  always  be  recognised 
by  every  judge  of  art.  He  died  at 
Naples,  the  scene  of  his  triumphs,  in 
1666. 

The  name  of  Claudio  Coello  is  as- 
sociated with  the  Escnrial,  and  Aonld 
have  been  introduced  into  the  sketch 
we  were  giving  of  its  artists,  when 
*the  mighty  reputation  of  Velasqaes 
and  Mnrillo  broke  in  upon  our  onier. 
He  was  bom  at  Madrid  about  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  studied  in  the  school  of  the 
youneer  Rigi.  In  1686  he  succeed- 
ed Herrera  as  painter  in  ordinary 
to  Charles  11.  This  monarch  had 
erected  an  altar  in  the  great  sacristy 
of  the  Escurial,  to  the  miraculous 
bleeding  wafter  known  as  the  Santa 
Forma ;  and  on  the  death  of  its  de- 
signer, Rigi,  Coello  was  called  upon 
to  paint  a  picture  that  should  serve  as 
a  veil  for  the  host.  On  a  canvass  six 
yards  high,  by  three  wide,  he  executed 
an  excdlent  work,  representing  the 
king  and  his  court  adoring  the  mi- 
raculous wafer,  which  is  held  aloft  by 
the  prior.  This  picture  established 
his  reputation,  and  in  1691  the  chap- 
ter of  Toledo,  still  the  great  patrons  of 
art,  appointed  him  painter  to  their 
cathedral.  Coello  was  a  most  care- 
ful and  painstaking  painter,  and  his 
pictures,  says  our  author,  (vol.  iil.,  p. 
1018,)  "  with  much  of  Cano's  grace 
of  drawing,  have  also  somewhat  of 
the  rich  tones  of  Murillo,  and  the 
magical  effect  of  Velasquez.*'  He 
died,  it  is  said,  of  disappointment  at 
the  success  of  his  foreign  rival,  Luca 
Giordano,  in  1693. 

With  Charles  II.  passed  away  the 
Spanish  sceptre  from  the  house  of 
Austria,  nor,  according  to  Mr  Stir- 
ling, would  the  Grenius  of  Fainting 
remain  to  welcome  the  intrusive 
Bourbons: — 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  maimen  gone, 
A  stranger  filled  the  Philips*  throne  ; 
And  art,  negleeted  and  oppressed. 
Wished  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 

But  we  must  say  that  Mr  Stirling, 
in   his   honest    indignation    against 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


78 


AiiwtdAFiktBimSlpaim. 


[Ja 


France  iad  Frenchmen,  kas  exag- 
gerated tlie  demerits  of  t]ie  Bourbon 
kings.  SfMuufh  art  had  been  ateadiiy 
denning  for  fears  heBon  they,  wm 
iH-omened  foot,  crossed  the  Pyiiteees. 
It  was  no  Bonrbon  priace  that 
brought  Lnca  da  Presto  nrom  Naples 
to  teach  the  patnters  of  Spain  ^  how 
to  be  content  with  their  faults,  and 
get  rid  of  tiieir  scruples ;  "  and  if  the 
schools  of  Castile  and  Andalnsia  had 
ceased  to  produce  such  artists  as  tiiose 
whose  praises  Mr  Stu&g  has  so 
wortiiilf  recorded,  it  appears  scant 
justice  to  lay  the  blame  on  the  new 
rojal  family.  Pidor  aofdhcr,  iimi* 
,/Et-HM,  Bot  even  by  the  winders  of 
the  Spanish  sceptre.  In  a  desire  te 
patroaise  art,  and  in  mmificeBee 
towards  its  possessm^,  Philip  Y., 
Ferdinand  YL,  and  Chaiies  IIL,  M 
li^ile  shortof  their  Hapeboig  predeces- 
sors, b«t  they  had  no  loogw  tiie  same 
material  to  work  upon.  The  post 
whidi  Titian  had  fiUed  could  find  no 
worthier  hcdder  under  Charles  IIL, 
than  Rafael  Mengs,  whom  not  only 
ignorant  Bourbons,  but  the  conasoemti 
of  Enrope  regarded  as  the  mighty 
Venetian's  equal;  and  Philip  Y. 
not  only  invited  Hovasse,  Vaaloo, 
Procaodni,  and  otiier  foreign  artists 
to  his  conrt,  but  added  the  famous 
collection  of  marUes  belcmgiag  to 
Christina  of  Sweden  to  those  acquired 
by  Velasquez,  at  an  expense  of 
twelve  tiionsand  doubloons.  To  him, 
also,  IS  due  the  completion  of  ihe 

Eilace  of  Arai^z,  and  the  design  of 
a  Granja ;  nor,  when  fire  destroyed 
the  Alcaaar,  did  Philip  V.  spare  his 
diminished  treasures,  in  raising  up  on 
Its  thne-hallowed  site  a  palace  which, 
in  Mr  Stirling's  own  words,  **  in  spite 
of  its  narrowed  proportions,  b  stili 
one  of  the  largest  and  most  imporing 
in  Europe."— (VoL  in.,  p.  1163.) 

Ferdinand  VI.  built,  at  the  enor- 
mous expense  of  nineteen  milfions  of 
reals,  the  convent  of  nuns  of  the 
order  of  St  Vincent  de  Sales,  and 
employed  in  its  decoration  all  the 
artistic  talent  that  Spain  then  could 
boast  of.  Nor  can  he  be  blamed  if 
that  was  but  little ;  for  if  royal  patro- 
nage can  produce  painters  of  merit, 
this  monarch,  by  endowing  the  Aca- 
demy of  St  Ferdinand  witii  large 
revenues,  and  housing  it  in  a  palace, 
would  have  revived  the  gtories  of 
Spani^art 


BOs  aoeoessor,  Ohatles  IIL,  an  ar- 
tist of  flOflie  repute  himself,  sincerely 
loved  and  ^enoxMMly  fostered  tiie  arts. 
While  Kag  of  the  Two  Sicilies,  he  had 
dragged  into  the  light  of  day  the  long- 
kat  wonders  of  Herculanenm  and 
Pompdi;  and  when  called  to  the  throne 
of  Spain  aad  the  Indies,  he  mani- 
fested his  sense  of  the  obligations  due 
torn  royalty  to  art,  by  confimrring 
fresh  privileges  on  the  Academy  of 
St  Ferdinand,  aad  founding  two  new 
academies,  one  in  Valencia,  the  other 
hi  Mexico.  If  Mengs  and  Tiepolo, 
and  other  mediocrities,  were  the  best 
living  painters  his  patronage  could  dis- 
oover,  it  is  evident  firom  his  ultra-pro- 
teetionist  decree  against  the  exporta- 
tion of  MnriUo's  pictares,  that  he  fully 
appreciated  tte  works  of  the  mighty 
dead;  and,  had  his  spirit  animated 
Spanish  oflEUatis,  many  a  mast^pieoe 
that  now  mournfali^^,  and  without 
meaning,  graces  the  Hermitage  at  St 
Petersburg,  or  the  Louvre  at  Paris, 
would  still  be  hanging  over  the  altar, 
or  adoraing  the  rddotory  for  which  it 
waspainted,  at  Seville  or  Toledo.  Even 
Charles  IV.,  ''the  drivelling  tool  of 
Grodov,"  was  a  collector  of  pictures, 
and  mnder  of  an  academy.  In  his 
disasteous  reign  flourished  Frandsco 
Goya  y  Ludentes,  the  last  Spanish 
painter  who  has  obtained  a  niche  in 
the  Temple  of  Fame.  Though  por- 
traits and  caricatures  were  his  forte, 
in  that  veneraUe  museum  of  all  that 
is  beautiful  in  Spanif^  Art — ^the  ca- 
thedral at  Toledo— is  to  be  seen  a  fine 
religious  production  of  his  pencil,  re- 
miesenting  ^le  Betrayal  of  our  Lord. 
But  he  loved  painting  at,  better  than 
fyr  the  drardi ;  and  those  who  have 
examined  and  wondered  at  the  gro- 
tesque satirical  carvings  oi  the  stalls 
in  Uie  oathedral  at  Manchester,  will 
be  aUe  to  form  some  idea  of  Groya's 
anti-monkish  caricatures.  Not  Lord 
Mark  Kerr,  when  givmg  the  rein 
to  his  exuberant  foncy,  ever  devised 
more  ludicrous  or  repulsive  ^^  mon- 
sters "  than  this  strange  successor  to 
the  religions  painters  of  orthodox 
Spain.  But  when  the  vice,  and  in- 
trigues, and  imbecility  of  the  royal 
knaves  andfoo1s,whomnisready  graver 
had  exposed  to  popular  ridicule,  had 
yidded  to  the  msnpportable  tyfnimy 
of  Fivnch  invaders,  tiie  ape  indig- 
nant apirk  that  hwried  Ke  water- 
canten  of  Madrid  mto  nnavailiDg  ccft* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.] 


Ah  wtd  Artitts  m  Sjxum. 


79 


flict  with  the  tro<^  of  Morst,  gvidM 
his  eaiurtic  ktnd  against  the  terae 
«pprenors  of  his  eomitrj ;  md,  while 
Gitrajr  was  %xdtijoM  the  angiy  oon- 
tempt  of  an  true  John  Bolls  at  tiie 
ifl^podeaee  of  Ae  little  Coraicaii  op- 
start,  Gojra  was  appeding  to  his 
ouiuiUjiaen*8  bitter  experience  of  the 
tender  meraies  of  the  French  iavaders. 
He  died  at  Bordeaux  hi  182S.  Mr 
Stiiiing  deoes  his  laboars  with  a 
giacefiii  trihnte  to  tiiose  of  Cean 
Befmades,  ''^le  able  and  iadefiiti- 
gable  historian  of  Spanish  art,  to 
wliofle  ridi  harvest  of  valuable  mate- 
rials I  haTO  Tontnred  to  add  the  fiidt 
of  Bijr  own  humble  gleanings — ^  a 
dewtVod  tribate,  and  most  handsomely 
rendered.  But,  before  we  dismiss  thn 
pleasant  theme  of  Spanish  art,  we 
would  add  one  arti^  more  to  the  cata- 
logne  of  Spanish  painters— albeit,  that 
artist  is  a  Bonrbonl 

Kear  the  little  town  of  Aspeitia,  in 
Biscay,  stands  the  magnificent  college 
of  the  Jesaits,  bidlt  cm  the  birth-plMe 
of  Ignatius  Loyola.  Here,  in  a  low 
room  at  the  top  of  the  bnilding,  are 
shown  a  piece  of  the  bed  in  whi&  he 
di^  and  his  autograph ;  and  here 
among  its  cool  corridors  and  eyer- 
playing  foontidns,  in  1839,  was  living 
the  royal  painter— 4he  Infante  Don 
Sebastbm.  A  strange  spectade,  truly, 
did  that  religious  house  rraeat  in  the 
aammo'  of  1889 :  wild  Biscayan  sol- 
diers and  defected  Jesuits,  led  boy- 
nas  and  blaok  coids,  muskets  and 
crucifixes,  oaths  and  benedictions, 
crossed  and  mingied  with  each  other 
in  pictvesque,  though  profane  dis- 
Ofder ;  and  here,  released  from  the 
cares  of  his  military  command,  and 
free  to  follow  the  bent  of  his  disposi- 
tion, the  ex-oommander-in-chief  of  the 
Cariist  forces  was  quietly  painting 
altar-pieces,  and  dadiing  off  carica- 
tures. In  the  dreular  church  which, 
of  exquisito  proportions,  forms  the 
centre  of  the  vast  pQe,  and  is  beauti- 
ful with  fawn-coloured  marble  and 
gold,  hnne  a  large  and  well-painted 
picture  of  his  production ;  and  those 
who  are  carioas  in  such  matters  may 
see  a  worse  apectmen  of  his  royal 
highneas's  skill  in  Pietro  di  €k>rtona's 
ChnidiofStLnkeatBome.  On  one 
side  of  the  altar  hi  Ganora's  beanti- 
fol  statne  of  Religioa  preaching ;  on 
the  other  the  Spanish  prince's  large 
picture  of  the  Crucifixion;  but,  alas  I  it 


must  be  owned  tiiat  the  inspfaration 
which  guided  Vdasquea  to  his  con- 
ception of  that  sublime  suliject  was 
deaied  to  tiie  royal  amateur.  In  the 
academy  of  St  Luke,  adjoining  the 
diurch,  is  a  wdl-executed  bust  of 
Canova,  by  tiie  Spanish  sculptor 
Alvares.  We  suspect  that,  like  Goya, 
the  Infaato  would  do  better  to  stick  to 
caricature,  in  which  branch  of  ait 
many  a  pleasant  story  is  told  of  his 
proficiency.  Seated  on  a  rocky  plateau, 
iriiich,  if  commanding  a  view  of  Bil- 
bao and  its  defenders,  was  also  ex- 
posed to  their  fire,  *tis  said  the  royal 
artist  would  amuse  himself  and  his 
staff  with  drawiog  the  uneasy  move- 
ments, and  disturbed  conntonances,  of 
some  unfortunato  London  reportors, 
whd,  attached  to  the  Cariist  head- 
quarters, were  invitod  by  the  com- 
mander-in-chief to  attend  his  person, 
and  enjoy  the  perilous  honour  of  his 
company.  Be  this,  however,  as  it  may, 
we  think  we  have  vindicated  the  claim 
ni  one  living  Bourbon  prince  to  be 
admitted  into  the  roll  of  Spanish 
painters  in  the  next  edition  of  the 
Atmah, 
In  these  tumultuous  days,  when 

"  Rojal  heads  aro  haunted  like  a  maukin,'* 

over  half  the  Continent,  and  even  in 
steady  England  grave  merchants  and 
wealthy  tradesmen  are  counselling 
together  on  how  littie  their  sovereign 
can  be  dothed  and  fed,  and  aU  things 
are  being  brought  to  the  vulgar  test 
of  X. «.  <i.,  it  is  pleasant  to  turn  to  the 
artistic  annals  of  a  once  mighty  em- 
pire like  Spain,  and  see  how  uni- 
nnrmly,  for  more  than  five  hundred 
years,  its  monarchs  have  been  the 
patrons,  always  munificent,  generally 
discriminating,  of  the  fine  arts — how, 
from  the  days  of  Isabella  the  Catholic, 
to  those  of  Isabella  the  Innocent,  the 
Spanish  sceptre  has  courted,  not  dis 
dained,  the   companionship   of  the 

gendl  and  the  chisd.  Mr  Stiiiing 
as  enriched  his  pages  with  many  an 
amusing  anecdoto  illustrative  of  this 
royal  love  of  art,  and  suggestive,  alas! 
of  tiie  painful  reflection,  that  the 
future  annalist  of  the  artists  of  Eng- 
land will  find  great  difficulty  in  scrap- 
ing together  half-a-doaen  stories  of  a 
similar  kind.  With  the  one  strikhig 
exception  of  Charles  L,  we  know  not 
who  among  our  sovereigns  can  be 
compared,  as  a  patron  of  art,  to  any  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


80 


Art  and  Artists  in  Spam, 


[Jan. 


the  Spaoish  sovereigns^  from  Charles 
y.  of  the  Austrian  to  Charles  lU.  of  the 
Bonrbon  race.  Lord  Hervey  has 
made  notoriooa  Georee  11  *s  ignorance 
and  disUlce  of  art.  Among  the  many 
noble  and  kinglyqoalities  of  his  grand- 
son, we  fear  a  love  and  appreciation  of 
art  may  not  be  reckoned;  and  althongh, 
in  his  intercourse  with  men  of  genius, 
George  IV.  was  gracious  and  gene- 
'  rous,  what  can  be  said  in  favour  of 
his  taste  and  discernment?  The 
previous  life  of  William  IV.,  the  ma- 
ture age  at  which  he  ascended  the 
throne,  and  the  troublous  character  of 
his  reign,  explain  why  art  received 
but  slight  countenance  from  the  court 
of  the  frank  and  noble-hearted  Sailor 
Prince ;  but  we  turn  with  hope  to  the 
future.  The  recent  proceedings  in 
the  Court  of  Chancery  have  made 
public  a  fact,  already  known  to  many, 
that  her  Majesty  wields  with  skilful 
hand  a  graceful  graver,  and  the 
Christmas  plays  acted  at  Windsor  are 
a  satisfactory  proof  that  English  art 
and  genius  are  not  exiled  from  Eng- 
land's palaces.  The  professors,  then, 
of  that  art  which  Velasquez  and 
Rubens,  Mnrillo  and  Vandyck  prac- 
tised, shall  yet  see  that  the  Crown  of 
England  is  not  only  in  ancient  legal 
phrase,  "  the  Fountain  of  Honour," 
but  that  it  loves  to  direct  its  grateful 
streams  in  their  honoured  direction. 
Free  was  the  intercourse,  unfettered 
the  conversation,  independent  the  rela- 
tions, between  Titian  and  Charles  V., 
Velasquez  and  Philip  IV. ;  let  us  hope 
that  Buckingham  Palace  and  Windsor 
Castle,  will  yet  witness  a  revival  of 
those  palmy  days  of  English  art, 
when  Inigo  Jones,  and  Vandyck,  and 
Cowley,  Waller,  and  Ben  Jonson,shed 
a  lustre  on  the  art-loving  court  of  Eng- 
land! 

The  extracts  we  have  given  firom 
Mr  Stirling's  work  will  have  suffi- 
ciently shown  the  scope  of  the 
Anruusy  and  the  spirit  and  style  in 
which  they  are  written.  There  is  no 
tedious,  inflexible,  though  often  un- 
manageable leading  idea,  or  theory  of 
art,  running  through  these  lively 
volumes.  In  the  introduction,  what- 
ever is  to  be  said  on  the  philosophy  of 
Spanish  art  is  carefully  collected,  and 
the  reader  is  thenceforward  left  at 
liberty  to  carry  on  the  conclusions  of 
the  introduction  with  him  in  his  per- 


usal of  the  Atmalsy  or  to  drop  them  at 
the  threshold.  We  would,  however, 
strongly  recommend  all  who  desire  ta 
appreciate  Spanish  art,  never  to  for- 
get that  she  owes  all  her  beauty  and 
inspiration  to  Spanish  nature  and 
Spanish  religion.  Eemember  this,  O 
holyday  tourist  along  the  Andalusian 
coast,  or  more  adventurous  explorer 
of  Castile  and  Estremadura,  and  you 
will  not  be  disappointed  with  her 
productions.  Mr  Stirling  has  not 
contented  himself  with  doing  ample 
justice  to  the  great  painters,  and 
slurring  over  the  comparatively  un- 
known artists,  whose  merits  are  la 
advance  of  theur  fame,  but  has  em- 
braced in  his  careful  view  the  long 
line  of  Spanish  artists  who  have 
flourished  or  faded  in  the  course  of 
nearly  eight  hundred  years ;  and  he 
has  accomplished  this  difficult  task, 
not  in  the  plodding  spirit  of  a  Dryas- 
dust, or  with  the  curt  dulness  of  a 
catalogue-monger,  but  with  the  dis- 
criminating good  taste  of  an  accom- 
plished English  gentleman,  and  in  a 
style  at  once  racy  and  rhetorical. 
There  are  whole  pages  in  the  Ati" 
nals  as  full  of  picturesque  beauty  as 
the  scenes  or  events  they  describe, 
and  of  melody,  as  an  Andalusian 
summer's  eve;  indeed,  the  vigorous 
fancy  and  genial  humour  of  the 
author  have,  on  some  few  occasions, 
led  him  to  stray  from  those  strict 
rules  of  dtdcl)^,  which  we  are  old-fa- 
shioned enough  to  wish  always  ob- 
served. But  where  the  charms  and 
merits  are  so  great,  and  so  many,  and 
the  defects  so  few  and  so  small,  we 
may  safely  leave  the  discovery  of  the 
latter  to  the  critical  reader,  and 
satisfy  our  conscience  by  expressing 
a  hope  that,  when  Mr  Stirline  next 
appears  in  the  character  of  author — a 
period  not  remote,  we  sincer^y  trust 
— he  Mrill  have  discarded  those  few 
scentless  flowers  from  his  literary  gar- 
den, and  present  us  with  a  bouquet — 

**  Fall  of  BWMt  buds  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie.^ 

But  if  he  never  again  put  pen  to  paper, 
in  these  annals  of  the  artists  of  Spain 
he  has  given  to  the  reading  public  a 
work  which,  for  ntili^  of  design,  pa- 
tience of  research,  and  grace  of  lan- 
guage, merits  and  has  won  the  highest 
honours  of  authorship. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


ITie  Dodo  and  Us  Kindred, 


81 


THE  DODO  AKD  ITS  KINDRED. 


What  was  the  Dodo?  When  was 
the  Dodo?  Where  is  the  Dodo?  are 
an  questions,  the  first  more  especially, 
which  it  is  folly  more  easy  to  ask 
than  answer.  Whoever  has  looked 
throngh  books  on  natural  history^for 
example,  that  noted  bat  now  scarce 
instmctor  of  om*  early  youth,  the 
Three  Hundred  Animals — ^must  have 
obeenred  a  somewhat  ungainly  crea« 
tnre,  with  a  huge  curved  bill,  a  short- 
ish neck,  scarc^y  any  wings,  a  plumy 
tuft  upon  the  back—considerably  on 
the  off-side,  though  pretending  to  be 
a  tail,— and  a  very  shapeless  body, 
extraordinarily  large  and  round  about 
the  hinder  end.  ^Hus  anomalous  ani- 
mal being  covered  with  feathers,  and 
having,  in  addition  to  the  other  attri- 
butes above  referred  to,  only  two 
legs,  has  been,  we  think  justiy,  re- 
gvded  as  a  bird,  and  has  accorcungly 
been  named  the  Dodo.  But  why 
it  should  be  so  named  is  another  of 
the  many  mysterious  questions,  which 
require  to  be  consider^  in  the  histoir 
of  this  unaccountable  creatare.  ifo 
one  alleges,  nor  can  we  conceive  it 
possible,  that  it  claims  kindred  with 
either  of  the  only  two  human  beings 
we  ever  heard  of  who  bore  the  name : 
*^And  after  him  (Adino  the  Eznite) 
was  Eleazar  the  son  of  Dodo,  the 
Ahohite,  one  of  the  three  mighty  men 
with  David,  when  they  defied  the 
Philistines  that  were  there  gathered 
together  to  battle,  and  the  men  of 
Israel  were  gone  away."  Our  only 
other  human  Dodo  belonged  to  the 
ftir  sex,  and  was  the  mother  of  the 
famous  Zoroaster,  who  flourished  in 
the  daji^  of  Darius  Hystaspes,  and 
brought  back  the  Persians  to  their 
ancient  fire-worship,  from  the  adora- 
tion of  the  twinkling  stars.  The 
name  appears  to  have  been  dropped 
by  both  families,  as  if  they  were  some- 
what  ashamed  of  it.;  and  we   feel 


assured  that  of  such  of  our  readers  as 
admit  that  Zoroaster  must  have  had  a 
mother  of  some  sort,  very  few  really 
remember  now-a-days  that  her  name 
was  Dodo.  There  were  no  baptismal 
registers  in  those  times ;  or,  if  such  ex- 
isted, they  were  doubtless  consumed  in 
the  "great  fire" — asort  of  periodical,  it 
may  beprovidential,  mode  of  shortening 
the  record,  which  seems  to  occur  from 
time  to  time  in  all  civilised  countries. 
But  while  the  creature  in  question, 
— ^we  mean  the  feathered  biped — has 
been  continuously  presented  to  view 
in  those  "  vain  repetitions "  which 
unfortunately  form  the  mass  of  our 
information  in  all  would-be  popular 
works  on  natural  history,  we  had 
actually  long  been  at  a  stand-still  in 
relation  to  its  essential  attributes— the 
few  competent  authorities  who  had 
given  out  their  opinion  upon  this,  as 
many  thought,  stereotyped  absurdity, 
being  so  disa^^-eed  among  themselves 
as  to  make  confusion  worse  con- 
founded. The  case,  indeed,  seemed 
desperate ;  and  had  it  not  been  that 
we  always  entertained  a  particular 
regard  for  old  Clusius,  (of  whom  by- 
and-by,)  and  could  not  get  over  the 
fact  that  a  Dodoes  head  existed  in  the 
Ashmolean  Museum,  Oxford,  and  a 
Dodo's  foot  in  the  British  Museum, 
London,  we  would  willingly  have  in- 
dulged the  thought  that  the  entire 
Dodo  was  itself  a  dream.  But,  shak- 
ing off  the  cowardly  indolence  which 
would  seek  to  shirk  the  investigation 
of  so  great  a-question,  let  us  now  in- 
quire mto  a  piece  of  ornithological 
biography,  which  seemed  so  singularly 
to  combine  the  familiar  with  the  fabu- 
lous. Thanks  to  an  accomplished 
and  persevering  naturalist  of  our  own 
day— one  of  the  most  successful  and 
assiduous  inquirers  of  the  vounger 
generation— we  have  now  all  the  facts, 
and  most  of  the  fancies,  laid  before  us 


The  Dodo  and  iU  Kindred  ;  or,  the  Hietory,  Afinitiet,  and  Osteology  of  the  Dodo, 
Solitaire,  and  other  Extinct  Bird*  of  the  I$landi  Mauritius,  Bodriguez,  and  Bourbon, 
By  R  K  Strickland,  BIA.  F.G.a,  F.R.G.a,  President  of  the  Ashmolean  Society, 
Ac.,  and  A  O.  Mklvillk,  M.D.,  Edinbuigh,  M.R.C.a  One  vol.,  royal  quarto :  Lon- 
don, 1848. 


VOL,  LXV.— NO.  CCCXCIX. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


7%e2}odotmd^Kmdred. 


[Jan. 


in  a  splendid  royal  qnarto  volume, 
jnst  pnblished,  with  nnmerons  plates, 
devoted  to  the  history  and  illostration 
of  the  "Dodo  and  its  Kindred.**  It 
was,  in  truth,  the  latter  term  that 
dieeured  oxn  heart,  and  led  vb  again 
towards  a  Babjeci  which  had  pre- 
viously produced  the  greatest  despon- 
dency ;  for  we  had  always,  thongh 
most  erroneomly,  fancied  that  the 
mat  misformed  lont  of  onr  Three 
Hundred  Ammah  was  aU  alone  in  the 
inde  world,  anable  to  provide  for 
himstf ,  (and  so,  fintimatety,  widioat 
a  fiunily,)  and  had  never,  in  tnUli, 
had  either  predecessors  or  posterilr* 
Mr  S^kfciand,  however,  has  brought 
together  tiie  di^ecita  membra  of  a  fa- 
mily group,  showing  not  only  fiMhers 
and  mothers,  sisters  and  brotMn,  bit 
cousins,  and  kindred  of  aU  degrees. 
Their  sedate  and  somewhat  sedwtary 
mode  of  life  \&  probably  to  be  acconnted 
for,  not  so  much  by  their  early  habits 
as  theh-  latter  end.  Their  le^s  are 
short,  their  wings  scarody  existant, 
but  the^  are  prodigiously  large  and 
heavy  m  the  hinder-quarters;  and 
organs  of  flight  would  have  been  but 
a  vain  thing  fm*  safoty,  as  they  couhl 
not,  in  such  wooded  countries  as  these 
creatures  inhabited,  have  been  made 
commensurate  witii  the  uj^tting  of 
such  solid  bulk,  placed  so  fhr  behuid 
that  centre  of  gravity  where  other 
wings  are  woited.  we  can  now  sit 
down  in  Mr  Strickland's  company,  to 
discuss  the  sutject,  not  only  tran- 
quilly, but  with  a  degree  of  oheerfol- 
ness  which  we  have  not  felt  for  many 
a  day :  thanks  to  his  kindly  considera- 
tion of  the  Dodo  and  "  its  kindred." 

The  geographical  reador  will  re- 
member that  to  the  eastward  of  the 
f^reat,  and  to  ourselvesneariy  unknown, 
island  of  Madagascar,  there  lies  a 
small  group  of  islands  of  volcanic 
origin,  whidi,  thon^  not  exactly  con- 
tiguous among  themselves,  are  yet 
nearer  to  each  other  than  tothe  greater 
island  just  named,  and  which  is  inter- 
posed between  them  and  the  coast  of 
Southern  Africa.  They  are  named 
Rodriguez,  Bourbon,  and  Mauritius, 
or  the  Isle  of  Prance.  There  is  proof 
that  not  fewer  than  four  distinct 
species  of  large-bodied,  short-winged 
birds,  of  the  Dodo  type,  were  their 
inhabitants  in  comparatively  recent 
times,  and  have  now  become  utterly 


extinct.  We  say  utterly,  because 
neither  proof  nor  vestige  of  their  ex- 
istence elsewhere  has  been  at  any 
time  afforded ;  and  the  comparatively 
small  extent,  and  now  peopled  state 
of  the  islands  in  qne^ion,  (where 
they  are  no  longer  known,)  make  the 
continnoQS  and  unobserved  ezistmioe 
(^  these  birds,  so  conspicuous  in  sine 
and  slow  of  foot,  inqK>ssibie. 

Now,  it  is  this  recent  and  total 
extinction  wliich  renders  tiie  subject 
one  of  more  than  ordinanr  interest. 
Death  is  an  admitted  law  of  nature,  in 
raq)ect  to  tlie  tRd!wMfticib  of  all  specieB. 
Ge^ogy,  "draggfaiff  at  each  remove  a 
lengt^iened  chain,"  has  shown  itow,  at 
different  and  distant  eras,  innmierable 
tribes  have  perished  and  been  sup- 
planted, or  at  least  replaced,  by  other 
ffroups  of  spedes,  entire  raoes,  better 
fitted  ibr  the  great  climatic  and  other 
l^ysieal  changes,  whidi  onr  earth's 
surftce  has  undergone  foran  time  to 
time.  How  thoe  chMges  were 
brought  abovty  many,  wtth  more  or 
less  success,  (generallyless,)  havetried 
to  say.  Organic  remits— that  is,  tiie 
fosdikradremnants  of  ancient  ^Mcies — 
sometimes  indicate  a  long  oontinnanoe 
of  existence,  generatioii  after  genera- 
tion living  in  tranquillity,  and  finally 
sinking  in  a  quiet  grave ;  while  other 
examples  show  a  sudden  and  vident 
death,  in  tortuous  and  excited  action, 
as  if  they  had  been  almost  instantane- 
ously overwhdmed  and  destroyed  by 
some  great  catastrophe. 

Several  local  extinctions  of  else- 
where existing  species  are  known 
to  naturalists— such  as  those  of  the 
beaver,  the  bear,  and  the  wolf,  which 
no  longer  occur  in  Great  Britain, 
though  historically  known,  as  well  as 
organically  proved  by  recent  remams, 
to  have  lived  and  died  among  us. 
Their  extinction  was  slow  upd  gra- 
dual, and  resulted  entirely  fimn  the 
inroads  which  the  human  race — ^that 
is,  the  hkcrease  of  population,  and 
the  progress  of  agriculture  and  com- 
merce— necessarily  made  upon  their 
numbers,  which  thus  became  ^^f^ 
by  degrees,  and  beautifully  less." 
The  beaver  might  have  carried  on 
business  well  enough,  in  his  own  quiet 
way,  although  frequentiy  incommoded 
by  the  love  of  peltry  on  the  i»rt  of  a 
hat-wearing  people ;  but  it  is  clear 
that  no  man  with  a  small  family,  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


lft<9.] 


nBlMbmd^Emdnd. 


88 


m  few  respeeteble  faim-seiTaDts, 
ooold  «itber  peimit  a  large  aod  hmigiT 
wolf  to  be  eoBtiiraalljpeepiag  at  ndd- 
ngfat  ikroigh  tfae  ker-hole  of  the 
Bvmry,  or  allow  a  wmwnj  brain 
to  araff  too  freqnently  lader  the 
kitchen  door,  (after  baring  hogged 
the  watoh-dojg  to  dea|h^)  when  the 
serring-maidB  were  at  sapper.  The 
extirpaHofl,  then,  of  at  least  two  of 
thoae  qnondam  British  anedee  beonne 
a  work  of  necessity  and  nMrcj,  and 
might  haye  been  tolerated  eren  on  a 
Sunday  between  sermons — espechUly 
as  natnralists  have  it  still  in  their 
power  to  study  the  habits  of  similar 
wild  beasts,  by  no  means  yak  extinct, 
in  the  nelghbonrmg  oonntries  of 
IViace  and  totnany. 

BqI  the  death  of  the  Dodo  and  its 
kindred  is  a  more  affecting  fiict,  as 
inrohing  the  extinction  of  an  entire 
race,  root  imd  branch,  and  proving 
that  death  is  a  law  of  the  9pecus^  as 
well  as  of  the  indiridaals  whldi  com- 
pose it, — although  the  life  of  tiie  one 
is  so  nuK^  more  prolonged  than  that 
of  the  other  tliat  we  can  sddom  ob- 
tain any  positire  proof  of  its  extinc- 
tion, except  by  the  observance  of 
geological  eras.  Certain  other  still 
existing  species,  well  known  to  natn- 
rafists,  may  be  said  to  be,  as  it  were, 
jnst  hove^ig  on  the  brink  of  destruc- 
tion. One  of  the  largest  and  most 
remarkable  of  herbivorous  animals — a 
species  of  wild  cattle,  the  aurochs  or 
European  bison  (J5.  /TruatfWexlsts 
now  only  in  the  forest  of  Bialowicksa, 
from  whence  the  Emperor  of  Russia 
has  recently  transmitted  a  Hviog  pair 
to  the  Zoological  Society  of  Lonaon. 
Several  kln(&  of  birds  are  also  evi- 
dently on  their  last  legs.  For  example, 
a  singular  species  of  parrot,  (Nestor 
productus,)  with  the  termination  of 
the  npper  mandibte  mnd^  attennated, 
pecoliar  to  Phipp6*s  Island,  near  Nor- 
folk Island,  has  recently  ceased  to  ex- 
ist there  in  tiie  wild  state,  and  is  now 
known  as  a  living  species  only  from 
a  few  surviving  specimens  kept  in 
cages,  and  which  refuse  to  breed.  The 
burrowing  parrot  from  New  Zealand  is 
already  on  the  road  to  min ;  and  more 
than  one  ^)ecies  of  that  singular  and 
win^eas  bird,  called  Aptar%^^  also 
from  tiie  last-named  island,  may  be 
placed  in  the  same  category.  Even 
in  our  own  country,  if  the  landed  pro- 


prieters  were  to  yield  to  tfae  damonr 
of  the  Anti-Game-Law  Leagne,  the 
red  groose  or  moor -game  might  ceaee 
to  be,  as  they  occur  nowhere  else  on 
the  ^own  earth  save  in  Britain  and 
the  Emerald  Isle. 

The  geographical  distribution  of 
animals,  in  general,  has  been  made 
Gontomable  to  laws  which  WB  cannot 
fiithom.  A  mysterioQs  relationship 
exists  between  certain  organic  stnic- 
tnres  and  those  districts  of  the 
earths  snrihce  whidi  they  inhabit 
Certahi  exteiudve  groiros,  in  both  the 
animal  and  vegetu)le  Kingdom,  are 
found  to  be  restricted  to  particular 
continents,  and  their  neighbouring 
islands.  Of  some  the  distribution 
is  very  extensive,  while  others  are 
totally  unknown  except  within  a  limit- 
ed spaoe,  snch  aa  some  solitary  isle, 
^  Ftaoed  fkr  amid  the  melancholy  main." 


"<  la  tfae  prsMiii  state  of  edeaee,"  stye 
MrStriekkody'^we  mast  be  coatent  to 
admit  the  exiiteiiee  of  thie  Uw,  withoat 
betag  able  to  eanaeiate  its  preamble.  It 
does  not  imply  that  otgaaio  distrihutioa 
depends  en  soil  aad  elimate;  for  we 
often  find  a  perfect  identity  of  these 
conditions  in  opposite  hemispheres^  and 
in  remote  continents,  whose  fkuns  and 
florm  are  ahnost  wfaoUy  direne.  It  does 
not  imply  that  allied  bat  diMhwt  oigaa- 
isBB  have  been  adduced^  by  generatioa  or 
spontaaeoas  develepneat,  from  the  same 
original  stock ;  fn  (to  pan  over  other 
obs^otions)  we  find  detached  tokanie 
iBlete,  which  have  been  ^ected  ttom  be- 
neath the  ooetn,  (snch  as  the  Galapagos, 
ibr  instance^)  inhabited  by  terrestrial 
forms  allied  to  those  of  the  nearest  con- 
tinent, though  hundreds  of  miles  distant, 
and  evidently  never  connected  with  them. 
Bottbis  fkct  may  indicate  that  the  Creator, 
in  forming  new  organisms  to  dieeharge 
the  fonotions  required  from  tune  to  time 
by  the  ever  vacillating  balanoe  of  natore, 
has  tiiOQgfat  fit  to  preierre  the  regularity 
ef  the  system  by  modifying  the  types  of 
Btractnie  already  established  in  the  a4ja* 
cent  locaUtie^  rather  than  to  proceed 
per  foUum  by  introdacing  forms  of  more 
foreign  aspect." 

In  conformity  with  this  relation 
between  geographical  distribution  aod 
organic  structure,  it  has  been  ascer- 
tained that  a  small  portion  of  the  in- 
digenous animals  and  plants  of  the 
islands  of  Rodriguee,  Bourbon,  and 
the  Isle  of  France,  are  either  allied  to 
or  identical  with  the  produc^ns  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


64 


The  Dodo  and  its  Kindred. 


[Jan* 


continental  Atiica,  a  larger  portion 
with  those  of  Madagascar,  while  cer- 
tain species  are  altogether  peculiar  to 
the  insular  group  al^ve  named. 

"  And  as  these  three  islands  form  a  de> 
tached  clo8ter,as  compared  to  other  lands, 
80  do  we  find  in  them  a  peculiar  group  of 
birds,  specifically  different  in  each  island, 
yet  allied  together  in  their  general  cha- 
racters, and  remarkably  isolated  from  any 
known  forms  in  other  parts  of  the 
world.  These  birds  were  of  large  size  and 
grotesque  proportions,  the  wings  too  short 
and  feeble  for  flight,  the  plumage  loose 
and  decomposed,  and  the  generU  aspect 
suggestire  of  gigantic  immaturity.  Their 
history  is  as  remarkable  as  their  origin. 
About  two  centuries  ago,  their  natife  isles 
were  first  colonised  by  man,  by  whom 
these  strange  creatures  were  speedily  ex- 
terminated. So  rapid  and  so  complete 
was  their  extinction,  that  the  Tagne  de- 
scriptions given  of  them  by  early  naviga- 
tors were  loug  regarded  as  fabulous  or 
exaggerated ;  and  these  birds,  almost  con- 
temporaries of  our  great-grandfathers, 
became  associated  in  the  minds  of  many 
persons  with  the  griffin  and  the  phcenix 
of  mythological  antiquity." 

The  aim  and  object  of  ^ir  Strick- 
land^s  work  is  to  vindicate  the  honesty 
of  the  rude  voyagers  of  the  seven- 
teenth century ;  to  collect  together  the 
scattered  evidence  regarding  the  Dodo 
and  its  kindred ;  to  aescribe  and  de- 
pict the  few  anatomical  fragments 
which  are  still  extant  of  those  lost 
species ;  to  invite  scientific  travellers 
to  farther  and  more  minute  research ; 
and  to  infer,  from  the  authentic  data 
now  in  hand,  the  probable  rank  and 
position  of  these  creatures  in  the  scale 
of  nature.  We  think  he  has  achieved 
his  object  very  admirably,  and  has 
produced  one  of  the  best  and  most 
interesting  monographs  with  which  it 
is  our  fortune  to  be  acquainted. 

So  far  as  we  can  see,  the  extension 
of  man*s  more  immediate  influence  and 
agency  is  the  sole  cause  of  the  dis- 
appearance of  species  in  modem  times 
— at  least  we  have  no  proof  that  any 
of  these  species  have  perished  by  what 
can  be  called  a  catastrophe:  this  is 
well  exemplified  by  what  we  now 
know  of  the  Dodo  and  its  kindred. 

The  islands  of  Maoritina  and  Bour- 
bon were  discovered  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  (authorities  difier  as  to  the 
precise  period,  which  they  vary  firom 
1602  to  16415,)  by  Pedro  Mascarcgnas, 


a  Portuguese,  who  named  the  latter 
after  himself;  while  he  called  the  for- 
mer Ceme,  a  term  applied  by  Pliny 
to  an  island  in  another  quarter.  Of 
this  Ceme  nothing  definite  was  ascer- 
tained till  the  year  1598,  when  the 
Dutch,  under  Jacob  Comelius  Neck, 
finding  it  unin^bited,  took  possession, 
and  changed  ift  name  to  Mauritius. 
In  the  narrative  of  the  voyage,  of 
which  there  are  several  accounts  in 
difierent  tongues,  we  find  the  follow- 
ing notice : — 

'^  This  island,  besides  being  very  fertile 
in  terrestrial  products,  feeds  vast  numbers 
of  birds,  such  as  turtle-doves,  which  occur 
in  such  plenty  that  three  of  our  men 
sometimes  captured  one  hundred  and  fifty 
in  half  a  day,  and  might  easily  have 
taken  more,  by  hand,  or  killed  them  with 
sticks,  if  we  had  not  been  overloaded  with 
the  burden  of  them.  Grey  parrots  arc 
also  common  there,  and  other  birds,  be- 
sides a  large  kind  bigger  than  our  swans, 
with  large  heads,  half  of  which  is  covered 
with  skin  like  a  hood.  These  birds  want 
wings,  in  place  of  which  are  three  or  four 
thickish  feathers.  The  tail  consi^  of  a 
few  slender  curved  feathers  of  a  gray 
colour.  We  called  them  Walektogel, 
for  this  reason,  that,  the  longer  they  were 
boiled,  the  tougher  and  more  uneatable 
they  became.  Their  stomachs,  howevei*, 
and  breasts,  were  easy  to  masticate.  An- 
other reason  for  the  name  was  that  we 
had  an  abundance  of  turtle-doves,  of  a 
much  sweeter  and  more  agreeable  fla- 
Your.''— De  Bry's/iMltaOrttfji<a/t»,(1601,) 
pars  V.  p.  7. 

These  walckvogel  were  the  birds  soon 
afterwards  called  Dodos.  The  descrip- 
tion given  by  Clusius,  in  his  Exotica^ 
(1605,)  is  chiefly  taken  from  one  of 
the  published  accounts  of  Van  Neck's 
voyage;  but  he  adds  the  following 
notice,  as  fr^m  personal  observa- 
tion:— 

*^  After  I  had  written  down  the  history 
of  this  bird  as  vrell  as  I  could,  I  happened 
to  see  in  the  house  of  Peter  Pauwlus, 
Professor  of  Medicine  in  the  University 
of  Leyden,  a  leg  cut  off  at  the  knee,  and 
recently  brought  from  the  Mauritius.  It 
was  not  very  long,  but  rather  exceeded 
four  inches  from  the  knee  to  the  bend  of 
the  foot.  Its  thickness,  however,  was 
great,  being  nearly  four  inches  in  circum- 
ference; and  it  was  covered  with  nume- 
rous scales,  which  in  front  were  wider  and 
yellow,  but  smaller  and  dusky  behind. 
The  upper  part  of  the  toes  was  also  frur- 
nished  with  single  broad  scales,  while  the 


digitized  by 


Google 


iai9.] 


The  Dodo  and  its  Kindreds 


85 


lower  pari  was  wholly  callous.  Tho  toes 
were  rather  short  for  so  thick  a  leg :  the 
claws  were  all  thick,  hard,  black,  less 
than  aa  inch  long  ;  but  the  claw  of  the 
hind  toe  was  longer  than  the  rest,  and 
exceeded  an  inch." 

A  Datch  navigator,  Heemskerk,  re- 
mained nearly  three  months  in  the 
MaaritioB,  on  his  homeward  voyage 
in  1602 ;  and  in  a  published  journal 
kept  by  Reyer  Comelisz,  we  read  of 
WalUchvogeisy  and  a  variety  of  other 
game.  One  of  Heemskerk's  captains, 
Willem  van  West-Zanen  by  name, 
also  left  a  journal — apparently  not 
published  until  1648 — at  which  time 
it  was  edited  in  an  enlarged  form  by 
H.  Soeteboom.  We  there  find  re- 
petted  mention  of  Dod-aarsen  or 
Dodos;  and  the  sailors  seem  to  have 
actually  revelled  in  these  birds,  with- 
out so&ering  from  surfeit  or  nausea 
like  Van  Neck*8  crew.  As  this  tract 
is  veij  rare,  and  has  never  appeared 
in  an  English  form,  we  shall  avail 
ourselves  of  Sir  Strickland^s  transla- 
tion of  a  few  passages  bearing  on  the 
subject  in  question : — 

^Tbe  sailors  went  out  every  day  to 
kvat  fbr  birds  and  other  game,  snoh  as 
they  eonld  And  on  land,  while  they  be- 
eame  less  aetive  with  their  nets,  hooks, 
and  other  fishing-tackle.  No  qnadmpeds 
•oeor  there  exoept  oats,  though  our 
eoontrynen  have  subsequently  introduced 
goats  and  swine.  The  herons  were  less 
tame  than  the  other  birds,  and  were  diffi- 
iult  to  procure,  owing  to  their  flying 
aaongst  the  thick  branches  of  the  trees. 
They  also  caught  birds  which  some  name 
Docf-iiarMii,  others  Dnmfeii.  When  Jacob 
Vaa  Neck  wasbere,these  birds  were  called 
IFoilioft-eo^i^  because  even  a  long  boil- 
ing would  scarcely  make  them  tender, 
but  they  remained  tough  and  hard,  with 
the  exception  of  the  breast  andbelly,which 
were  verv  good ;  and  also  because,  from 
the  abunoanee  of  turtle-doves  which  the 
men  procured,  they  became  disgusted 
with  dodos.  The  figure  of  these  birds  is 
given  in  the  accompanying  plate  :  they 
have  great  heads,  with  hoods  thereon  ; 
they  are  without  wings  or  tail,  and  have 
only  little  whiglets  on  their  sides,  and  four 
or  five  feathers  behind,  more  elevated 
than  the  rest ;  they  have  beaks  and  feet, 
and  commonly,  in  the  stomach,  a  stone  the 
sixeofafist.    .... 

**  The  dodos,  with  their  round  stems, 
(fbr  they  were  well  fkttened,)  were  also 
obliged  to  turn  tail ;  everything  that 
eonld  move  was  in  a  bustle;  and  the  fish, 
which  had  lived  in  peace  for  many  a  year. 


were  pursued  into  the  deepest  water- 
pools 

**  Ou  the  25th  July,  William  and  his 
sailors  brought  some  dodos,  which  were 
very  fat ;  the  whole  crew  made  an  ample 
meal  iVom  three  or  four  of  them,  and  a 
portion  remained  over.  .  .  .  They 
sent  on  board  smoked  fish,  salted  dodos, 
land-tortoises,  and  other  game,  which 
supply  was  very  acceptable.  They  were 
busy  for  some  days  bringing  proTisions  to 
the  ship.  On  the  4th  of  August,  WiUuun's 
men  brought  fifty  laige  birds  on  board  the 
BrujfH'Vu;  among  them  were  twenty- 
four  or  twenty-fire  dodos,  so  large  and 
heavy,  that  they  could  not  eat  any  two  of 
them  for  dinner,  and  all  that  remained 
over  was  salted. 

''  Another  day,  Uoogeven  (William's 
supercargo)  set  out  from  the  tent  with 
four  seamen,  provided  with  sticks,  nets, 
muskets,  and  other  necessaries  for  hunting. 
They  climbed  op  mountain  and  hiU^ 
roamed  through  forest  and  valley,  and, 
during  the  three  days  that  they  were  oo^ 
they  captured  another  half-hundred  of 
birds,  including  a  matter  of  twenty  dodos» 
all  which  they  brought  on  boud  and 
salted.  Thus  were  they,  and  the  other 
crews  in  the  fieet,  occupied  in  fowling  and 
fishing.*' 

In  regard  to  the  appellations  of  these 
birds,  it  is  not  altogether  ea^  to  de- 
termine the  precise  date  at  which  the 
synon3rmous  term  Dodoars^  from  which 
our  name  of  Dodo  is  by  some  derived, 
was  introduced.  It  seems  first  to 
occur  in  the  journal  of  Willem  van 
West-Zanen ;  but  that  journal,  though 
written  in  1603,  appears  to  have 
remained  unpublished  till  1648,  and 
the  name  may  have  been  an  inter- 

elation  by  his  editor,  Soeteboom. 
atdiefs  Journal,  also,  which  make» 
mention  of  Dodaersen,  otherwise 
Dronten^  was  written  in  1606,  and 
Van  der  Hagen's  in  1607;  but  Mr 
Strickland  has  been  unable  to  find  aa 
edition  of  either  work  of  eariier  date 
than  1646,  and  so  the  occurrence  of 
these  words  may  be  likewise  due  to 
the  ofilciousness  of  editors.  Pertiape 
the  eariiest  use  of  the  word  Dodar» 
may  date  from  the  publication  of 
Verhufien's  voyage,  (1613,)  where» 
however,  it  occurs  under  the  corrupt 
form  of  Totersten.  There  seems  little 
doubt  that  the  name  of  Dodo  is  de- 
rived from  the  Dutch  root,  Dodoor^ 
which  signifies  shggardf  and  is  ap- 

gropriate  to  the  leisurely  gait  and 
eavy  aspect  of  the  creatures  in  ques- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


m 


2U  Dodo  amiit8  KmdrecL 


[Jan. 


Hon.  BodttTB  is  probably  a  home- 
ly or  familiar  phrase  among  Dutch 
sSUlors,  asd  may  be  regarded  as  more 
expressive  than  elegant.  Oar  own 
Sir  Thomas  Herbert  was  the  first  to 
Qse  the  name  of  Dodo  in  its  modem 
form,  and  he  tells  us  that  it  is  a  Por- 
tngaese  word.  Daudo,  in  that  lan- 
guage, cartainty  signifies  *^  foolish," 
or  ^'simple,''  and  might  have  been 
well  applied  to  the  uiwary  habits 
and  defencdess  oonditicm  of  these 
abnost  wingless  and  totally  inexpe- 
rienced species  ;  bat,  as  none  of  the 
Portagaese  voyagers  seem  to  have 
mentioned  the  Dodo  by  any  name 
whatever,  nor  even  to  have  visited 
the  Manritias,  after  their  first  dis- 
covery of  the  island  by  Pedro  Mas- 
oaregnas  aLreadv  named,  it  appears 
far  more  probable  that  Dodars  is  a 
genoine  Dutch  term,  altered,  aad  it 
may  be  amended,  by  Sir  Thomas 
Herbert,  to  suit  his  own  phik^gical 
fancies. 

The  Datch,  indeed,  seem  to  have 
been  inspired  with  a  genuine  love  of 
Dodos,  and  never  allowed  even  the 
cooing  of  the  delicately  tender  turtle- 
doves to  prevent  their  laying  in  an 
ample  store  of  the  more  solid,  if  less 
sentimental  species.  Thus,  Van  der 
Hagen,  who  commanded  two  ships 
which  remained  for  some  we^s  at  the 
Manritias  in  1607,  not  only  feasted 
his  crews  on  great  abondanoe  of  ^^tor> 
toiies,  <Mbr(,  gray  parroqvets,  and 
other  game,**  but  salted  large  quan- 
tities, for  consumption  during  the  voy- 
ase.  VerhufliBn  toadied  at  the  same 
iuand  in  1611,  and  it  is  in  his  nar^ 
rative  (published  at  Frankfort  in 
1618^  that  Dodos  are  called  Totmtm. 
He  describes  them  as  having — 

"A  skin  like  a  monk's  cowl  on  tha 
heady  and  no  wings;  bat,  in  place  of  them, 
about  five  or  aiz  yellow  fathers :  like- 
wise, IB  phMe  of  a  tail,  are  Ibv  or  i?e 
erested  ftathers.  In  eeloBr  thev  are 
grmj ;  men  call  them  Tottntm  or  WaUk-^ 
^figd ;  they  oeosr  there  ia  grea4  plemiyy 
lasomnoh  thai  the  Dateh  daily  ca«|^ 
and  ate  many  of  them.  For  not  oaly 
theae,  hot  in  general  all  the  birdi  there, 
are  so  Ume  tLu  they  killed  the  tortle- 
doTes,  ae  well  ae  the  other  wild  pigeons 
and  oarrots,  with  atioks,  and  caoght  them 
by  the  hand.  They  also  captured  the 
totersten  or  walokrBgel  with  their  hands; 
bat  were  obliged  to  take  good  care  that 
these  birds  did  aoi  bite  them  on  the  anas 


er  leg!  with  their  beaks,  idiioh  are  very 
strong,  thick,  and  hooked  ;  fnr  they  are 
woat  to  bite  desperately  hard.** 

We  are  glad  to  be  informed,  by  the 
above,  of  this  attempt  at  indepen- 
dence, or  something  at  least  ap- 
proaching to  the  defensive  system. 
It  forms  an  additional  title,  on  the 
part  of  the  Dodo,  to  be  regiurded,  at 
all  events  by  the  Dutch  cuisiniers^  as 
•*  une  pihx  de  resistance^ 

Sir  Thomas  Herbert,  already  named, 
visited  the  Manritias  in  1627,  and 
found  it  still  uninhabited  by  man.  In 
his  Relation  of  some  yeares^  TravaHe^ 
which,  for  the  amusement  of  his  later 
years,  he  seems  to  have  repeatedly  re- 
written for  various  editions,  extend- 
ing from  1634  to  1677,  he  both  figures 
and  describes  our  fat  friend.  His 
narration  is  as  follows : — 

^  The  dodo,  a  bird  the  Dateh  eal! 
walckfogel  or  dod-eezsen :  her  body  is 
round  and  £&t,  which  eccasiens  the  slow 
pace,  or  that  her  corpulencie  ;  and  ao 
great  as  few  of  them  weigh  leas  than  fifty 
pound  ;  meat  it  is  with  some,  but  better 
to  the  eye  than  stomach,  such  as  only  a 
strong  appetite  ean  vanquish  ;  but  other- 
wise, through  its  oyliness,  it  cannot  chnee 
but  quickly  cloy  and  nauseate  tho 
stoauMh,  Uing  indeed  mete  pleasurable 
to  leek  than  fbed  upon.  It  is  ef  a  mel- 
ancholy visage,  as  sensible  ef  nature's 
injury  in  framing  so  maseie  a  hedy  to  ba 
directed  by  compUmental  wiags,  such  in- 
deed as  are  nnable  to  heise  her  from  the 
acronad,  serring  only  to  rank  her  amongst 
bMs.  Her  head  is  varioasly  dreet;  te 
OM  half  is  headed  with  down  ef  a  dark 
eelewr,  the  ether  half  nahad»  and  of  a  white 
hne,  as  if  lawn  were  dnwn  ever  it ;  hsr 
biU  hoeks  and  bends  dewnwardi ;  the 
thrill  er  breathing-place  is  in  the  midiAy 
freoi  which  part  te  the  end  the  colour  is 
9i  a  li|^t  gieea,  mixt  with  pale  yellow ; 
her  eyes  are  round  and  bright,  and  in- 
stead of  feathers  has  a  most  fine  down  ; 
her  train  (like  te  a  China  beard)  is  no 
more  than  three  er  fear  short  feathers  ; 
her  leggs  are  thkk  and  blaek ;  her  taloas 
great ;  her  atemach  fiery,  so  that  as  she 
can  easily  digest  steoee ;  in  that  and  shape 
net  a  little  resembling  the  estridi.**— 
(P.  183.) 

Francois  Cauche,  an  account  of 
whose  voyage,  made  in  1698,  is  pub- 
lished in  the  Rdations  Vdritabks  et 
Curieuses  de  VIslo  de  Madagascar^ 
(Paris,  1651)  sUtea  that  he  saw  in 
the  Manritias  birds  called  Oiseanx  da 
Nasaiei,  krger  than  a  awaot  eovtred 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Dodo  andiU  EindrmL 


87 


with  Mack  down,  with  crested  feathen 
OB  tfatt  mrap,  ^^  as  nanj  in  number  as 
the  bird  is  years  old."  In  place  of 
winffs  there  are  some  lAMk  conred 
leathers,  without  webs.  Hiecrjis 
like  that  of  a  gosling. 

'  They  only  lay  one  egg,  wfaieh  is  white, 
iha  MM  </a  kaljpemmy  roU ;  by  the  aide 
of  whioh  they  place  &  white  stone,  of  the 
dimensions  of  a  hen's  egg.  They  lay  on 
grmss,  whioh  they  collect,  and  mske  their 
nests  in  the  forests ;  if  one  kills  the  yonng 
«ae,  a  gray  stone  is  fonad  in  the  ginard. 
We  eaU  them  (Mseanz  de  Naaret.  The 
^  is  exeeUeat  togiTeease  to  the  mnseles 
a&dnevTts.'* 

Here  let  ns  pause  a  moment,  to  con- 
sider what  was  the  probable  size  of  a 
halfpenny  nm  in  the  year  1638. 
How  many  vast  and  varioiis  elements 
mast  be  taken  to  account  in  calcolat- 
ing  the  dimensions  of  that  **/Kun  cTun 
soi!^  MaccnOoch,  Cobden,  Joseph 
Home,  come  over  and  help  us  in  this 
our  hour  of  kneadi  Was  com  high 
or  low?  were  wages  up  or  down? 
were  bakers  honest  or  dishonest? 
was  there  a  fixed  measure  of  quan- 
tity for  these  our  matutinal  baps  ? 
Did  town  -  councils  regulate  their 
wel^^t  and  quality,  or  was  conscience 
left  controller,  from  the  quartern  loaf 
downwards  to  the  smallest  form  as- 
aumed  by  yeast  and  lour  ? 

"TeU  Bsvheie  was  &aey  bnU  ? '' 

Does  no  one  know  preeisely  what  was 
the  size  of  a  hal^Mmiy  rdl  in  the  year 
1688?  In  that  case,  we  diall  not 
neationthe  diaieuioas  of  the  Dodo's 


TTie 


here  is  no  doubt  that  the  bird  re- 
corded by  Cauche  was  the  true  Dodo, 
attlK>Bgfa  it  is  probable  that  he  either 
described  it  from  neiaoiy,  or  con- 
fused it  with  the  descriptioos  then 
current  of  the  cassowary.  Thus  he 
«dds  tiiat  the  lega  wero  oi  eoosider- 
aUe  length,  that  it  bad  only  three  toes, 
and  no  tongue— charactecB  (with  the 
exception  of  the  last,  inapplicable,  of 
course,  to  either  kind)  which  truly  in^ 
dicate  the  latter  species.  This  name  of 
^*  bad  of  Naaareth  '^  has>  moreover, 
given  rise  to  a  ialse  or  phantom 
qMeieSy  called  Didus  NoMmremm  m 
ayttenatio  works,  and  is  aoi^wsed  to 
have  been  derived  from  the  small 
ishuid  or  saadbank  of  Naaareth,  to 
the  north-east  of  Madagascar.    Now 


Dr  Hamel  has  recently  rendered  it 
probable  that  no  such  island  or  sand- 
bank is  in  exist^ce,  and  so  we  need 
not  seek  for  its  inhabitaats :  at  all 
events,  there  is  no  such  bird  as  the 
Nazareae  Dodo — DidmM  Nazartmu. 

The  next  piece  of  evidence  regard- 
ing the  Dodo  is  highly  interesting  and 
important,  as  it  shows  that,  at  least  in 
one  instance,  this  extraordinary  iHrd 
was  transported  alive  to  Europe,  and 
exhibited  m  our  own  country.  In  a 
manuscript  preserved  in  the  British 
Museum,  Sir  Hamon  Lestrange,  the 
father  of  the  more  cdebrated  Sir 
Boffer,  in  a  comm^tary  on  Brewn*a 
Vwgwr  Errors^  and  apropos  of  the 
ostrich,  records  as  follows : — 

*'Abont  16S8,  as  I  walked  London 
streets,  I  saw  tiie  pictnre  of  a  strange 
fbwle  hoBg  ont  apon  a  eloth,  and  myselfe, 
with  one  or  two  more  then  in  oempaoy, 
west  hi  to  see  it.  It  was  kept  in  a  cham- 
ber, and  was  a  great  fowle  somewhat 
bigger  than  the  largest  toikey-cod:,  and 
so  legged  and  footed,  but  stouter  and 
^cker,  and  of  a  more  erect  diape  ;  ce- 
lonred  before  like  the  breast  of  a  young 
cock  fesan,  and,  on  the  back,  of  dunn  or 
deare  coulonr.  The  keeper  called  it  a 
Dodo ;  and  in  the  end  of  a  chimney  in  the 
diamber  there  lay  a  heape  of  large  pebble 
stones,  whereof  bee  gave  it  many  in  onr 
sight,  some  as  bigg  as  nutmegs,  and  tha 
keeper  told  us  she  eats  them,  (conducing 
to  digestion) ;  and  though  I  remember 
not  how  farr  the  keeper  was  questioned 
therein,yet  I  am  confident  that  forwards 
shee  cast  them  all  againe.'' 

It  is  curious  that  no  confimatioa 
caa  be  obtaiaad  of  this  exhibition 
fh>m  contemporary  anthorities.  The 
period  was  pn^c  in  pamphlets 
and  broadsides,  but  political  excite- 
ment probably  engrossed  the  minds  of 
the  majority,  and  rendered  them  care- 
less of  the  wonders  of  nature.  Yet 
the  individual  in  question  may  in  idl 
likelihood  be  traced  down  to  the  pre- 
sent day,  and  portions  of  it  seen  aad 
handled  by  the  existing  generatioa. 
In  Tradescant's  catalogue  of  his  ^^  Col* 
lection  of  Rarities  preserved  at  South 
Lambeth^  near  London,''  1656,  we  find 
an  entry— ^'  Dodar  from  the  island 
Mauritius ;  it  is  not  able  to  file,  being 
so  big."  It  is  eaamerated  uder  the 
head  of  ''  Whole  birds;''  and  Wil- 
loghby,  who^e  Ondlhohgia  appeared 
in  1676,  says  of  the  Dodo,  ''  Exuviae 
hnjusce  avis  vidimus  in  museo  Tra- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


88 

descantiano."  The  same  specimen  is 
alluded  to  by  Llhwyd  in  1684,  and  by 
Hyde  in  1700, — ^having  passed,  mean- 
while, into  the  AshmoleanMoseam,  at 
Oxford,  with  the  rest  of  the  Trades- 
cantian  collection.  AsTradescantwas 
the  most  noted  collector  of  things  na- 
tural in  his  day,  and  there  were  few, 
if  any,  to  enter  into  competition  with 
him,  it  may  be  well  supposed  that 
such  a  rara  avis  as  a  living  Dodo  would 
attract  his  close  attention,  and  that  it 
would,  in  all  probability,  find  its  w^ 
into  his  cabinet  on  its  decease.  It 
may,  therefore,  be  inferred  that  the 
same  individual  which  was  exhibited 
in  London,  and  described  by  Lestrange 
in  1638,  is  that  recorded  as  a  stnffed 
specimen  in  the  catalogue  of  Trades- 
cant's  Museum,  (1656,)  and  be- 
queathed b^  ]^m,  with  his  other  curio- 
sities, to  Elias  Ashmole,  the  munificent 
founder  of  the  still  existing  museum 
at  Oxford. 

The  considerate  reader  will  not  un- 
naturally ask,  Where  is  now  that  last 
of  Dodos  ?  and  echo  answers,  Where  ? 
Alas !  it  was  destroyed,  ^*  by  order  of 
the  Visitors,"  in  1766.  The  following 
is  the  evidence  of  that  destruction,  as 
given  by  Mr  J.  S.  Duncan  in  the 
8d  volume  of  the  Zoological  Journal^ 
p.  669  :— 

"In  the  Ashmolean  Catalogue,  made 
by  Ed.  Llhwydy  nmsei  procustof,  1684, 
(Plott  being  then  keeper,)  the  entry  of 
the  bird  is  '  No.  29,  GalluB  gallinaoenfl 
peregrinos  CHasii,'  &c  In  a  catalogue 
made  snbseqnently  to  1755,  it  is  stated, 
'  The  nnmbers  from  5  to  46,  being  decayed, 
were  ordered  to  be  removed  at  a  meeting 
of  the  minority  of  the  Visitors,  Jan.  8, 
1755.'  Among  these,  of  course,  was  in- 
cluded the  Dodo,  its  number  being  29. 
This  is  fbrther  shown  by  a  new  catalogue, 
completed  in  1756,  in  which  the  order  of 
the  Visitors  is  recorded  as  follows : — 
'  IHa  quibus  nuUus  in  margine  assignatnr 
nnmerus,  a  Musseo  subducta  sunt  cimelia, 
annuentibus  Vioe-Cancellario  aliisque  Oq- 
ratoribus  ad  ea  lustranda  convocatis,  die 


The  Dodo  and  its  Kindred, 


[Jan. 

Januarii  Svo,  a.  d.' 1755.'  The  Dodo  is  one 
of  those  which  are  here  without  the  num-> 
ber." 

By  some  lucky  accident,  however, 
a  small  portion  of  **  this  last  descen- 
dant of  an  ancient  race,"  as  Mr 
Strickland  terms  it,  escaped  the 
clutches  of  the  destroyers.  "The 
head  and  one  of  the  feet  were  saved 
from  the  flames,  and  are  still  pre- 
sei-ved  in  the  Ashmolean  Museum.'** 

Let  us  now  retrace  our  steps,  for 
the  sake  of  taking  up,  very  briefly^ 
the  history  of  the  other  known  rem- 
nants of  this  now  extinct  species. 
Among  the  printed  books  of  the  Ash^ 
molean  Museum,  there  is  a  small 
tract,  of  which  the  second  edition  (the 
first  is  without  date)  is  entitled,  "  A 
Catalogue  of  many  natural  rarities, 
with  great  industry,  cost,  and  thirty 
years'  travel  in  foreign  countries,  col- 
lected by  Robert  Hubert,  alias  Forges, 
gent,  and  sworn  servant  to  his  ma- 
jesty; and  daily  to  be  seen  at  the 
place  formerly  called  the  Music  House, 
near  the  west  end  of  StPaul's  Church,*' 
12mo,  London,  1665.  At  page  11  is 
the  following  entry : — "  A  legge  of  a 
Dodo,  a  great  heavy  bird  that  cannot 
fly:  it  Is  a  bird  of  the  MaurcioH 
island."  This  specimen  is  supposed 
to  be  that  which  afterwards  passed 
into  the  possession  of  the  Royal  So- 
ciety, is  recorded  in  their  catalogue  of 
Natural  and  Artificial  Curiosities^  pub- 
lished by  Grew  in  1681,  and  is  now 
in  the  British  Museum.  It  is  Bome«> 
what  larger  than  the  Ashmolean  foot^ 
and,  fix>m  its  excellent  state  of  pre* 
servation,  finely  exhibits  the  ex* 
temal  characters  of  the  toes  and 
tarsus. 

In  01earas*s  catalogue  of  the  mu- 
seum at  Grottorf,  (the  seat  of  the 
Dukes  of  Schleswig,  and  recently  m 
less  easy  one  than  we  have  known  it,) 
of  which  the  first  edition  was  pnblishea 
in  1666,  there  is  the  follow&g  notica 
of  a  Dodo's  bead: —  ^ 


*  The  scientific  value  of  these  remnants,  Mr  Strickland  informs  us,  has  been  lately 
much  increased  by  skiHU  dissection.  Dr  Aoland,  the  lecturer  in  anatomy,  has 
divided  the  skin  of  the  cranium  down  the  mesial  line,  and,  by  removing  it  from  the 
left  side,  the  entire  osteological  structure  of  this  extraordmary  skull  is  exposed  to 
view,  while  on  the  other  side  the  external  covering  remains  undisturbed.  The  soli- 
tary fbot  was  formerly  covered  by  decomposed  integuments,  and  presented  few  ex- 
ternal characters.  These  have  been  removed  by  Dr  Kidd,  the  professor  of  medicine^ 
whf  has  made  an  interesting  preparation  of  both  the  osseous  and  tendinous  structures^ 
•'^Sie  Tks  Dodo  and  Us  Kindred,  p.  S3. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1W9.] 


The  Dodo  and  its  Kindred. 


89 


^  No.  5  ifl  the  head  of  &  foreign  bird, 
whieh  ClouoB  names  GaUut  peregrinu§, 
Mirenbeig  Cygnm  eucuUatus,  and  the 
Dutch  walghTogel,  from  the  disgust  which 
they  are  said  to  have  taken  to  its  hard 
flesh.  The  Dutch  seem  to  haye  first  dis- 
coTered  this  bird  in  the  island  of  Mauri- 
tins  ;  and  it  is  stated  to  have  no  wings, 
but  in  place  of  them  two  winglets,  like 
tlie  emeu  and  the  penguins."—^.  25.) 

This  spedmen,  after  haying  been 
disregarded,  if  not  forgotten,  for  nearly 
two  centuries,  was  lately  re-discoyered, 
hy  Professor  C.  Reinhardt,  amongst 
a  mass  of  ancient  rubbish,  and  is  now 
in  the  public  museum  of  Copenhagen, 
where  it  was  examined  by  Mr  Strick- 
land two  years  ago.*  The  integu- 
mentary piortions  haye  been  all  re- 
moyed,  but  it  exhibits  the  same 
oetedogicia  characters  as  the  Oxford 
head,  though  less  perfect,  the  base  of 
the  occiput  being  absent.  It  is  of 
somewhat  smaller  size. 

The  remnants  now  noticed— three 
heads  and  two  feet— are  the  only 
ascertained  existing  portions  of  the 
fiunous  Dodo  :  a  bird  which,  as  we 
have  seen  in  the  preceding  extracts, 
might  haye  been  well  enough  known 
to  8«ch  of  our  great  great-grandfathers 
as  were  in  the  sea-fkring  line. 

But  when  did  the  last  Dodo  die  ? 
We  cannot  answer  that  question  ar-^ 
tkolatdy,  as  to  theyery  year,  still  less 
as  to  the  season,  or  tfane  of  day— and 
we  belieye  that  no  intfanations  of  the 
eyoit  were  sent  to  the  kindred ;  but 
we  do  not  hesitate  to  state  our  belief 
that  that  affecting  occurrrace  or  be- 
reayement  took  place  some  time  sub- 
iaqient  to  the  summer  of  1681,  and 
prior  to  1693.  The  latest  eyidence  of 
the  existence  of  Dodos  in  the  Mauri- 
tiis  18  contained  in  a  manuscript  of 
the  British  Museum,  entitled  ''A 
eoppej  of  Mr  Benj.  Harry*s  Joumall 
when  he  was  chief  mate  of  the  Shippe 
Berkley  Castle,  Captn.  Wm.  Talbot 
eommander,  on  yoyage  to  the  Coste 
and  Bay,  1679,  which  yoyage  they 
winto^  at  the  Maurrisshes.'*  On 
tiie  return  from  India,  being  unable 
to  weather  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
they  determined  to  make  for  ^^  the 
Mtfn8he8,*'the4th  June  1681.  They 


saw  the  land  on  the  Sd  July,  and  on 
the  11th  they  began  to  build  huts, 
and  with  mnch  labour  spread  out  their 
cargo  to  dry : — 

"  Now,  haying  a  little  respitt,  I  will 
make  a  little  description  of  the  island, 
first  of  its  producks,  then  of  its  parts  ; 
ffirst,  of  winged  and  feathered  ffowle,  the 
less  passant  are  Dodos,  whoteffleth  if  very 
hard,  a  small  sort  of  Gees,  reasonably 
good  Teele^  Cuckoes,  Pasca  filemingos. 
Turtle  DoTes,  large  Batts,  many  small 
birds  which  are  good.  .  .  .  Heer  are 
many  wild  hoggs  and  land-turtle  which 
are  Tery  good,  other  small  creators  on  the 
Land,  as  Scorpions  and  Musketoes,  these 
in  small  numbers,  Batts  and  ffleys  a  mul- 
titude, Munkeys  of  yarious  sorts." 

After  this  all  historical  eyidence  of 
the  existence  of  the  Dodo  ceases,  al- 
though we  cannot  doubt  that  they  con- 
tinue for  jret  a  few  years.  The  Dutch 
first  colonised  the  Mauritius  in  1644. 
The  island  is  not  aboye  forty  miles  in 
length ;  and  although,  when  first  dis- 
coyered,  it  was  found  clothed  with 
dense  forests  of  pabns,  and  yarious 
other  trees — among  whose  columnar 
stems  and  leafy  umbrage  the.  natiye 
creatures  might  find  a  safe  abode, 
with  food  and  shelter—how  speedily 
would  not  the  improyident  rapacity 
of  hungry  colonists,  or  of  reckless 
fresh-flesh-bereayed  mariners,  dimi- 
nish the  numbers  of  a  large  and 
heayy-bodied  bird,  of  powerless  wing 
and  slow  of  foot,  and  useful,  more- 
oyer,  in  the  way  of  culinary  consump- 
tion. Mr  S^ckland  is  of  opinion  that 
thehr  destruction  would  be  further 
hastened,  or  might  be  mainly  caused, 
by  the  dogs,  cats,  and  swme  which 
accompany  man  in  his  migrations, 
and  become  themselyes  emancipated 
in  the  forests.  All  these  creatures  are 
more  or  less  camiyorous,  and  are  fond 
of  eggs  and  young  birds ;  and  as  the 
Dodo  is  said  to  haye  hatched  only  one 
egg  at  a  time,  a  single  sayage  mouth- 
ful* might  sufi^ce  to  destroy  the  hope 
of  a  family  for  many  a  day. 

That  the  destruction  of  Dodos  was 
completed  by  1698,  Mr  Strickland 
thinks  m^  be  inferred  from  the  nar- 
rative of  Leguat,  who,  in  that  year, 
remained  seyend  months  in  the  Mau- 
ritius, and,  while  enumerating  its  ani- 


^  The  collection  of  the  Dukes  of  Schleswig  was  remoyed  about  the  year  1720,  by 
Virederic  IV.,  ft^m  Qottorf  to  Copenhagen,  where  it  is  now  inoorporated  with  the 
Boyal  ^  Knnstkammer"  of  that  northern  capital. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


90 


The  Dodo  wuiitiEmdreeL 


[Jan. 


malprodnctioDSfti  Gonsiderable  length, 
makes  no  mention  whatever  c^  the 
bird  in  question.  He  adds, — ^^  L^isle 
«tait  autrefois  toute  remplie  d'ojes  et 
de  canards  sanvages ;  de  poolee  d^eau, 
de  gelinottes,  de  tortues  de  mer  et  de 
terre,  mats  taut  ceh  eat  deoenue  Jbri 
rare.^  And,  while  referring  to  the 
''  hogs  of  the  China  kind,"  he  states 
that  these  beasts  do  a  great  deal  of 
damage,  by  devonring  all  the  young 
anim^  they  can  catch.  It  is  thus  suffi- 
ciently evident  that  civilisation  was 
making  aggressive  inroads  on  the  natu- 
ral state  of  the  Maaritius  even  in  1693. 
The  Dntch  evacuated  the  island  ia 
1712,  and  were  succeeded  by  the 
French,  who  ccdonised  it  mider  the 
name  of  Isle  de  France ;  and  this 
change  in  the  population  no  doubt 
accounts  for  the  almost  ^tire  abseaee 
of  any  ^'aditionary  knowledge  of  this 
remarkable  bird  among  the  later  in- 
halutants.  Baron  Giant  lived  in  the 
Mauritius  for  twenty  years  from 
1740 ;  and  his  son,  who  compiled  his 
lM4>ers  into  a  history  of  the  island, 
states  that  no  trace  of  sn^  a  bird 
was  to  be  found  at  that  time.  In  the 
ObserwMtions  mr  la  Phytique  for  the 
year  1778,  there  is  a  negative  notice, 
by  M.  Morel,  of  the  Dodo  and  its 
kindred.  *^  Ces  oiseanx,  si  bien  d^- 
crits  dans  le  tome  2  de  THistoh-e  des 
Oiseanx  de  M.  le  Comte  de  Bnffon, 
n'ont  jamais  ^  vob  anx  Isles.de 
Fraaoe,  &c.,  depuis  i^ns  de  60  ana 
qoe  ces  parages  sent  habits  et  visits 
par  des  colonies  Francoises.  Les  pins 
anciens  habitans  assnrent  tens  que 
ces  oiseanx  monstmeux  leur  ont 
toBjours  Mi  inconnus."  M.  Bory  St 
Vincent,  who  visited  the  Mauritius 
and  Bourbon  in  1801,  and  has  given 
US  an  account  of  the  physical  featnrea 
of  those  islands  in  his  *^  Voyage,"  as- 
sures us  (vol.  ii.  p.  306)  ^lat  be  insti- 
tuted all  possible  inquiries  regarding 
the  Dodo  (or  Dronte)  and  its  klndsed, 
without  being  able  to  pidL  op  the 
atighteat  iaformatioo  on  the  snbfect ; 
and  altiiougk  he  advertised  ^'nne 
made  recompense  a  qni  pourndt  Ini 
imaer  la  raoindre  indiee  de  randenne 
existence  de  oet  oisean,  nn  silenoe 
wiversel  a  pixmv^  que  le  souvenir 
arfoe  du  Dronte  ^tait  perdu  parmi  les 
WMm:'  De  Blainville  informs  us, 
gfew  .^liiii.  Mu$.  iv.  SI,)  that  the 
was  discussed   at   a   publie 


f 


dinner  at  the  Mauritius  in  1816,  where 
were  i»«sent  several  persons  from 
seventy  to  ninety  years  of  age,  none 
of  whom  had  any  knowledge  of  any 
Dodo,  either  from  recollection  or  tra- 
dition. Finally,  Mr  J.  V.  Thompson, 
who  resided  for  some  years  in  Mau- 
ritius prior  to  1816,  states,  {Mag,  of 
Nat,  Hist,,  ii.  443,)  that  no  more 
traces  could  then  be  found  of  the 
Dodo  tium  of  the  trsth  of  the  tale  of 
Paul  and  Virginia. 

But  the  historical  evidence  ahready 
addnced,  as  to  the  former  existence  of 
this  bird,  is  confirmed  in  a  very  inte- 
resting mannor  l»y  iHiat  may  be  called 
the  pictorial  proof.  BesideB  the  rude 
delineations  given  by  the  earlier 
voyagers,  there  are  several  old  oil- 
paintings  of  the  Dodo  still  extant,  by 
BkUfhl  artists,  who  had  no  other  objetit 
in  viewthan  to  represent  with  accuracy 
^e  forms  before  them.  Tbese  paint- 
ings are  five  in  number,  whereof  one 
is  anonymous ;  three  bear  tlie  name  of 
Roland  Savo^,  an  eminent  Dutch 
animal-painter  of  the  early  portion  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  and  one  is  by 
John  Savery,  Ridand's  nephew. 

The  first  of  tbese  is  the  best  known, 
and  is  that  from  which  the  flgvre  of 
the  Dodo,  in  all  modem  oonpUations 
of  ornithology,  has  been  copied.  It 
once  belonged  to  Gecarge  Edwards, 
who,  in  his  work  on  bird^  (vL  ^tH,) 
tells  us,  that  "  the  original  picture 
was  drawn  in  Holland  y^m  the  Iwmff 
bird,  brought  firom  St  Maurice^  island 
in  the  East  Indies,  in  the  eariy  times 
of  the  discovery  of  the  Indies  by  the 
way  of  the  CiqM  of  Good  Hope.  It 
was  the  property  of  the  late  Sir  H. 
Sioane  to  the  time  of  his  death,  and 
afterwards  becondng  my  preporty,  I 
depeeited  it  in  the  Briti^  Museum  as 
a  great  curiosity.  The  above  history 
of  the  pictmv  Ihad  from  Sir  H.  Sioane, 
and  the  late  Dr  Mortimer,  secretary 
to  the  Royal  Society."  It  is  still  pre- 
served in  the  pfawe  to  whidi  Edwards 
had  consigned  it,  and  nMy  be  seen  in 
the  bird  gaUery,  along  with  the  actual 
foot  alrMdy  mentioned.  Altbough 
without  name  or  date,  ^e  similarity 
both  of  design  and  executioB,  leads  to 
the  condnsion  that  it  was  by  one  or 
other  of  the  Saverys.  It  may  be  seen 
engraved  in  the  Au^f  Cjfciopmdia,  in 
illustration  of  Mr  Broderip'b  article 
l>Mfe  in  that  work. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Hke  Dodo  amd  iU  Kindred. 


91 


The  second  patnting,  one  of  Boluid 
SaTerj'Sf  is  in  the  royiil  ooUectkm  mt 
the  Hagoe,  and  maj  be  regarded  as 
m  dkef'dawore.  It  represents  Or* 
pbens  dianning  the  creation,  and  we 
there  behold  the  Dodo  spdl-bonnd 
with  his  other  mnte  companions.  All ' 
the  ordinary  creatures  tiiere  shown 
are  depicted  with  the  greatest  tmth- 
Ihiness ;  and  why  should  the  artist, 
deKghting,  as  he  seems  to  have  d<me, 
in  tracing  the  most  delicate  features 
of  fiunUiar  natare,  have  maned  the 
beaatiM  consistency  of  his  design  by 
introducing  a  feigned,  or  eren  an 
exaggerated  representation  ?  We 
nuiy  here  adduce  the  inrahiable  eri- 
deBce  of  Professor  Oweo. 

**  Whilt  at  the  Hacae>  in  the  gammer 
of  1838»I  wis  macL  stnick  with  th« 
minoteness  and  acouraoy  with  which  the 
exotic  species  of  anhnals  had  been 
painted  by  Sayery  and  Breughel,  in  snch 
subjects  as  Orpheos  charming  the  Beasts, 
Ae.,  in  whioh  seope  was  allowed  for 
groopiag  together  a  great  Tariety  «f 
animals.  Uaderttanding  that  the  eele. 
hrated  menagerie  of  Prinee  Maarioe  had 
affuded  the  Ufii^  models  to  these  artiste, 
I  sat  down  one  day  before  Savery's 
Orphens  and  theBeast^  to  make  a  list  of 
the  species,  which  the  piotore  sufficiently 
eTinced  that  the  artist  had  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  study  alive.  Judge  of  my  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  in  detectings  in  a  dark 
eoraer  of  the  picture,  (which  is  badly 
hong  between  two  windows,)  tiie  IWo, 
beautifkilly  fnished,  showing  for  example, 
though  but  thieo  iaehee  lmig,the  avri- 
tnlar  eirele  of  foathen,  the  sentatian  of 
the  tara^aad  tha  loose  stroctare  of  ths 
eandil  plumes.    In  tho  aamher  and  pee- 


that  the  miniature  must  have  been  copied 
ftx>m  the  study  of  a  Hying  bird,  which,  it 
ii  most  probable,  formed  part  of  the 
Mauritian  menagerie.  The  bird  is  stand- 
ing in  preile  witii  a  lixard  at  its  foef — 
Fmrnji  Cfclapmdkif  xxiii.  p.  148. 

Mr  Strickland,  in  1845,  made  a 
aearch  through  the  Royal  Gallery  of 
Berlin,  whioh  was  known  to  contain 
aereral  of  Saveiy's  pictures.  Anicmg 
them,  we  are  happy  to  sav  that  be 
Iband  one  rapresentmg  the  Dodo» 
with  Bomerevs  other  aninuds,  ^^in 
Paradise  !*'  It  was  very  cenformabla 
with  the  figure  last  mentioned ;  bnt 
what  readers  tUa,  our  third  portrait, 


of  pecular  interest,  is,  that  it  affords  a 
date^the  words  ^*  Boelandt  Savery 
fe.  16^6,''  being  inscribed  on  one 
comer.  As  the  artist  was  bom  in 
1576,  he  must  have  been  twenty-three 
years  old  when  Van  Neck's  expedi- 
tion returned  to  Holland ;  and  as  we 
are  told  by  De  Bry,  in  reference  to 
the  Mauritius,  that  ^^allse  ibidem 
aves  visaa  sunt,  quas  walkyogel 
Batavi  nominarunt,  et  ihmuh  secum  m 
Holkmdiam  importanmi^^*  it  is  quite 
possible  that  the  portrait  of  this  indi- 
vidual may  have  been  taken  at  the 
time,  and  afterwards  reoopied,  both  by 
himself  and  his  nephew,  in  their  later 
pictures.  Professor  Owen  leans  to 
the  belief  that  Prince  Maurice's  col- 
lection afforded  the  living  prototype, 
— an  opinion  so  far  strengthened  by 
Edwards's  tradition,  that  the  painting 
in  the  British  Museum  was  drawn  in 
Holland  from  a  "living  bird."  Either 
view  is  preferable  to  I>r  Hamel's  sug- 
gestion, that  Savery*s  repesentation 
was  taken  from  the  Dodo  exhibited 
in  London,  as  that  individual  was 
seen  alive  by  Sir  Hamon  Lestrange 
in  1088,  and  must  therefore  (by  no 
means  a  likely  occurrence)  have  lived, 
in  the  event  supposed,  at  least  twelve 
years  in  captivity. 

Very  recently  Dr  J.  J.  de  Ttohudi, 
the  well-known  Peravian  traveller, 
transmitted  to  Mr  Strickland  an  ex.* 
act  copy  of  another  figure  of  the  Dodo« 
which  forms  part  of  a  pictare  in  the 
fanperial  collection  of  the  Bdvedere 
at  Vienna — by  no  means  a  safe  loca- 
tion, m  these  tempestuous  times,  for 
the  treasures  of  either  art  or  nature. 
But  we  trust  that  Prince  Windisch- 
gratx  and  the  hanging  committee  will 
now  see  that  all  is  right,  and  that 
General  Bem  has  not  been  allowed  to 
carry  off  this  drawing  of  the  Dodo  in 
his  carpet-bag.     It  is  dated  1628. 

''There  are  two  cirenmetanees,"  says 
Mr  Stzicklaad,  ^  wbieh  gife  an  especial 
interest  to  this  painting.  First,  the 
noTelty  of  attitude  in  the  Dodo,  exhibit- 
ing an  activity  of  character  which  corro- 
borates the  supposition  that  the  artist  had 
a  living  model  before  him,  and  contrast- 
ing strongly  nith  the  aspect  of  passim 
stolidity  in  the  otfier  pictiree.  And, 
secondly,  the  Dode  is  lepveeented  as 
watdiing,  apparmrtly  with  hongry  h>ok% 
the  meny  wrign^ings  of  an  eel  in  the 
water  1    Are  we  heaee  te  iafor  that  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


92 


TJie  Dodo  and  its  Kindred. 


[Jan. 


Dodo  fed  upon  eels !  The  adrocates  of 
the  Raptorial  affinities  of  the  Dodo,  of 
whom  we  shall  soon  speak,  will  doabtless 
reply  in  the  affirmatiTe  ;  but,  as  I  hope 
shortly  to  demonstrate  that  it  belongs  to 
a  family  of  birds  all  the  other  members 
of  which  are  frugivorous,  I  can  only  re- 
gard the  introduction  of  the  eel  as  a  pic- 
torial license.  In  this,  as  in  all  his  other 
paintings,  SaTery  brought  into  juxta- 
position animals  fVom  all  countries, 
without  regarding  geographical  distri- 
bution. His  delineations  of  birds  and 
beasts  were  wonderfblly  exact,  but  his 
knowledge  of  natural  hbtory  probably 
went  no  further  ;  and  although  the  Dodo 
is  certainly  looking  at  the  eel,  yet  we  hare 
no  proof  that  he  is  going  to  eat  it.  The 
mere  collocation  of  animals  in  an  artistic 
composition,  cannot  be  accepted  as  cTi- 
dence  against  the  positire  truths  reTealed 
by  oomparatire  anatomy." — (P.  30.) 

The  fifth  and  last  old  painting  of 
the  Dodo,  is  that  now  in  the  Ash- 
molean  Moseom  at  Oxford,  and  pre- 
sented to  it  by  Mr  Darby  in  1813. 
Nothing  is  known  of  its  previous  his- 
tory. It  is  the  workof  John  Savery, 
the  nephew  of  Roland,  and  is  dated 
1651.  Its  most  peculiar  character  is 
the  colossal  scale  on  which  it  has  been 
designed, — ^the  Dodo  of  this  canvass 
standing  about  three  feet  and  a  hidf 
in  height. 

'^  It  is  difficnlt,"  observes  our  author, 
**  to  assign  a  motive  to  the  artist  for  thus 
magnifying  an  object  already  sufficiently 
nnoonth  in  appearance.  Were  it  not  for 
the  discrepancy  of  dates,  I  should  have 
conjectured  that  this  was  the  identical 
**  picture  of  a  strange  fowle  hong  out  upon 
a  cloth,"  which  attracted  the  notice  of 
Sir  Hamon  Lestrange  and  his  ftriends,  as 
they  ^walked  London  streets"  in  1638  ; 
the  delineations  nsed  by  showmen  being 
in  general  more  remarkable  for  attractive- 
ness than  veracity."— (P.  81.) 

We  have  now'exhibited  the  leading 
facts  which  establish  both  the  exist- 
ence and  extinction  of  this  extraor- 
dinaiy  bird:  the  existence,  proved 
by  the  recorded  testimony  of  the 
earlier  navigators,  the  few  but  pecu- 
liar portions  of  structure  which  still 
remain  among  us,  and  the  [vera 
effigies  handed  down  by  artists  coeval 
with  the  period  in  which  the  Dodo 
lived :  the  non-existence,  deduced 
(torn  the  general  progress  of  events, 
and  the  absence  of  tSi  knowledge  of 
thA  RnAries  sincB  the  close  of  the 


seventeenth  century,  although  the 
natural  productions  of  the  Mauritius 
are,  in  other  respects,  much  better 
known  to  us  now  than  then.  Why 
any  particular  creature  should  have 
been  so  formed  as  to  be  unable  to 
resist  the  progress  of  humanity^  and 
should  in  consequence  have  died,  it  is 
not  for  us  to  say.  "  There  are  more 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  . 
dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy  ; "  and  of 
this  we  may  feel  assured,  that  if,  as 
we  doubt  not,  the  Dodo  is  extmct, 
then  it  has  served  its  end,  whatever 
that  might  be. 

There  is  nothing  imperfect  in  the 
productions  of  nature,  although  there 
are  many  organisms  in  which  certain 
forms  and  faculties  are  less  developed 
than  in  others.  There  are  certainly, 
in  particular  groups,  such  things  as 
rudimentary  organs,  which  belong,  as 
it  were,  not  so  much  to  the  individual 
species,  as  to  the  general  system 
which  prevails  in  the  larger  and  mora 
comprehensive  class  to  which  such 
species  belong ;  and  in  the  majority  of 
which  these  organs  fulfil  a  frequent 
and  obvious  function,  and  so  are  very 
properly  regarded  as  indispensable  to 
the  weUbeing  of  such  as  use  them. 
But  there  are  many  examples  in 
animal  life  which  indicate  that  parti- 
cular parts  of  structure  remain,  in  cer- 
tain species,  for  ever  in  an  undeveloi>ed 
state.  In  respect  to  teeth,  for  in- 
stance, the  Greenland  whale  may  be 
regarded  as  a  permanent  suckling ;  for 
that  huge  creature  having  no  occasion 
for  these  organs,  they  never  pierce 
the  gums,  although  in  early  life  they 
are  distinctly  traceable  in  the  dental 
groove  of  the  jaws.  So  the  Dodo  was 
a  kind  of  permanent  nestUng^  covered 
with  down  instead  of  feathers,  and 
with  wings  and  tail  (the  oars  and 
rudder  of  all  aerial  voyagers)  so  short 
and  feeble  as  to  be  altogether  inef- 
ficient for  the  purposes  of  flight. 
Why  should  such  things  be?  We  can- 
not say.  Can  any  one  say  why  they 
should  not  be  ?  The  question  is  both 
wide  and  deep,  and  they  are  most 
likely  to  plunge  into  it  who  can 
neither  dive  nor  swim.  We  agree 
with  Mr  Strickland,  that  these  i^par« 
ently  anomalous  facts  are,  in  reality, 
indications  of  laws  which  the  great 
Creator  has  been  pleased  to  form  and 
follow  in  the  construcUon  of  organised 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 

beings, — inscriptioDS  in  an  onknown 
hieroglyphic,  which  we  may  rest 
assured  must  have  a  meaning,  but  of 
which  we  have  as  yet  scarcely  learned 
the  alphabet.  "  There  appear,  how- 
ever, reasonable  grounds  for  belieying 
that  the  Oeator  has  assigped  to  each 
class  of  animals  a  definite  type  or 
Btmctnre,  from  which  He  has  never 
departed,  even  in  the  most  excep- 
tional or  eccentric  modifications  of 
form." 

As  to  the  true  position  of  the  Dodo 
in  systematic  ornithology,  various 
opinions  have  been  emitted  by  vari- 
ous men.  The  majority  seem  to  have 
placed  it  in  the  great  Rasorial  or 
Gallinaceous  order,  as  a  component 
part  of  tiie  family  StruthionuUe,  or 
ostrich  tribe. 

^  The  bird  in  qaestion,"  says  Mr  Vig- 
ors, "from  erery  aoooant which  we  hare  of 
its  oeonomy,  and  from  the  appearance  of 
ita  head  and  foot,  is  decidedly  gallina- 
ceooe;  and,  from  the  insufflciency  of  its 
wings  for  the  purposes  of  flight,  it  may 
with  eqoal  certainty  be  pronounced  to 
be  of  the  tStrutkiau$  structure.  But  the 
foot  has  a  strong  hind-toe>  and,  with  the 
exception  of  its  being  more  robust,  in 
which  character  it  still  adheres  to  the 
Struthionidie,  it  corresponds  to  the  Lin- 
nsan  genus  Crax,  that  commences  the 
succeeding  funUy.  The  bird  thus  be- 
comes osculant,  and  forms  a  strong  point 
of  junction  between  those  two  contiguous 
groups." — Linn,  Trans.  xiT.  484. 

M.  de  BlainvUle  (in  Nauv,  Ann.  du 
Mm.  iv.  24,)  contests  this  opinion  by 
various  arguments,  which  we  cannot 
here  report,  and  conclndes  that  the 
Dodo  is  a  raptorial  bird,  allied  to  the 
vultures.  Mr  Broderip,  in  his  article 
before  referred  to,  sums  up  the  dis- 
cussion as  follows  :— 

"  If  the  picture  in  the  British  Museum, 
and  the  cut  in  Bontius,  be  faithful  repre- 
sentations of  a  creature  then  Hying,  to 
make  such  a  bird  of  prey— a  Tulture,  in 
the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  term — 
would  be  to  set  all  the  usual  laws  of 
adj^tation  at  defiance.  A  vulture  with- 
out wings!  How  was  it  to  be  fed! 
And  not  only  without  wings,  but  neces- 
sarily slow  and  heavy  in  progression  on 
its  clumsy  feet  The  Vmur\d<t  are,  as 
we  know,  among  the  most  actire  agents 
for  remoTing  the  deoomposing  animal  re- 
mains in  tropical  and  inter-tropical  cli- 
mates, and  they  are  provided  with  a  pro- 
digal deyelopment  of  wing,  to  waft  them 


The  Dodo  and  its  Kindred. 


93 


speedily  to  the  spot  tainted  by  the  corrupt 
incumbrance.  But  no  such  powers  of 
wing  would  be  required  by  a  bird  ap- 
pointed to  clear  away  the  decaying  and 
decomposing  masses  of  a  luxuriant  tropi- 
cal yegetation — a  kind  of  yultnre  for 
vegetable  impurities,  so  to  speak — and 
such  an  office  would  nOt  be  by  any  means 
inconsistent  with  comparative  slowness  of 
pedestrian  motion." 

Professor  Owen,  doubtless  one  of 
our  greatest  authorities,  inclines  to- 
ward an  afllnity  with  the  vultures, 
and  considers  the  Dodo  as  an  extremely 
modified  form  of  the  raptorial  order. 

*^  Devoid  of  the  power  of  flight,  it  could 
have  had  small  chance  of  obtaining  food 
by  preying  upon  the  members  of  its  own 
class;  and,  if  it  did  not  exclusively  subsist 
on  dead  and  decaying  organised  matter, 
it  most  probably  restricted  its  attacks  to 
the  class  of  reptiles,  and  to  the  littoral 
flshes,  Crustacea,  &c.,  which  its  well-deve- 
loped back-toe  and  claw  would  enable  it 
to  seize,  and  hold  with  a  flrm  gripe." — 
TransactioM  of  the  Zoological  Society,  iii. 
p.  331. 

We  confess  that,  setting  aside  vari- 
ous other  unconformable  features  in 
the  structure  of  the  Dodo,  the  fact, 
testified  by  various  authorities,  of  its 
swallowing  stones,  and  having  stones 
in  its  gizzard,  for  the  mechanical  tri- 
turition  of  its  food,  (a  peculiarity  un- 
known among  the  raptorial  order,)  is 
sufficient  to  bar  the  above  view,  sup- 
ported thoughit  be  by  the  opinion  of  our 
most  distinguished  living  anatomist. 

In  a  recent  memoir  by  Professor  J. 
F.  Brandt  (of  which  an  abstract  is 
given  in  the  Bxdletin  de  la  Class.  Phys. 
de  VAcad.  Imp.  de  St  Petersburg^  vol. 
viii.  No.  3)  we  have  the  following 
statement : — 

**  The  Dodo,  a  bird  provided  with  di- 
vided toes  and  cursorial  feet,  is  best 
classed  in  the  order  oMe  Waders,  among 
which  it  appears,  from  its  many  peculi- 
arities, (most  of  which,  however,  are  quite 
referable  to  forms  in  this  order,)  to  be 
an  anomalous  link  connecting  several 
groups, — a  link  which,  for  the  reasons 
above  given,  inclines  towards  the  ostriches, 
and  especially  also  towards  the  pigeons." 

We  doubt  the  direct  affinity  to  any 
species  of  the  grallatorial  order,  an 
order  which  contains  the  cursorial  or 
swift- running  birds,  veiy  dissimilar  in 
their  prevailing  habits  to  anything  we 
know  of  the  sluggish  and  sedentary 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Dodo.  ProfeflBor  Brandt  may  be  re« 
garded  as  haying  mistaken  analogy 
for  affinity;  and,  in  Mr  Strickiand^B 
opinion,  he  has  in  this  instance  wan- 
do^  from  the  tnie  method  of  hrres- 
tigation,  in  his  anxiety  to  discover  a 
link  connecting  dissevered  gronps. 

What  then  is,  or  rather  was,  the 
Dodo  ?  The  majority  of  inqoirers 
have  no  doubt  been  infiaenced,  though 
nnconsdonsly,  by  its  colossal  sice,  and 
have  consequently  sought  its  actual 
analogies  only  amongsuch  huge  species 
as  the  ostrich,  the  vulture,  and  the 
albatross.  Bctt  the  range  in  each 
order  is  often  enormous,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, between  the  Fai4»cmiil^om$j 
or  finch  fialcon  of  Bengal,  an  aoctpitrine 
Inrd  not  bigger  than  a  sparrow,  and  an 
eagle  of  the  largest  siae ;  or  between 
the  swallow-like  stormy  petrel  and 
the  gigantic  pelican  of  the  wilderness. 
It  appears  that  Professor  J.  T.  Rbcdn- 
hardt  of  .Copenhagen,  who  redis- 
covered the  cranium  oi  the  Gottorf 
Museum,  was  the  first  to  indicate  the 
direct  relationship  of  the  Dodo  to  the 
pigeons.  He  has  recently  been  en- 
gaged in  a  voyage  round  the  world, 
but  it  is  known  that,  before  he  left 
Copenhagen  in  1845,  he  had  ^ed 
the  attention  of  his  correspondents, 
both  in  Sweden  and  Denmark,  to  ^  the 
striking  affinity  which  exists  between 
this  extinct  bird  and  the  pigeons, 
especially  the Trerons."  The  Colum- 
bine view  is  that  taken  up,  and  so 
admirably  illustrated,  by  Mr  Strick- 
land, the  most  recent  as  wdl  as  the 
best  biographer  of  the  Dodo.  He  re- 
fers to  the  great  strength  and  curva- 
ture of  JbiU  exhibited  by  several 
groups  pf  the  tropical  fruit-eating 
pigeons,  and  adds : 

^  If  we  now  regard  the  Dodo  as  an 
extreme  modification,  not  of  the  mltaree, 
bat  of  those  TfUnre-like  frogiToroos 
pigeone,  we  shall,  I  think,  class  it  in  » 
group  whose  oharaoters  are  fu*  more 
consisteni  with  what  we  know  of  its 
Btmctore  and  habits.  There  is  no  a 
priori  reason  why  a  pigeon  dionld  not  be 
so  modified,  in  oonformity  with  external 
cironmstanoes,  as  to  be  incapable  of  fiight, 
just  as  we  see  agrallatorial  bird  modified 
into  an  ostrich,  and  a  difer  into  a  pengnin. 


Tke  Dodo  ami  iu  Kmdrtd. 


[Jan. 


Now  IPS  an  told  thai  Ifanrittne,  tm 
island  forty  miles  in  length,  and  ahoai 
one  hondred  miles  from  the  nearest  land, 
was,  when  disooTored,  clothed  with  dense 
forests  of  palms  and  varioos  other  trees. 
A  bird  adapted  to  feed  on  the  fraits  pro- 
duced by  these  forests  would,  in  that 
equable  climate,  have  no  occasion  to 
migrate  to  distant  lands ;  it  woold  revel 
in  the  perpetnallmxuries  of  tropical  yege- 
taftioa,  and  would  hays  b«t  htUe  need  of 
looomotioiL  Why  than  abonld  it  haye 
the  means  of  fiying  t  Sach  a  bird  might 
wander  from  tree  to  tree,  teaiuig  with  its 
powerfol  beak  the  fruits  which  strewed 
the  gronnd,  and  digesting  their  stony 
kernels  with  its  powenhl  giaard,einoying 
tranqoinity  and  abnndance,  nnta  the 
arrival  of  man  destroyed  the  balance  of 
animal  lifo,  and  put  a  term  to  its  exis- 
tence. Sad),  in  my  opinion,  was  thn 
Dodo, — a  colossal,  breripennale,  fragi- 
YOioas  pigeon." — (P.  40.) 

F<ff  the  various  osteological  and 
other  details  by  which  the  Columbine 
character  of  the  Dodo  is  maintained, 
and  as  we  think  established,  we  must 
refer  our  readers  to  h&  Strickland's 
volume,*  where  those  parte  of  the 
subject  are  venr  skiUuOy  woAed  out 
by  his  able  coadjutor,  Dr  Melville. 

We  shall  now  proceed  to  notice 
certun  other  extinct  species  which 
form  the  dead  relations  of  the  Dodo, 
just  as  the  iHgeons  continue  to  repre- 
sent the  tribe  from  which  they  have 
departed.  The  island  Bodrigues, 
placed  about  three  hundred  miles 
eastward  of  the  Mauritius,  tiiough  not 
more  than  fifteen  miles  long  by  six 
broad,  possessed  in  modem  times  a 
peculiar  bird,  also  without  eflbctive 
wings,  and  in  several  other  respects 
resembling  the  Dodo.  It  was  named 
Solitaire  by  the  early  voya^rs,  and 
forms  the  species  Dtdus  sohtarius  of 
systematic  writers.  The  small  island 
in  question  seems  to  have  remained 
in  a  desert  and  unpeopkBd  state  until 
1691,  when  a  party  of  French  Protes- 
tant refhsees  settled  upon  it,  and  re- 
mained for  a  couple  of  years.  The 
Solitaire  is  thus  described  by  their 
commander,  Francois  Leguat,  who 
(in  his  Voyage  et  Avantures,  1708)  has 
given  us  an  interesting  account  both 


*  In  regard  to  the  figares  by  which  it  is  illostrated,  we  beg  to  call  attention  very 
specially  to  Plates  VIII.  and  IX.,  as  the  most  beantifhl  examples  of  the  lithographic 
art,  applied  to  natoral  history,  which  we  hare  yet  seen  executed  in  this  country. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  JJke  DodQ  wid  in  KiMdrtd. 

of  bis  owB  dotogs  in  genertlf  and  of 
thk  species  in  paiticalar. 

''Of  all  41ie  liiidt  in  ibe  iilttid,  ttw 
nmailaiUe  ii  tluit  which  gMt  hy 

of  tin  Solitary,  becMM  it  if 
leM  ia  oompaay,  tfaoagfa 
thm  an  ahandinot  of  tiioa.  The 
lealhen  of  tiit  malo  are  of  a  hrowa-gny 
oolov,  the  feet  and  beak  are  like  a 
torkej'sy  but  a  little  more  crooked. 
Hiey  haye  eearee  any  tail,  bot  their  hind 
part,  eoTered  with  lathers,  is  ronndish 
Ke  tiie  empper  ef  a  horse  :  they  are 
taller  than  tmeys;  their  ne^  is  straight^ 
and  a  little  loager  ia  proportion  than  a 
tavkey's,  wImi  it  Ufti  ap  ili  bead.  Ue  eye 
fa  black  and  Ureiy,  aad  its  head  wHboat 
oonb  er  cap.  They  nefer  iy  ;  their  wisfs 
are  too  little  to  support  the  weight  of 
their  bodies;  they  serre  only  to  beat 
theAsdvee,  and  to  flutter  when  they  call 
MM  another.  They  will  iHuzl  about  for 
tveaty  er  thirty  times  tagether  on  the 
side,  daring  the  spaee  of  ft>ar  or 
Hie  laetioa  ef  tteir  wings 

i  amise  rery  ainoh  like  that  of 
a  rattle,  and  one  Bay  hear  it  two  hundred 
paces  off.  Tbe  bone  ef  their  wing  grows 
greater  towwds  the  eztrsniity,  and  forais 
a  little  reaad  mass  uader  thefeatiiers,  aa 
big  as  a  musket-ball.  That  and  its  beak 
are  the  chief  defisaee  of  this  bird.  Tis 
very  hard  to  catch  it  in  the  wood%  but 
easier  in  open  places,  beoanse  we  ma 
fiuter  than  they,  and  sometimes  we  ap- 
proach them  without  much  trouble.  From 
Mardh  to  September  they  are  extremely 
Htf  and  taste  admirably  well,  especially 
while  they  are  young ;  some  of  the  males 
weigh  fbrty-fire  pounds. 

''The  ftmales'*  continues  oar  ena- 
soared  anther,  ^are  wonderfhUy  beauti* 
ftil,  seme  fkir,  some  brow% — I  <Mdl  them 
fair,  boea—B  they  are  of  the  colour  of  fiur 
hair.  They  hare  a  sort  of  peak  like  a 
widow's  upon  their  beak,  which  is  of  a 
dun  colour.  No  one  ftather  is  straggling 
ftom  the  other  all  OTor  their  bodies,  they 
being  Tery  carefbl  to  adjust  themselyes, 
and  make  them  all  eren  with  their  beaks. 
The  feathers  on  their  thighs  are  round 
like  shells  at  the  end,  and,  being  there 
Tery  thick,  haye  an  agreeable  eil^t. 
They  haye  two  risings  on  their  crope,  and 
the  feathers  are  whiter  there  than  the 
rest,  which  lively  rapreseats  the  fur  neck 
of  a  beantilnl  woman.  They  walk  with 
BO  much  Btateliness  and  good  grace, 
that  one  cannot  help  admiriag  and  ioving 
them  ;  by  nHnoh  means  their  fine  mien 
often  sareB  their  Uyes.  Though  these 
birds  will  sonetimes  yery  fiamiliwly  come 
np  near  eaeagh  to  one,  when  we  do  net 
ran  after  theai,  yet  they  will  neyer  grow 
tame.    As  soon  ae  they  are  caught,  they 


95 

shed  teaiB  wifhani  crying,  and  lefhae  all 
manner  of  meat  till  they  die."— (P-  71.) 
Their  natural  food  is  tiie  fimit  of  s 
q)ecies  of  plantain.  When  these 
iMrds  are  about  to  baiM,  tfaey  select  a 
dean  place,  and  then  gather  togettier 
a  qaanthy  of  pahn-leaTes,  which  they 
heap  np  aboat  a  foot  and  a  half  high, 
and  theie  they  sit.  They  never  lay 
bat  one  egg,  which  greatly  exceeds 
that  of  a  goose.  Some  days  after  the 
yonng  one  has  left  the  nest,  a  com- 
pany of  thirty  or  forty  grown-np  birds 
brings  anotiier  yonng  one  to  it ;  and 
the  new-fledged  l^rd,  with  its  ftither 
and  mother,  Joining  with  the  band, 
tfaey  all  march  away  to  some  by- 
place. 

**  We  frequently  followed  them,"  says 
Leguat,  "  and  found  that  afterwards  the 
old  ones  went  each  their  way  alone,  or  in 
couples,  and  left  the  two  young  ones  to- 
gether, and  this  yre  called  a  marriaye. 
This  partSculaiity  has  sometluBg  in  it 
aluch  lodes  a  little  fiedbnlens;  aeyertheless 
^at  I  say  is  sincere  trath,  and  what  I 
haye  more  than  once  obseryed  with  care 
and  pkasare." 

Legnat  gives  a  flgnre  of  this  singu- 
lar bird,  which  in  hte  plate  has  some- 
what of  the  air  and  aspect  of  a 
Christmas  goose,  althongfa,  of  conrse, 
it  wants  the  web-feet.  Its  nedc  and 
legs  are  proportionally  longer  than 
those  parts  of  the  Dodo,  and  give  it 
more  of  a  siruthww  appearance ;  bat 
the  existing  osteological  evidence  is 
sufficient  to  show  that  it  was  closely 
allied  to  that  bird,  and  shared  with 
it  in  some  peculiar  affinities  to  the 
pigeon  tribe.  It  is  curious  that, 
altiiougfa  Rodriguea  fa  a  Britfah  settle- 
roent,  we  have  scarcely  any  inlbrma- 
tion  regarding  it  beyond  what  is  to  be 
found  in  the  work  last  quoted,  and  dl 
that  we  have  since  learned  of  the 
Solitary  fa  that  it  has  become  extinct. 
Of  late  vears  Mr  Telfair  made  in- 
quiries of  one  of  the  colonists,  who 
assm^  him  that  no  such  bird  now 
exfated  on  the  faland;  and  the  same 
negative  result  was  obtained  by  Mr 
HIggins,  a  Liverpool  gentleman,  who, 
after  sufTering  shipwreck  on  Rodri- 
guez, resided  there  for  a  couple  of 
months.  As  far  back  as  1789,  some 
bones  incrusted  by  a  stalagmite,  and 
erroneously  supposed  to  belong  to  the 
Dodo,  were  found  in  a  cave  in  Rodri- 
guez by  a  M.  Labistour.    They  after- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


96  The  Dodo  and  its  Kindred, 

wards  found  their  way  to  Paris,  where 
they  may  still  be  seen.  We  are  in- 
formed {Proceedings  of  the  Zoological 
Society,  Part  I.  p.  81)  that  Col. 
Dawkins  recently  visited  these  ca- 
verns, and  dag  withoat  finding  ai\y 
thing  but  a  small  bone.  But  M. 
Endes  sncceeded  in  disinterring  vari- 
ous bones,  among  others  those  of  a 
large  spedes  of  bird  no  longer  fonnd 
alive  npon  the  island.  He  adds  that 
the  Dutch,  who  first  landed  at  Rodri- 
guez, left  cats  there  to  destroy  the 
rats,  which  annoyed  them.  These 
cats  are  now  so  numerous  as  to  prove 
very  destructive  to  the  poultry,  and 
ho  thinks  it  probable  that  these  feline 
wanderers  may  have  extirpated  the 
bird  in  question,  by  devouring  the 
young  ones  as  soon  as  they  were 
hatched, — a  destruction  which  may 
have  been  effected  even  before  the 
island  became  inhabited  by  the  human 
race.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Mr  Telfair 
sent  collections  of  the  bones  to  this 
country,  one  of  which  may  be  seen  in 
the  museum  of  the  Andersonian  In- 
stitution, Glasgow.  Mr  Strickland 
mourns  over  the  loss  or  disappearance 
of  those  transmitted  to  the  Zoological 
Society  of  London.  We  have  been 
informed  within  these  few  days  that, 
like  the  head  of  the  Danish  Dodo, 
they  have  been  rediscovered,  lying  in 
a  stable  or  other  outhouse,  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  museum  of  that  Society. 
Both  the  Glasgow  specimens,  and 
those  in  Paris,  have  been  carefully 
examined  and  compared  by  mi 
Strickland,  and  their  Columbine  char- 
acters are  minutely  described  by  his 
skilful  and  accurate  coadjutor,  Dr 
Melville,  in  the  second  ][)ortion  of  his 
work.  Mr  S.  very  properly  regards 
certain  pecoliarities,  aUnded  to  by 
Leguat,  such  as  the  feeding  on  dates 
or  plantains,  as  confirmatory  of  his 
view  of  the  natural  affinities  already 
mentioned. 


[Jan. 

So  much  for  the  Solitaire  of  Ro- 
driguez and  its  affinities.*  A  singular 
fact,  however,  remains  to  be  yet 
attended  to  in  this  insidar  group. 
The  volcanic  island  of  Bourbon  seems 
also  to  have  contained  brevi-pennate 
birds,  whose  inability  to  fly  has  like- 
wise led  to  their  extinction.  This 
island,  which  lies  about  a  hundred 
miles  south-west  of  Mauritius,  was 
discovered  contemporaneously  by  Pe- 
dro de  Mascaregnas,  in  the  sixteenth 
century.  The  earliest  notice  which 
concerns  our  present  inquiry,  is  by 
Captain  Castleton^  who  visited  Bour- 
bon in  1613.  In  the  narrative,  as 
given  by  Purchas,  we  read  as  fol- 
lows : — 

^  There  is  store  of  land^owl,  both 
small  and  great,  plentie  of  dojea,  great 
parrats,  and  suchlike,  and  a  great  fowl 
of  the  bignesse  of  a  turkie,  very  fat,  and 
so  short-winged  that  they  cannot  file, 
beeing  white,  and  in  a  manner  tame;  and 
so  are  all  other  fowles,  as  haying  not 
been  troubled  nor  feared  with  shot.  Our 
men  did  beat  them  down  with  sticks  and 
stones."— (Ed.  1625,  vol.  i.  p.  331.) 


Bontekoe  van  Hoom,  a  Dutch 
voyager,  spent  twenty-one  days  in 
Bourbon  in  1618,  and  found  the  island 
to  abound  in  pigeons,  parrots,  and 
other  species,  among  which  "there 
were  also  Dod-eersen,  which  have 
small  wings ;  and  so  far  from  being 
able  to  fiy,  they  were  so  fat  that  they 
could  scarcely  walk^  and  when  they 
tried  to  run,  they  dragged  their  under 
side  along  the  ground."  There  is  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  these  birds 
were  actual  Dodos,  of  the  existence  of 
which  in  Bourbon  there  is  not  the 
slightest  proof.  That  Bontekoe's  ac- 
count was  compiled  from  recollectiAi 
rather  than  from  any  journal  written 
at  the  time,  is  almost  certain  from  this 
tra^cal  fact,  that  his  ship  was  after- 
wards blown  up,  and  he  himself  was 


*  The  companions  of  Yasco  de  Gama  had,  at  an  earlier  period,  applied  the  name 
of  SolUaires  to  certain  birds  found  in  an  island  near  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope;  but 
these  must  not  be  confounded  with  those  of  the  Didine  group  above  referred  to.  They 
were,  in  fact,  penguins,  and  their  wings  were  somewhat  vaguely  compared  to  those  of 
bats,  by  reason  of  the  peculiar  scaly  or  undeveloped  state  of  the  feathers  in  these 
birds.  Dr  Hamel  has  shown  that  the  term  SolUaires,  as  employed  by  the  Portuguese 
sailors,  was  a  corruption  of  9<4ilieairo$,  an  alleged  Hottentot  word,  of  which  we  do 
not  profess  to  know  the  meaning,  being  rather  rusted  in  that  tonffue.  We  know,  how- 
erer,  that  penguins  are  particiUarly  gregarious,  and,  therefore,  by  no  means  solitary^ 
although  they  may  be  extremely  soHlioairioui  for  anything  we  can  say  to  the  con- 
trary. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Dodo  and  its  Kindred. 


97 


the  sole  survivor.  There  is  oo  likeli- 
hood that  he  preserved  his  papers  any 
more  than  his  portmantean,  and  he  no 
itoobt  wrote  horn  remembrance  of  a 
large  hreoipennate  bird,  whose  indo- 
lent and  nnfearing  tameness  rendered 
it  an  easy  prey.  Knowing  that  a  bird 
of  a  somewhat  similar  nature  inha- 
bited the  neighbouring  island,  he  took 
it  for  the  same,  and  (^ed  it  Dodo,  by 
m  corresponding  term. 

A  Frenchman  of  the  name  of  Carr^ 
visited  Bourbon  in  1668,  and  in  his 
Voyages  dcs  Indes  Orientales^  he  states 
as  follows : — 

^  I  have  seen  a  kind  of  bird  which  I 
hare  not  foaiid  elsewhere  ;  it  is  that 
which  the  inhabitants  call  the  oiseau  ioH- 
taire,  fbr  in  fact  it  loTes  solitude,  and 
only  flreqnents-  the  most  secladed  places. 
One  never  sees  two  or  more  of  them  to- 
gether, they  are  always  alone.  It  is  not 
nnlike  a  turkey,  were  it  not  that  its  legs 
are  longer.  The  beauty  of  its  plumage  is 
delightful  to  behold.  Th%  flesh  is  ex- 
quisite ;  it  forms  one  of  the  best  dishes  in 
this  country,  and  might  form  a  dainty  at 
our  tables.  We  wished  to  keep  two  of 
these  birds  to  send  to  France  and  present 
them  to  his  Mf^'esty,  but,  as  soon  as  they 
were  on  board  ship,  they  died  of  melan- 
choly, having  refused  to  eat  or  drink." — 
(Vol.  I.  p.  12.) 

Almost  immediately  after  M.  Carr^*s 
visit,  a  French  colony  was  sent  from 
Madagascar  to  Bourbon,  under  the 
superintendence  of  M.  de  la  Haye. 
A  certain  Sieur  D.  B.  (for  this  is  all 
that  is  known  of  his  name  or  desig- 
nation) was  one  of  the  party,  and  has 
left  a  narrative  of  the  expedition  in 
an  unpublished  journal,  acquired  by 
Mr  Telfair,  and  presented  by  him  to 
the  Zoological  Society  of  London. 
Besides  confinning  the  accounts  given 
by  preceding  writers,  this  unknown 
author  affordts  a  conclusive  proof  that 
a  second  species  of  the  same  group 
inhabited  the  Island  of  Bourbon.  We 
are  indebted  to  Mr  Strickland  for  the 
original  passages  and  the  following 
translation : — 

I. "  SoiUairts. — These  birds  are  so  called 
because  they  always  go  alone.  They  are 
the  sixe  of  a  large  goose,  and  are  white, 
with  the  tips  of  the  wings  and  the  tail 
black.  The  tail-feathers  resemble  those 
of  an  ostrich ;  the  neck  is  long,  and  the 
beak  is  like  that  of  a  woodcock,  but  lar- 
ger; the  legs  and  feet  like  those  of 
turkeys.** 

VOL.  LXV.— NO.  CCOXCIX. 


2.  ^  Oiuaux  bleus,  the  sixe  of  SolUaires, 
have  the  plumage  wholly  blue,  the  bei^ 
aud  feet  red,  resembling  the  feet  of 
a  hen.  They  do  not  fly,  but  th(*y  run 
extremely  fast,  so  that  a  dog  can  hardly 
overtake  them  ;  they  are  very  good 
eating." 

There  is  proof  that  one  or  other  of 
these  singular  and  now  unknown 
birds  existed  in  Bourbon,  at  least 
till  toward  the  middle  of  the  last 
century.  M.  Billiard,  who  resided 
there  between  1817  and  1820,  states 
(in  his  Voyages  aux  Colonies  Orien- 
tales)  that,  at  the  time  of  the  first 
colonisation  of  the  bland,  ^^  the  woods 
were  filled  with  birds  which  were  not 
alarmed  at  the  approach  of  man. 
Among  them  was  the  Dotio  or  Solitaire^ 
which  was  pursued  on  foot:  they  were  . 
still  to  be  seen  in  the  time  of  M.  de  la 
Bourdonnaye,  who  sent  a  specimen,  as 
a  curiosity,  to  one  of  the  directors  of 
the  company.''  As  the  gentleman 
last  named  was  governor  of  the  Isles  of 
France  and  Bourbon  from  1735  to 
1746,  these  birds,  Mr  Strickland  ob- 
serves, must  have  survived  to  the  for- 
mer, and  may  have  continued  to  the 
latter  date  at  least.  But  when  M. 
Bory  St  Vincent  made  a  careful  sur- 
vey of  the  island  in  1801,  no  such 
species  were  to  be  found.  The  de- 
scription of  the  bill  and  plumago 
shows  that  they  were  not  genuine 
Dodos,  but  merely  entitled  to  be 
classed  among  their  kindred.  Not  a 
vestige  of  their  remains  is  in  the 
hands  of  naturalists,  either  in  this  or 
anyother  conntiy. 

'We  have  now  finished,  under  Mr 
Strickland's  guidance,  our  exposition 
of  this  curious  group.  The  restric- 
tion, at  any  time,  of  such  large  birds 
to  islands  of  so  small  a  size,  is  cer- 
tainly singular.  We  cannot,  how- 
ever, say  what  peculiar  and  unknown 
geological  changes  these  islands  may 
have  undergone,  by  which  their  ex- 
tent has  been  diminished,  or  their 
inter-connexion  destroyed.  Volcanic 
groups,  such  as  those  in  question,  are 
no  doubt  generally  of  less  ancient 
origin  than^most  others ;  but  it  is  by  no 
means  unlikely  that  these  islands  of 
Rodriguez,  Bourbon,  and  Mauritius, 
may  once  have  formed  a  united  group, 
or  much  more  expanded  mass  of  terra 
Anna  than  they  now  exhibit;  and 
that,  by  their  partial  submergence 
a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


98 


Tk^D0d^am4it$KMdr€d, 


[J« 


snd  sepftfatiov,  the  drnninkms  of  the 
Dodo  and  Its  kiitdrpd  hare,  like  thotse 
of  many  other  heavj  chieftams  of  b!gh 
degree,  been  greatly  diminished  and 
kid  low.  But  into  this  question  of 
ancient  bonndaiies  we  cannot  now 
enter. 

How  pleasant,  on  some  resplendent 
summer  evening,  in  snch  a  delicious 
clime  as  that  of  the  Manrltins,  the 
sun  slowly  sinking  amid  a  gorgeons 
blaze  of  light,  and  gilding  in  green 
and  gold  the  spreading  summits  of  the 
towering  palms, — the  ronrmuring  sea 
sending  its  refireshing  vesper-breath- 
ings through  alt  the  '*  pillared  shades^ 
which  stretch  along  that  glittering 
shore,  —  how  pleasant,  we  say,  for 
wearied  man  to  sit  in  leafy  nmbrage, 
and  sup  on  Dodos  and  their  klndr^I 
Alas  I  we  shall  nerer  see  snch  days 
again. 

Dr  Hamel,  as  native  of  a  northern 
country,  is  fond  of  animal  food,  and 
has  his  senses,  naturally  sharp  enongh, 
so  whetted  thereby,  that  he  becomes 
"  sagacions  of  his  quarry  from  afiur." 
He  judiciously  observes,  in  his  recent 
memoir,  (Der  Dodo^  &c. ,)  that  In  Leg- 
nat's  map  the  place  is  accurately 
indicated  where  the  common  kitchen  of 


the  eet^ers  stood,  and  where  M 
great  tree  grew  onder  which  they  nted 
to  sit,  OB  a  bench,  to  take  tiidr  meals* 
Both  tree  sod  bench  are  marked  npoa 
the  map.  **  At  these  two  spotSy" 
says  Dr  Hamei,  ''it  is  probable  tini 
the  bovee  of  a  complete  skeleton  of 
Legnafs  solitaire  night  be  eoUected; 
those  ef  the  head  a»d  fSset  on  the  sit* 
of  the  kitchen,  and  the  atenmin 
and  other  bones  on  that  of  the  tree." 

"  I  feel  oonideBi,'*  says  Mr  StriekUad, 
''  thai  if  acttTe  naionli^  woald  make  a 
series  of  excavations  in  the  aUorial  de- 
posits, in  the  beds  of  streams,  and  amid 
the  raios  ef  old  institnttons  in  MaarilioSy 
Boorbon^and  Bodrigiicx,be  would  speedily 
diaeover  the  remains  of  the  dodo,  the  two 
*  solitairety'  or  the  '  oisean  bleu.'  But 
I  woald  especially  direct  attention  to  the 
eaves  with  which  these  volcanic  islands 
abound.  The  chief  agents  in  the  destmo^ 
tion  of  the  brevipennate  birds  were  pro- 
bably the  ranaway  negroes,  who  for 
many  years  ialeeted  the  primeval  feieeia 
of  these  islaadi^  and  inhabited  the 
eavems,  where  they  would  doubtldbi 
leave  the  scattered  bones  of  the  animals 
en  which  they  fed.  Here,  then,  may  ws 
BM>re  especially  hope  to  fled  the  osseona 
remains  of  these  remarkable  animals.** 
—{P.  61.) 


THE  aWORD  OF  HONOtm. 


Any  old  directory  of  the  latter  half 
of  the  last  century  will  still  show,  to 
the  curious  In  such  matters,  the  ad- 
dress of  Messrs.  Hope  and  Bullion, 
merchants  and  general  dealers  at 
No.  4,  in  a  certain  high  and  narrow 
street  in  the  ciry  of  London.  Not 
that  this,  in  Itself,  is  a  very  valnable 
part  of  history;  bnt  to  those  who 
look  np  at  the  dirty  windows  of  the 
house  as  it  now  stands,  and  compare 
the  narrow  pavement  and  cit-like  ap- 
pearance of  the  whole  locaKty  with 
the  splendom^  of  Oxford  Square  or 
Stanhope  Place,  where  the  bnshiess 
occnpant  of  the  premises  has  now  his 
residlence,  it  wilt  be  a  subiect  of  donbt, 
if  not  of  nnbeGef,  that  Mr  Bollion— 
who  dwelt  In  the  npper  portions  of 
the  building  —  was  as  happy,  and 
nearly  as  proud,  as  his  successor  at 
the  present  time.  Yet  so  it  is ;  and, 
without  making  invidioos  oompari- 
S09^  llstingnlshed-lookifig 


OP  1787. 
lady  who  does  the  hononrs  of  the 
mansion  in  Oxford  Square — her  father 
was  a  sugar  baker,  and  lived  in  a 
magniiicent  country  boose  at  Mussel 
hill.  I  will  venture  to  state,  that 
Mr  Bullion  had  great  reason  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  manners  and  ap* 
pearance  of  the  young  person  wh« 
presided  at  his  festive  board.  Snch 
a  rich  laugh,  and  such  a  sweet  voioCf 
were  heard  in  no  other  house  in  Uie 
town.  And  as  to  her  face  and  figurcL 
the  only  dispute  among  painters  and 
scolptors  was,  whether  the  ever- vary- 
ing expression  of  her  features  did  not 
constitute  her  the  true  proper^  of 
the  Reynoldses  and  Romneys,  —  or 
the  ever-exquisite  moulding  of  her 
shape  did  not  bring  her  within  tha 
province  of  the  severer  art.  At  tlM 
same  tioM  it  must  be  confessed,  that 
the  snbjeet  of  these  diipotes  took  M 
interest  either  in  bm^  or  chlseL  A 
bright,  happy,  clever  creatore— IM 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


iwf.] 


The  Sword  of  Hmwwr:  m  TokafVlfff. 


99 


flo  jndgv  of  8ci6i)068  ftnd  ftrts— WAS 
Looise  fiallfoii.  Books  sbe  had  read 
%  few,  and  mnstc  she  had  stadfed  a 
littte;  yet,  with  her  slender  know- 
ledge of  the  circalatiog  library,  she 
talked  more  pleasaiitl/  than  Madame 
de  8u^,  and  saog  so  sweetly,  so 
naturally,  and  so  tmly,  that  Mrs 
BilTiogton  was  a  fool  to  her.  She 
was  a  parlom'  Jenny  Ltnd.  Bnt  Mrs 
Bilfhigron  was  not  the  only  person 
who  was  a  fool  to  her.  Oh  no ! — that 
0Ort  of  insanfty  was  epidemic,  and 
•eised  on  all  that  came  near  her.  Even 
IAt  Cocker  the  book-keeper— a  little 
nan  of  upwards  of  ftfty,  who  was  so 
simple,  and  knew  so  little  of  anything 
bat  arithmetic,  that  be  always  con* 
cidered  himself,  and  was  considered  bj 
the  people,  a  boy  j!xst  getting  on  fn  hts 
teens — even  Mr  Cocker  was  a  fbo!  to 
fier  too.  For  when  he  was  Invited  to 
taa,  and  had  his  cnps  sweetened  by 
Irt  hand,  and  his  whole  heart  tnmed, 
by  some  of  her  pathetic  ballads,  into 
«omethiogso  soft  and  oily  that  it  nrast 
iMve  been  jnst  like  one  of  the  mnflftns 
ghe  laid  on  his  plate,  he  nsed  to  go 
away  with  a  very  confused  idea  of 
cal>e  roots,  and  get  into  the  most  ex- 
traordinary pnzzles  in  the  role  t^ 
three.  Miss  Louise,  ho  said,  would 
never  go  out  of  his  head ;  whereas  she 
had  never  once  got  hito  it,  having  es- 
tablished her  quarters  very  comfort- 
id>Iy  in  another  place  a  little  lower 
^own,  Just  inside  of  the  brass  btittons 
on  his  left  breast ;  and  yet  the  poor 
old  fellow  went  down  to  his  grave 
without  the  remotest  suspicion  that 
he  had  ever  been  in  love.  The  people 
leed  to  say  that  his  perplexitiies,  on 
those  occasions,  were  principally  re- 
markable after  supper— fbr  an  invita- 
tion to  tea,  in  those  hospitable  times, 
ftiduded  an  afterpiece  in  the  shape  of 
aome  roaring  hot  dishes,  and  vaolons 
bowls  of  a  stout  and  jovial  beverage^ 
whose  place,  I  beg  to  say,  is  poorly 
sippfied  by  any  conceivable  quantity 
<ir  negus  and  jellies!  Yes,  the  people 
«ed  to  say  that  Cocker^  dHRcuHies 
in  calculation  arose  firom  other  causes 
than  his  admhradon  of  Miss  Louise 
and  her  songs;  but  thn  was  a  calumny 
—and,  in  (kct,  any  fbw  extra  glasses 
be  toot  were  fbr  tiie  exnress  purpose 
«r  dearioff  fria  head,  after  it  had  ^ 
bewildered  by  her  soflea  and  music ; 
md  tberelbre  how  could  thej  possibly 


be  the  cause  of  his  bewlldemeiitt  I 
repeat  that  Mr  Cocker  was  afflicted 
by  the  wnversal  disease,  and  would 
have  died  with  the  greatest  happiness 
to  give  her  a  n»onient*s  satisfaction. 
And  so  woeid  all  the  clerks,  except 
one,  who  was  very  short-sighted  ansd 
remarkably  deaf,  and  who  was  after- 
wards tried  on  snspickm  ef  having 
poisoned  bis  wife ;  and  so  wonkt  her 
anntt  Miss  Lucretia  Smith,  though 
her  kindness  was  so  wonderfally 
disguised  that  the  whole  world  would 
have  been  jnstiAed  In  eimsidering  it 
harsbness  and  ill-nature.  It  was  only 
her  way  ofbestowing  ii — as  If  yon  were 
to  pour  out  sn^ar  from  a  vinegar  craet; 
and  agood  o4d,  fussy,  scolding,  gpmmbl- 
ing,  advising,  tormenting,  and  very  lov- 
ingladywasMissLucretiaSmkb — very 
lovhfg,  I  say,  not  only  of  her  niece, 
and  her  brotbei-^hi'law,  bat  of  any- 
body that  would  agree  to  be  lovi^. 
Traditions  existed  that,  in  her  youth, 
she  had  been  a  tremendous  creature* 
for  enthusiasms  and  romances ;  that 
she  had  flirted  with  all  the  ofUc&n  of 
the  city  militia,  from  the  colonel  down- 
wards, and  with  all  the  Lord  Mayors* 
(teplaine  for  an  infiDite  series  of  years ; 
and  that,  though  nothing  came  of  all 
her  praiseworthy  efforts,  tame  had  had 
a  strengthening  instead  of  a  weaken- 
ing eff^t  on  all  theM  passages— till 
now,  in  her  ftfty-third  year,  she  actu- 
ally believed  she  had  been  in  love  wHh 
them  all,  and  on  the  point  of  marriage 
with  more  than  half. 

And  this  eonstituted  the  whole  of 
Mr  Bullion's  establishment— at  least 
all  his  establishment  which  was  regn- 
lariy  on  the  books ;  bnt  there  was  a 
young  man  so  constantly  in  the  house 
— so  much  at  home  there— so  welcome 
when  he  came,  so  wondered  at  when 
be  staid  away— in  short,  so  mncb  one 
of  the  family,  that  I  will  only  say,  if 
he  was  not  considered  a  meaarber  of  it, 
he  ought  to  have  been.  For  what,  I 
pray  yon,  constitutes  membership.  If 
mtlmaey,  kindness,  perpetual  presence, 
and  filial  and  fraternal  affection— ilitfl 
to  the  old  man,  fraternal  to  the  young 
lady— do  not  constitute  it  7  Yen 
might  have  sworn  till  doenwday,  bnt 
Mr  Cecil  Hops  would  never  have 
beTieved  that  his  hone  was  anywhere 
bnt  at  No.  4.  Kay,  when,  hy  aeme 
aeddent,  he  fomd  htmeelf  for  a  day  hi 
»  very  piet^,  veiy  tMtsfol,  nad  Tcrj 


Digitized  b^VjOOQlC 


100 

spacions  house  be  had  in  Hertford- 
shire, with  a  ring-fence  of  fourteen 
hundred  acres  round  it,  he  felt  quite  dis- 
consolate, and  as  if  he  were  in  a  strange 
place.  The  estate  had  been  bought, 
the  house  had  been  built— as  the  money 
had  been  acquired,  by  his  father,  who 
was  no  less  a  person  than  the  senior 
partner  in  the  firm  of  Hope  and 
Bullion,  but  had  withdrawn  his  capi- 
tal from  the  trade,  laid  it  out  in  land, 
superintended  the  erection  of  his 
mansion,  pined  for  his  mercantile 
activities,  and  died  in  three  years  of 
having  nothing  to  do.  So  Cecil  was 
rich  and  unencumbered ;  he  was  also 
as  handsome  as  the  Apollo,  who,  they 
say,  would  be  a  very  vulgar-looking 
fellow  if  he  dressed  like  a  Christian  ; 
and  he  (not  the  Apollo,  but  Cecil 
Hope)  was  four- and- twenty  years  of 
age,  five  feet  eleven  in  heignt,  and 
as  pleasant  a  fellow  as  it  is  possible 
to  conceive.  So  you  may  guess 
♦whether  or  not  he  was  in  love  with 
Louise.  Of  course  he  was, — haven't 
I  said  he  was  a  young  man  of  some 
sense,  and  for  whom  1  have  a  regard? 
He  adored  her.  And  now  you  will, 
perhaps,  be  asking  if  the  admiration 
was  returned— and  that  is  one  of  the 
occasions  on  which  an  impertinent 
reader  has  a  great  advantage  over 
the  best  and  cunningest  of  authors. 
They  can  ask  such  impudent  ques- 
tions,— ^which  they  would  not  dare 
to  do  unless  under  the  protection 
and  in  the  sanctuary,  as  it  were, 
of  print,  and  look  so  amazingly 
knowing  while  pausing  for  a  reply, 
that  I  have  no  patience  with  the  fel- 
lows at  all ;  and,  in  answer  to  their 
demand  whether  Louise  returned  the 
love  of  Cecil  Hope,  I  will  only  say 
this — I  will  see  them  hanged  first,  be- 
fore I  gratify  their  curiosity.  Indeed, 
how  could  I  hold  up  my  head  in  any 
decent  society  again,  if  I  were  to  com- 
mit such  a  breach  of  confidence  as 
that  ?  Imagine  me  confessing  that 
she  looked  always  fifty  times  happier 
in  his  presence  than  when  he  was 
away — imagine  me  confessing  that 
her  heart  beat  many  thumps  quicker 
when  anybody  mentioned  his  name — 
imagine  me,  I  say,  confessing  all  this, 
and  fifty  things  more,  and  then  call- 
ing myself  a  man  of  honour  and  dis- 
cretion I  No  :  I  say  again  I  will  see 
tf"  '^ged  first,  before  I  will 


The  Sward  of  Honour:  a  Tale  of  17S7. 


[Jan. 


answer  his  insolent  question ;  so  let 
that  be  an  nnder8tOQ>d  thing  between 
us,  that  I  will  never  i*eveal  any  secret 
with  which  a  younglady  is  kind  enough 
to  intrust  me. 

And  this,  I  think,  is  a  catalogue  of 
all  the  household  above  the  good  old 
warehouse.  Ah  I  no, — there  is  the 
excellent  Mr  Bullion  himself.  He  is 
now  sixty;  he  has  white  hair,  a  noble, 
even  a  distmgui  figure :  look  into  any 
page  of  any  fashionable  novel  of  any 
year,  for  an  explanation  of  what  that 
means.  On  the  present  occasion, 
you  would  perhaps  conclude  that  the 
long -backed,  wide- tailed  blue  coat, 
the  low-flapped  waistcoat,  tight-fitting: 
knee-br — ch — s,  white  cotton  stock- 
ings in-doors,  long  gaiters  out,  with 
bright-buckled  square-toed  shoes,  may 
be  a  little  inconsistent  with  the  epi- 
thet distmgud.  But  this  is  a  vulgar 
error,  and  would  argue  that  nobody 
could  look  distingue  without  lace  and 
brocade.  Now,  only  imagine  Mr 
Bullion  in  a  court- dress,  with  a  silk 
bag  fioating  over  his  shoulder,  to  tie 
up  long  tresses  which  have  disappeared 
from  bis  head  for  many  years;  a 
diamond-bilted  rapier  that  probably 
has  no  blade,  and  all  the  other  por- 
tions of  that  graceful  and  easy  style  of 
habiliment,— dress  him  in  this  way, 
and  look  at  him  bowing  gracefully  by 
means  of  his  three-cornered  hat,  and 
you  will  surely  grant  he  would  be  a 
distingui  figure  then, — and  why  not 
in  bis  blue  coat  and  smalls  ? 

But  disHnguiAoolsiixg  men,  even  in 
court-dresses,  may  be  great  rascals, 
and  even  considerable  fools.  Then 
was  Mr  Bullion  a  rascal? — no.  A  fool? 
— no.  In  short,  he  was  one  of  the  best 
of  men,  and  could  have  been  recog- 
nised during  his  life,  if  any  one  ba^ 
described  him  in  the  words  of  his 
epitaph. 

Well,— we  must  get  on.  Day  after 
day,  for  several  months  before  the 
date  we  have  got  to,  a  sort  of  mystery 
seemed  to  grow  deeper  and  deeper  on 
the  benevolent  features  of  the  father 
of  Louise.  Something — ^nobody  could 
tell  what— had  lifted  him  out  of  his 
ordinary  self.  He  dropt  dark  hinta 
of  some  great  change  that  was  shortly 
to  take  place  in  the  position  of  the 
family:  he  even  took  many  oppor- 
tunities of  lecturmg  Cecil  Hope  on 
the  miseries  of  ill-assorted  marriages^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Sword  of  Htmour :  aTakof  17S7. 


101 


particolarly  wliere  the  lady  was  of  a 
family  immeasurably  superior  to  the 
man^s.    Miss  Smith  thought  he  was 

foiDg  to  be  made  Lord  Mayor ;  Cecil 
lope  supposed  he  was  about  to  be  ap- 
pointed Chaucellor  of  the  Excheqaer ; 
and  Louise  thought  he  was  growing 
silly,  and  took  no  notice  of  all  the 
mirs  he  put  on,  and  the  depreciatory 
observations  he  made  on  the  rank  of 
m  country  squire.  As  to  Mr  Cocker, 
he  was  already  fully  persuaded  that 
Ilia  master  was  the  greatest  man  in 
the  world,  and,  if  he  had  started  for 
king,  would  have  voted  him  to  the 
throne  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
At  last  the  origin  of  all  these  pro- 
ceedings on  the  part  of  Mr  Bullion 
began  to  be  suspected.  A  little  dark 
man,  with  the  brightest  possible  eyes, 
shrouded  in  a  great  cloak,  with  a 
txroad-brimmed  bat  carefolly  drawn 
over  his  brows,  and  just  showing  to 
the  aflfngfated  maid  who  opened  the 
door  the  aforesaid  eyes,  fixed  on  her 
with  such  an  expression  of  inquiry 
that  the^  fully  sopplied  the  difficolty 
he  experienced  in  asking  for  Mr  Bullion 
in  words, — for  he  was  a  foreigner,  not 
much  gifted  with  the  graces  of  English 
pronunciation.  This  little  dark 
mnd  inquisitive  man  came  to  the 
house  two  or  three  times  a^week,  and 
^nt  several  hours  in  close  consulta- 
tion with  Mr  Bullion.  On  emerging 
from  these  councils,  it  was  easy  to 
flee,  by  that  gentleman's  countenance, 
whether  the  affair,  whatever  it  was, 
was  in  a  prosperous  condition  or  not. 
Sometimes  he  came  into  the  supper- 
room  gloomy  and  silent,  sometimes 
tripping  in  like  a  sexagenarian 
Tagiioni,  and  humming  a  French 
«ong, — for  his  knowledge  of  that  lan- 
guage was  extraordinary, — and  his 
whole  idea  of  a  daughter's  education 
fleemed  to  oe,  to  make  her  acquire  the 
true  Parisian  accent, .  and  to  read 
Mollere  and  Comeille.  So  Louise,  to 
gratify  the  whim  of  her  father,  had 
made  herself  perfect  in  the  language, 
and  could  have  entered  into  a  corre- 
spondence with  Madame  d«  Sevign^ 
without  a  single  false  concord,  or  a 
misuke  in  spelling.  Who  could  this 
little  man  be,  who  had  such  infloence 
on  her  father's  spirits  ?  They  watched 
him,  but  could  see  nothing  but  the 
dark  cloak  and  slouched  hat,  which 
disappeared  down  some  side  street, 


and  would  have  puzzled  one  of  the 
detective  police  to  keep  them  in  view. 
Her  thoughts  rested  almost  constantly 
on  this  subject.  Even  at  church — 
for  they  were  regular  church-goers, 
and  very  decided  Protestants,  as  far 
as  their  religious  feelings  could  be 
shown  in  hating  the  devil  and  the 
Pope — she  used  to  watch  her  father's 
face,  but  could  read  nothing  there  but 
a  quiet  devotion  during  the  prayers, 
and  an  amiable  condescension  while 
listening  to  the  sermon.  Rustlings  of 
papers  as  the  little  visitor  slipt  along 
the  passage,  revealed  the  fact  that 
there  were  various  documents  required 
in  their  consultatious ;  and  on  one 
particular  occasion,  after  an  interview 
of  unusual  duration,  Mr  Bullion  ac- 
companied his  mysterious  guest  to  the 
door,  and  was  overheard,  by  the  con- 
clave who  were  assembled  in  the  little 
parlour  for  supper,  very  warm  in  his 
protestations  of  obligation  for  the 
trouble  he  had  taken,  aud  concluding 
with  these  remarkable  words — *'  As*- 
sure  his  Excellency  of  my  highest 
consideration,  and  that  I  shall  not 
lose  a  moment  in  throwing  myself  at 
the  feet  of  the  King."  Louise  looked 
at  Cecil  on  hearing  these  words ;  and 
as  Cedl  would  probably  have  been 
looking  at  Louise,  whether  he  had 
heard  these  words  or  not,  their  eyes 
met  with  an  expression  of  great  be- 
wilderment and  surprise, — the  said 
bewilderment  being  by  no  means 
diminished  when  his  visitor  replied — 
'^  His  Excellency  kisses  your  hands, 
and  I  leave  your  Lordship  in  the  holy 
keeping  of  the  saints.'* 

"  Papa  is  rather  flighty— don't  you 
think  so,  Cecil?"  said  Louise. 

*^  Both  mad,'*  answered  that  gen- 
tleman with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

^'  Mr  Bullion  is  going  to  be  Lord 
Mayor,"  said  Miss  Lucretia,  with  a 
vivid  remembrance  of  the  flirtations 
and  grandeurs  of  the  Mansion-house. 

Mr  Cocker  said  nothing  aloud,  and 
was  sorely  puzzled  for  a  long  time, 
but  ended  with  a  confused  notion,  de- 
rived principally  from  the  protection 
of  the  saints,  that  his  patron  was 
likely  to  be  Pope.  All,  however, 
sank  into  a  gaping  silence  of  antici- 
pation, when  Mr  Bullion,  after  shut- 
ting the  door,  as  soon  as  his  visitor 
had  departed,  began  to  whistle  Mal- 
brook,  and  came  into  the  supper-room. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


lOS 


n$Sw0rdofBmgmr;  9JkU$4ttVn7. 


Vm. 


"  Enjoy  yoerielren^  mm  tmfamt^^ 
said  iba  old  gesdeaiaii ;  ^*  I  bftve  Bot 
lLeptjroairaitiDg;lhope;  MissSmiib.I 
kiss  jour  ha«d—iiia>SiE2flL  eM^roMewot." 

*'  Wbat't  the  nuuter  with  yoo, 
ptpft?*'  replied  the  jcNing  Jedy,  and 
not  eonpljriof  wiUi  tbe  leqneat; 
^  70«  epcMik  at  if  joa  were  a  foveifaer. 
Have  joft  tegoccea  joar  aM^tlMr- 
tongne?" 

Aad  oertainljr  it  waa  not  difiiealt  to 
perceive  tbet  tiiere  was  ao  on  usual 
toae  assmned  by  Mr  BaliiOD«  with 
the  slightest  posaibie  broken  £nglisb 
admitted  into  bis  laof  oaiQe.  • 

''My  oiotbertoagae?*'  aaid  the 
aenior.  ^  Bah  1  *tis  not  tlie  time  yet 
—I  have  not  forgot  it^BOt  quite— bat 
kias  me,  Loaiae." 

''Well,  siaee  joa  speak  liiie  a 
Cbristtian,  I  won*t  refuse ;  bat  do  be 
%  good,  kifid,  oomnHinieative  old  nuui, 
and  tell  os  wliat  has  kept  yoa  so  long. 
Do  ti>ll  as  who  that  hideous  man  is." 

"  Hideous,  my  dear! — 'tis  pLtio  yon 
never  saw  htm." 

*'  He's  like  the  bravo  of  Venice," 
aaid  Loauie ;  ''isn't  he,  Cecil?" 

"  He's  more  like  Guy  Faax,"  said 
the  prentleman  appealed  to. 

"  He's  like  a  fipf^  fortoae- teller," 
continued  Mias  Smith. 

"  Uncommon  like  a  'onaebneaker," 
ehimed  in  Mr  C(»cker :  *'  I  never  see 
each  a  rascally  -  look  ini^comitensBoe." 

''  Are  yon  aware,  ail  this  lime,  that 
you  are  giving  these  descriptions  of  a 
friend  of  mine. — a  most  learned,  lofiy, 
reverend — but,  pahawl  what  n<mf>ense 
it  is,  getting  sniny  with  (ulks  like  yon. 
Eagles  should  fight  with  eagles." 

But  the  kifiy  asftnmptivas  of  Mr 
Bnilion  made  no  impression  on  his 
audience.  One  word,  however,  had 
Btuck  in  the  tympanum  ofMiss  Smith's 
ear,  and  ws4  tieating  a  tremendous 
tattoo  in  her  heart — 

"  Reverend,  did  yon  say,  brother- 
in-law.  If  that  little  man  is  reve- 
send,  mark  my  words.  I  know  very 
well  what  he's  after.  If  we're  not  all 
apiriiod  off  to  the  Diaquisition  in  Spain, 
I  wish  I  may  never  be  Wurr— I  mean 
— aaved  " 

^'  Nonsense,  annt,"  »atd  Loniae. 
**  Tou'm  not  going  to  turn  Dissenter, 
lather  r 


^  Better  tiraithanba  aPapiat^anjr- 
how,"  snlked/Nit  Loeneda. 

"Miss  SiUtb,"  said  Mr  BuUmm, 
'^  bare  the  klndnesa;  madam,  to  raak* 
DO  obaenration  on  what  I  do,  or  what 
friends  I  viait  or  receive  in  this  house. 
If  tbe  gentleman  wbo  has  now  left  me 
were  a  Mabommedaa,  be  sboold  be 
aaered  froai  your  impertinent  remarks. 
Give  me  another  potato,  aad  bold 
your  tongue." 

"  To  yon,  Mr  Hope,"  oontinned  the 
aenior,  "  and  to  yoa,  Mr  Cocker,  and 
toyott.  Miss  Lucretia,  wbo  are  unmixed 
plebeians  from  yoor  remotest  km»wD 
ancestry.  It  may  appear  surprising 
that  a  man  ao  willingly  vndertakea 
the  oaeroos  duties  entailed  on  bim  by 
his  lofty  extraction,  as  to  smreader  tbe 
peace  and  contentment  which  he  ieel» 
to  be  tbe  fitter  aooompaniments  of 
yonr  humble  yet  comforuUe  potUtioa. 
For  ray  daughter  and  me  far  other 
thinga  are  ia  store — we  sit  on  tbe 
mountain -top  exixMied  to  tlie  tempest^ 
though  gioritied  by  the  sunshine,  and 
look  without  regret  to  tbe  contemp- 
tible salety  and  uiglorioos  eat>e  of  tbe 
inhabitants  of  tbe  vale.  Take  a  glaa» 
of  wine,  Mr  Cocker.  I  shall  always 
look  on  yon  with  favour." 

Mr  Cocker  took  tlie  glass  aa  order- 
ed, and  aupposed  his  patron  was  re- 
peating a  pussage  out  of  Eufield's^ 
Speaker.  "  Fine  language,  sir,  xtry 
fine  language,  indeed !  particuUr  that 
about  sunshine  on  tbe  moanuios.  A 
remarkable  clever  man,  Mr  Eiifieid  ; 
and  I  can  ^y  Ossian's  Addre&»  to  the 
Sun  myself.'* 

But  in  the  mean  time  LAaii>a  walked 
round  the  table,  and  laid  bold  of  her 
father's  hand,  and  putting  her  finger 
on  his  pulse,  kM*kcd  with  a  face  fuil  of 
wisdom,  while  sbe  counted  the  t>eata ; 
and  giving  a  satii$fied  shakd  of  the 
bead,  resinned  hei  scat. 

"  A  day  01  two's  qaiet  will  do, 
without  a  strait  waistcoat,"  she  ssid ; 
*'  but  I  will  certainly  tell  the  porter 
never  to  admit  thf  t  nlouch- faced  muf- 
fled-up  im|>astor,  who  poU  euob  nou- 
aenf>e  into  hia  head." 

But  at  this  nviment  a  violent  pull 
at  the  bell  aUrtled  tliem  all.  When 
the  door  wss  opened  a  voiie  was 
heard  in  tbe  hall  which  aaid, "  Four  no 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


] 


TUSmrd^Hammr:  «  T«29^17a7. 


Dt,  MomeigBear;"  wberenpott  Mr 
BaUkmstartecl  ap,a»d  repiymf ,  ^  Out, 
■Mm  p^**  hsrried  oot  of  the  room, 
wmi  left  liU  party  ta  more  bUok 
amajsemeBt  thin  b^ora. 

The  annnises,  the  exdaotttioM,  the 
wlUapera  mod  soapicioaa  tliat  passed 
from  ooe  to  the  oth^t  it  is  needkoB  to 
it  wilsofioe  to  aay  that,  after 


108 

an  animated  eoBTeraatioa  with  the 
ayateriom  visitor,  Mr  Ballloo  onoe 
aiore  joined  the  cinole  and  aald,  ^'  Yoa 
will  l>e  ready,  all  of  yoo,  to  atart  for 
Fkaaee  to-morrow.  I  bare  bosineas 
of  onportaaoe  that  caUs  for  my  pre- 
aeooe  in  ToaiB.  fiay  not  a  word,  bi^ 
obey." 


CBAPTBB  m. 


So,  in  a  week,  they  were  ailoom- 
iartably  settled  in  a  hotel  at  Tonrs. 

Mr  Ballion  waa  aittiag  in  the  par- 
lonr,  apparently  in  deep  and  pleasant 
contemplation ;  for  the  comers  of  his 
Boath  were  inirolantarily  tnraed  up, 
and  he  inspected  the  calf  of  his  le|^ 
with  self-aatisfied  admiiatioD.  Mr 
Cocker  was  on  a  chair  in  the  coraer, 
probably  nralttplying  the  aquares  in 
tlM  table-cover  by  the  flowers  in  the 
P^?er. 

**^  How  do  yon  fike  Firancc,  Mr 
Cocicer?''8aidMrBailion. 

^  Not  at  all,  shr ;  the  Mk%  haa  no 
sense;  aad  no  wonder  we  always 
wallop  them  by  sea  or  land.*' 
"  •*  Hem !  Must  I  remind  yoa,  sir, 
that  this  is  my  country;  that  the 
French  are  my  coaatrymen ;  and  that 
▼on  by  no  means  wallop  them  either 
mj  sea  or  land.** 

^Yom  French!  fom  Frenchman!'* 
replied  Mr  Cocker ;  '*•  that  m  a  joke  I 
Bollion  aln*t  altogether  a  French 
same,  I  think?  No,  no ;  it  sroeUs  of 
the  bank  ;  «r  does.  Yoa  ain*t  one  of 
the  pari&oom—fou  ain%  that's  cer- 
tain." 

*•  How  often  have  I  to  order  yon, 
irfr,  not  to  doubt  my  word?'*  said 
Mr  BnUion;  and  erophacised  his 
speech  wi^  a  form  of  exprestiion  that 
Is  generally  considered  a  clencher. 

"There!  there!**  cried  Cocker, 
trinmphant;  ^I  told  yoa  so.  Is 
^lere  ever  a  Frenchman  coald  swear 
fike  that  ?  They  ain*t  Christians 
anoagh  to  give  soch  a  jolly  hearty 
cnrse  as  yonm ;  so  you  see,  sir,  it^ 
ao  go  to  pass  yomself  off  for  a 
Mounseer,^ 

^I^eave  tho  room,  sir,  and  send 
Mr  Hope  to  roe  at  once  I  *' 

Cocker  obeyed,  pazsled  more  and 
BM>re   at  the  fancy  his  mastrr  was 
possessed  with  to  deny  his  coimtry. 
^  It  would,  perhaps,  have  been  wi:>er,** 


thought  Mr  Bullion,  ^  to  have  left  the 
plabeian  fools  at  home  till  everything 
was  formally  completed  ;  but  still, 
nothing,  I  suppose,  would  have  satis- 
fled  ttoa  bat  the  evidence  of  their 
own  ejres.** 

*'  Mr  Hope,**  he  said,  as  that  young 
gentleoMn  entered  the  room,  "  sit 
down  hecMde  me ;  nay,  no  ceremony, 
I  ahall  always  treat  yoa  with  conde- 
scension and  regard.** 

**  You  are  very  good,  sir." 

"I  am,  sir;  and  I  trust  your  con- 
duct will  continue  such  as  to  justify 
me  in  remaining  so.  Yon  may  have 
<>bsenred,  Mr  Hope,  a  chaage  in  my 
manner  for  some  time  past.  Yon  can't 
have  been  fool  enough,  like  Miss  Smith 
and  Mr  Cocker,  to  doubt  the  reality 
of  the  Caet  I  stared,  namely,  that  I 
am  French  by  birth,--Klid  you  doubt 
It,  sir?" 

"Why,sir,— infact^tinceyoninsist 
on  an  answer—" 

''  I  see  yoa  did.  Well,  sir,  I  pity 
and  pardon  yoa.  I  will  tell  you  the 
whole  tale,  and  then  yon  will  see  that 
some  alteration  must  take  place  in  our 
respective  positions.  In  the  neigh- 
bonrh<K)d  of  this  good  city  of  Tours  I 
was  bom.  My  fat^r  was  chief  of  the 
younp^r  br^inch  of  one  of  the  not>le6t 
houses  in  France,— the  Dc  Bouillons 
p(  Chnteau  d*Or.  He  was  wild,  gay, 
't!iottghtte«,  and  fell  into  disgrace  at 
court.  He  was  imprisoned  in  the 
Bastilks ;  his  estates  confiscated ;  his 
name  expunged  from  tlie  book  of 
nobility ;  and  he  died  poor,  forgotten, 
and  biMckened  in  name  and  fame.  I 
was  fifk4*en  at  the  time.  I  took  my 
fHther*8  sword  into  the  Town  Hall ; 
I  giive  it  in  solemn  charge  to  the  au- 
th4»rities,  and  vowed  that  when  I  had 
succeeded  in  wiping  off  the  blot  from 
my  fHther*s  name,  and  getting  it  re- 
stored to  its  former  rank,  I  would 
reclaim  it  at  thehr  haads,  and  assnme 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


104  The  Sword  of  Honour 

the  state  and  dignity  to  which  my 
birth  entitled  me.  I  went  to  Eng- 
land; your  father,  my  good  Cecil, 
took  me  by  the  hand  :  porter,  clerk, 
partner,  friend, — I  rose  through  all  the 
gradations  of  the  office;  and  when  he 
aied,  he  left  me  the  highest  trust  he 
could  repose  in  any  one,  —  the  guar- 
dianship of  his  son." 

**  I  know  sir, —  and  if  I  have  never 
sufficiently  thanked  you  for  your 
care — '* 

"  Not  tbat—no,  no— I'm  satisfied, 
my  dear  boy — and  Louise — the  Lady 
Louise  T  must  now  call  her — change 
of  rank — duties  of  lofty  sphere — for- 
mer friends— ill  arranged  eni^agements 
— "  continued  the  new-fonned  magnate 
in  confusion,  blurting  out  unc(»nnected 
words,  that  showed  the  train  of  his 
thoughts  without  expressing  them  dis- 
tincrly ;  while  Mr  Hope  sat  in  amaze- 
ment at  what  he  had  heard,  but  no 
longer  doubting  the  reality  of  what 
was  said. 

'*  Well,  sir?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  changed  my  name  with  my 
country,  though  retainiog  as  mnch  of 
the  sound  of  it  tis  1  could ;  and  I^uis 
Bullion  was  a  complete  disguise  for 
the  expatriated  Marquis  de  Bouillon 
de  Chateau  d'Or.  1  married  Miss 
Smith,  and  lost  her  shortly  after 
Louise's  birth.  For  years  I  have  been 
in  treaty  with  the  French  ambassador 
through  his  almoner,  the  Abb^,  whose 
Tisits  you  thought  so  my.-terious.  At 
last  I  succeeded,  and  to- morrow  I 
claim  my  father's  sword,  resume  the 
hereditar}*  titles  of  my  house,  and  take 
my  honoured  place  among  the  peers 
and  paladins  of  France.'* 

"And  have  you  informed  Louise?" 
— inquired  Cecil. 

*'  Lady  Louise,"  interrupted  Mr 
Bullion. 

"  Of  this  change  in  her  position?'' 

*•  Why,  my  dear  Cecil,  to  tell  you 
the  truth — it's  not  an  easy  matter  to 
f^et  her  to  understand  my  meaning. 
Yesterday  I  attempted  to  explain  the 
thing,  exactly  as  I  have  done  to  you; 
but  instead  of  taking  it  seriously,  she 
began  with  one  of  her  provoking 
chuckles,  and  chucked  me  under  the 
«hin,  and  called  me  Marqny-darky. 
In  fact,  I  wi8h  the  explanation  to 
come  from  you." 

*'  I  feel  myself  very  unfit  for  the 
iask,"    said    the  young    man,  who 


:  a  Tale  of  \7S7.  [Jan; 

foresaw  that  this  altered  situation 
might  interfere  with  certain  plans  of 
his  own.  "  I  hope  you  will  excuse 
me ;  you  can  tell  her  the  whole  affair 
yourself,  for  here  she  comes." 

And  the  young  lady  accordingly 
made  her  appearance.  After  looking 
at  them  for  some  time — 

^*  What  are  yon  all  so  doleful 
about?"  she  began.  *'  Has  papa 
bitten  you  too,  Cecil?  Pray  don't  be 
a  duke  —  it  makes  people  so  very 
ridiculous." 

^'  Miss  Louise  —  mademoiselle,  I 
ought  to  say,"  said  Mr  Bullion,  *^  I 
have  communicated  certain  facts  to 
Cecil  Hope." 

"  Which  he  doesn't  believe — do  you, 
CecU  ?"  interposed  the  daughter. 

*^  He  does  believe  them,  and  I  beg 
you  will  believe  them  too.  They  are 
simply,  that  I  am  a  nobleman  of  the 
highest  rank,  and  you  are  my  right 
honourable  daughter." 

'^  Oh,  indeed  I  and  how  was  our 
cousin  Spain  when  yon  heard  from 
Madrid? —  our  uncle  Austria,  was  he 
quite  well? — was  George  of  England 
recovered  of  the  gout  ?  —  and  above 
all,  how  was  uncle  Smith,  the  ship- 
owner of  Wapping?  " 

"Girl!  you  will  drive  me  mad," 
replied  the  Marquis,  "  with  your 
Smiths  and  W^appings.  I  tell  yon, 
what  I  have  said  is  really  the  case, 
and  to-morrow  you  will  see  the  in- 
auguration with  your  own  eyes.  Mean- 
time, I  must  dress,  to  receive  a  depu- 
tation of  the  nobility  of  the  province, 
who  come  to  congratulate  me  on  my 
arrival." 

*'  Oh,  what's  this  I  hear,"  exclaimed 
Miss  Smith,  rnshing  into  the  room, 
"are you  a  real  marquis, Mr  Bullion?** 

"Yes,  madam,  I  have  that  honour.** 

"  And  does  the  marriage  with  my 
sister  stand  good  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,  madam." 

"  Then,  I'm  very  glad  of  it.  Oh 
how  delightful!— to  be  my  Lord  this, 
my  Lady  that.  I  am  always  de- 
voted to  the  aristockicy;  and  now, 
only  to  think  I  am  one  of  them 
myself." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  foolish,  aunt? 
— I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  said  Louise ; 
"  what  terrible  things  you  were  tell- 
ing me,  an  hour  ago,  of  the  wickedness 
of  thenobilitjr?" 

"  Miss  Simth,  thongb  she  does  not 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Sword  of  Honour:  a  Tale  of  17S7. 


J8I9.] 

«x|res8  herself  in  venr  correct  lan- 
goaee,  has  more  sensible  ideas  on  this 
siib^t  than  yon,**  said  the  marqnis, 
iooking  severely  at  his  daughter,  irho 
was  looking,  from  time  to  time,  with 
i^  malicious  smile  at  the  woe-begone 
countenance  of  Cecil  Hope.  '^  Re- 
member, madam,  who  it  is  yon  are," 
continued  the  senior. 

**  L41,  papa  1  don't  talk  such  non- 
fiense,**  replied  the  irreverent  daugh- 
ter. "  Do  you  think  I  am  eighteen 
years  of  age,  and  don*t  know  perfectly 
well  ^o  and  what  I  am  ?  " 

*^  Three  of  vour  ancestors,  madam, 
were  Constables  of  France." 

*'  That's  nothing  to  boast  of,"  re- 
tamed  Louise ;  ^*  no,  not  if  they  had 
been  inspectors  of  police." 

*^  You  are  incorrigible,  girl,  and 
hmve  not  sense  enough  to  have  a  pro- 
per feeling  of  family  pride." 

"  Haven't  I  ?  Am  I  not  proud  of 
all  the  stories  uncle  David  tells  us  of 
his  courage,  when  he  was  mate  of  an 
lodlaman?  and  aunt  Jenkison — don't 
you  remember,  sir,  how  she  dined  with 
OB  at  Christmas,  and  had  to  walk  in 
pattens  through  the  snow,  and  tum- 
bled in  Cheapside  ?  " 

A  laugh  began  to  form  itself  round 
the  eyes  of  the  French  magnate,  which 
made  his  countenance  uncommonly 
fike  what  it  used  to  be  when  it  was 
that  of  an  English  merchant.  Louise 
saw  her  success,  and  proceeded. 


105 

"  And  how  you  said,  when  the  poor 
old  lady  was  brought  home  in  a  chair, 
that  it  was  the  punch  that  did  it?  " 

**  He,  he  I  and  so  it  was.  Didn't  I 
caution  her,  all  the  time,  that  it  was  old 
Jamaica  rum  ?  "  broke  out  the  father ; 
but  checked  himself,  as  if  he  were 
guilty  of  some  indecorum. 

"  And  don't  you  remember  how  we 
all  attended  the  launch  of  unde  Peter's 
ship,  the  Hope's  Return  ?  Ah,  they  were 
happy  days,  father !  weren't  they  ?  " 

*^  No,  madam  ;  no — vulgar,  miser- 
able days:  forget  them  as  quick  as 
you  can.  I  tell  you,  when  you  resume 
your  proper  sphere,  every  eye  will  be 
turned  to  your  beauty :  nobles  will  be 
dying  at  your  feet." 

**  1  trust  not,  sir,"  hurriedly  burst 
in  Mr  Hope.  *^  I  don't  see  what  right 
any  nobles  will  have  to  be  dying  at 
Louise's  feet." 

"Don't  you,  sir?"  said  Louise^ 
"  Indeed  1  I  beg  to  tell  you,  that  as 
many  as  choose  shall  die  at  my  feet. 
I'll  trouble  you,  Mr  Hope,  not  to  in- 
terfere with  the  taste  of  any  nobleman 
who  has  a  fancy  to  so  queer  a  place 
for  his  death- bed."  But  while  she 
said  this,  she  tapped  him  so  playfully 
with  her  little  white  hand,  and  lucked 
at  him  so  kindly  with  her  beautiful 
blue  eyes,  that  the  young  gentleman 
seemed  greatly  reassured ;  aud  iu  a  few 
minutes,  as  if  tired  of  the  conversation, 
betook  himself  to  the  other  room. 


CHAPTER  IT. 


Suddenly  a  great  noise  was  heard 
in  the  street,  and  interrupted  the  lec- 
tures of  father  and  aunt  on  the  dignity 
of  position  and  the  pride  of  birth. 
Miss  Lucretia  and  Louise  ran  to 
the  window,  and  saw  a  cavalcade  of 
carriages,  with  outriders,  and  footmen 
<m  the  rumble,  and  all  the  stately  ac- 
companiments of  the  old-fashioned 
family  coach,  which,  after  a  slow  pro- 
gress along  the  causeway,  stopped  at 
the  hotel  door. 

"My  friends !  my  noble  friends!" 
exclaimed  the  marquis ;  "  and  I  in 
this  miserable  dress !" 

'^  The  noble  men !  the  salts  of  the 
earth !"  equally  exclaimed  Miss  Smith ; 
^*  and  I  in  my  morning  gownd  1" 

Saying  this,  she  hastily  fled  into  her 
l>ed-room,  which,  according  to  the 
fiiehion  of  French  houses,  opened  on 


the  sitting-room,  and  left  the  father 
and  Louise  alone. 

The  father  certainly  was  in  no 
fitting  costume  for  the  dignity  of  his 
new  character.  He  was  dressed  ac- 
cording to  the  fashion  of  the  res«pect- 
able  London  grader  of  his  time — a 
very  fitting  figure  for  'Change,  but 
not  appropriate  to  the  Marquis  de 
Bouillon  de  Chateau  d'Or.  Nor,  in 
fact,  was  his  disposition  much  more 
fitt^  for  his  exalted  position  than  his 
clothes.  To  all  intents  and  purposes, 
he  was  a  true  John  Bull:  proud  of 
his  efibrts  to  attain  wealth — proud  of 
his  success — proud  of  the  freedom  of 
his  adopted  land — and,  in  his  secret 
heart,  thinking  an  English  merchant 
several  hundred  degrees  superior  in 
usefulness  and  worth  to  all  the  mar- 
quises that  ever  lived  on  the  smiles  of 


Digitized-by  VjOOQIC 


TheBmofrdpfHi 


106 

tlM  Gnvd  Monafttne.  Tbe  stragigle, 
therefore,  thai  went  oa  witbta  him 
wfts  the  moBt  iiidicnKis  potable.  To 
liiB  family  Aod  frieiMb  he  presented 
that  phase  of  bia  indiTidnaUty  that  set 
his  Dobiiity  ia  froot;  to  the  French 
nobles,  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  in- 
clined to  show  only  so  nuiich  of  bim- 
aeif  as  presented  the  man  of  bills  and 
inroioes;  and  in  both  conditioiis,  by 
a  wondcxfol  process  of  reasoning,  ia 
which  we  ara  all  adepts,  considered 
himself  raised  above  the  iadividttals 
he  addressed. 

^'  Did  they  see  yoa  At  the  window  ?  " 
he  said,  in  some  trepidation,  wliile  the 
visitors  were  desoeudiog  from  tbeur 
coaches. 

"To  be  snre,"  replied  Loaise; 
*^  and  impodent  -  looking  men  they 
were." 

"  Ah  I  tbafs  a  pity.  Do,  for 
heaven's  sake,  my  dear,  jnst  slip  in 
beside  your  auot.  They  ai*e  a  very  gay 
polite  people,  the  nobles  of  France — ^'* 

"Well;  and  what  then?** 

"And  they  might  take  ways  of 
showing  it,  we  are  not  used  to  in 
England.  Do  hide  yourself,  my  dear 
— there,  that's  a  good  girl.*"  And 
Jnst  as  be  had  socoueded  in  paahtng 
her  into  the  bedroom,  and  begged  her 
to  lock  herself  in,  the  landlord  of  the 
hotel  ushered  four  or  fis^  nobleinett 
into  the  apartment,  as  visitors  to  the 
Marqnis  de  Bouillon.  The  eldest  of 
the  strangers — about  forty  3'ears  old 
— bespangled  with  jewels,  and  orna- 
mented with  two  or  three  stara  and 
ribbons,  looked  with  some  sarprise  on 
the  plainly  drest  and  citisen- mannered 
man,  who  came  forward  to  welcome 
them. 

*^  We  came  to  pay  onr  eompitments 
to  my  lord  the  Marquis  de  Bouillon 
de  Chateau  d'Or." 

"  And  very  glad  he  is  to  see  yon, 


.•a7klr^l767.  fJ«L 

^  Sitdown,gent1emen— Ibeg,'*8aid 
De  Bouilkni,  after  bowing  to  ttie  per- 
sonajres  named.  "  A  charmiug  plant 
this  Tours,  and  I*m  very  glad  to  sea 
you—fine  weather,  gentlemen.'* 

"I  trust  yon  have  come  with  the 
intention  of  residing  among  os.  Your 
estates,  I  oonclade,  are  restored  aloug 
with  your  titles." 

"  No,  gentWtneii,  they^re  not  Bnt 
we  Buy  manage  tp  buy  some  of  theni 
back  again.    HowVi  land  hero  ?*" 

"Laud?"  inquired  the  duke^ 
rather  bewildered  with  tlie  question. 

"  Yes— how  is  it,  as  to  rent  ?  How 
much  an  acre  ?" 

"Ton  my  word,  I  don't  know. 
When  I  want  money  I  tell  the  stewardt 
and  the  people — the— serfs,  I  suppose^ 
they  are— who  hold  the  plough  and 
manage  the  land — give  him  some,  and 
he  brings  it  to  me." 

"Oh!  but  you  don*t  know  how 
many  years'  purehase  it's  worth  ?" 

To  this  there  was  no  answer— sta* 
tistacs,  at  that  time,  not  being  a  fa* 
Tourite  study  in  France. 

"  But,  marquis,"  inquired  another^ 
"  hasn't  the  King  restored  you  jour 
manorial  rights — ^yonr  droiU  4e  jsi- 
gmaurf* 

"No,  sir." 

"Then  what's  the  use  of  land  with* 
out  them  ?"  was  the  very  pertinent 
rejoinder. 

"  What  are  they,  sir?"  inquired  tha 
marquis. 

"  Why,  if  a  tenant  of  yours  has  a 
pretty  daughter,"  said  one. 

"  Or  a  wife,"  said  snother. 

"  Or  even  a  niece,"  sakl  a  third. 

"  Well,  sir,  what  then?  I  dou'ttake.** 

"Oh,  you're  a  wag,  marqnisl** 
replied  the  duke.  "  Didn't  I  see,  as  we 
stopt  bef4ire  your  window,  a  counte- 
nance radiant  with  beauty  ?" 

"Eyes    like    stars,"    chuned    uk 
her. 

Cheeks  like  roses.  Aha!  Moa- 
•  le  Marquis— who  was  it?— 
1!" 

Why,  that,— oh,  that,— that's  a 
ig    lady    under    my   protection^ 
lemen ;  and  I  must  beg  you  IK> 
ifi:e  the  conversation.'* 
Indeed!  you're  a  lucky  fellow! 

old  fool  mustn't  be  allowed  to 
)  such  beauty  to  himself." 

Certainly  not,"  returned  the 
mte,  also  in  a  whisper. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1M9.] 


The  Sward  cfUnmrnr:  alUaf  1787. 


^  LMkj  r  Mid  De  BoaUkNi— '«7M. 
gndenai,  I  an  laekj.  If  joa  knew 
all,  JOB  woaid  thiDk  ao,  I'n  sura." 

''  She  loves  job,  thea,  old  aimplfr- 

^  I  think  tbe  doct— I  koov  ahe 


^  May  we  not  aak  tke  hoK^nr  of 
bemepraMBtod?** 

*'  Some  other  time,  ytlewwa  wot 
BOW— ab«*fl  sot  bere--ahe'8  goM  oat 
for  a  walk." 

*'  Impossible,  mj  dearlori;  wemaal 
karo  met  her  aa  wecaiae  ap  atairs/* 

^  8be  has  a  headache  oho'e  fone 
ta  lie  dowB  for  a  few  miautea,"  aaid 
tha  Bunpiis,  gettiog  SMMa  and  more 
aaaiooa  to  keq)  Loaiso  froia  the  in- 
trasaoQ.of  has  Tiakori. 

^I  have  aaexoeUeaienre  for  head- 
aches of  all  kinds,"  exdaiaied  the 
baron,  and  proceeded  towards  the 
bed-rooai  door.  The  Marqots  de 
Booittoo,  however,  pat  hiasself  be- 
tweea;  hat  the  doke  and  vieomte 
polled  hioi  aside,  aad  the  banw  be- 
gan to  rat-tat  oa  the  door. 

^  Come  forth,  atadam  1'*  he  began, 
^  we  an  dying  iat  a  raght  of  yoar 
angelic  channa.  De  Booilloa  begs 
Toa  to  houoor  as  with  joor  preaeoce. 
Hark,  ahe's  eomiagl**  he  added,  aad 
drew  back  as  he  heard  the  bolt  wath- 
drawa  oa  the  other  side. 

^  Stay  where  yoa  are  I  doo^t  come 
eat  r'  afaoated  De  BoaiUon,  atUi  hi  the 


107 

ofhbfrieoda.  *«  I  diaiige  700, 
don't  Biore  a  stepl"  Bat  his  ifl>|nae- 
tions  were  vaia ;  the  door  opened,  and, 
sailiag  mafesticailj  into  the  room, 
drert  oat  in  hoop  and  fhrbelow,  aad 
wavmg  her  fan  afiectedlj  beA)re  hor 
£M)e,  appeared  Miss  Laeretia  South — 

^  Did  yoa  visit  to  see  ne,  geotJa- 
BMn?  Fan  always  delighted  to  see 
anjr  one  as  is  cini  eaou^  to  give  aa 
a  forenooa  caU." 

The  Fk«ach  noblea,  howerer,  felt 
their  ardoar  daa^ied  to  aa  extraordi- 
narj  degree,  aad  replied  by  a  aeriea 
of  the  Bwst  respectful  salaams. 

^  Profonnd  veneration,*'  "*  deepert 
reverence,"  aad  other  expressioas  of 
the  same  kind,  were  mattered  by  each 
of  the  visiters;  and  in  a  short  tima 
they  SQceeeded,  in  spite  of  Miss  La- 
cretia's  reiterated  invitations,  in  bow- 
ing themselves  oat  of  the  room.  They 
were  aceompanied  by  the  marquis  to- 
their  carriagea,  whik  Miss  Smith  waa 
gaxiag  after  them,  astonL»hed,  mora 
than  pleased,  at  the  wonderful  polite- 
aeas  of  their  manner.  Lonise  slipt 
oat  of  tiie  bed-room,  and  slapt  her 
astontsfaed  aaot  upon  the  shoulder— 

"  YoaVe  done  it,  aaot!  —  yoa've 
done  it  now  I  A  word  from  yon  recalla 
these  foreigners  to  their  seBi«s." 

*'  It  gives  me  a  high  opiniria,**  re- 
plied hOss  Smith,  **of  them  French. 
They  stand  ua  perfect  awa  of  dignity- 
and  virtae." 


CHAPTBR  V. 


Great  were  the  discafsioas,  aU  that 
day,  amoag  the  Eoglidi  party  in  the 
hotel — tl>e  fiaiher  concealiBg  his  dis- 
appointment at  the  behaviiiur  of  his 
fellow  nobles,  nader  an  exaggerated 
admiration  of  rank,  aad  all  its  attri- 
hates ;  Louise  profesaiag  to  chiaie  in 
with  her  father's  ideas,  for  the  piea- 
aant  purpose  of  vexing  Cecil  Hope ; 
Mr  Cocker  still  per^asdiag  himself 
the  Frenchmaaship  of  his  old  master 
was  a  little  bitof  acting, that  woold  end 
aa  soon  as  the  curtain  fell ;  and  Miss 
Lucretia  devisiog  means  of  making 
ap  for  her  fdhires  with  so  maay 
curates,  by  catching  a  veritable  doke. 
Wicli  the  next  morning  new  occnpa- 
tioos  began.  The  marquia,  dressed 
ia  the  fantastic  apparel  of  a  French 
courtier,  exchau«;ed  comptiments  with 
his  daughter,  who  was  also 


cently  attired,  to  do  hoaoor  to  the 
occasion.  Mr  Hope  tried  in  vara  to 
get  her  to  sink  from  the  lofty -style 
she  assumed,  and  had  strong  thoughts 
ef  setting  oif  for  Hertfordtihiri*,  aad 
nfarrying  a  farmer's  daughter  out  of 
revenge.  The  father  was  so  earned 
away  by  family  pride,  aad  the  daugh- 
ter enjoyed  the  change  in  her  rank  ae 
heartily,  that  there  seemed  no  room 
In  the  heart  of  either  fur  so  prosaic  a 
being  as  a  plain  English  pquire.  And 
jet,  every  now  and  then,  there  gleamed 
from  the  comer  of  Louises  eye,  or 
stole  ont  in  a  merry  tone  of  her  voice, 
the  old  familiar  feeling,  so  that  lie 
could  not  altogether  give  way  to 
despair,  bat  waited  ta  patience  what 
the  chapter  of  acctdeBts  might  bring. 
At  ooe  o*ciock  the  marquis  set  o^ 
for  the  town-hall,  where  he  was  to  go 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Sword  of  Honour:  a  Tale  of  17S7. 


108 

through  the  ceremony  of  reclaiming 
his  fatber*8  sword,  and  have  the  blot 
on  the  scntcheon  formally  removed ; 
after  which  he  was  to  entertain  tlie 
town  anthorities,  and  the  neighbour- 
ing nobility,  at  dinner ;  the  evening 
to  conclude  with  a  ball,  in  the  pre- 
paration for  which  the  ladies  were  to 
be  left  at  home.  Mr  Hope  accom- 
panied him  to  the  door  of  the  town- 
hall, — but  there  he  professed  to  find 
his  feelings  overpowered,  and  declined 
to  witness  the  ceremony  that,  he  said, 
broke  the  connexion  which  had  exist- 
ed so  long  between  the  names  of 
Hope  and  Bullion;  but, ere  he  could 
return  to  the  hotel,  several  things 
had  occurred  that  had  a  material  in- 
fluence on  his  prospects,  and  these  we 
must  now  proceed  to  relate.  Miss 
Lucretia  Smith  continued  her  oratory 
in  the  ears  of  her  devoted  niece  after 
the  gentlemen  had  gone,  the  burden 
thereof  consisting,  principally,  in  a 
<x)mparison  between  the  nobles  of 
France  and  the  shopocracy  of  Lon- 
don,— till-  that  young  lady  betook 
herself  to  the  bedroom  window  already 
mentioned,  to  watch  for  Cecil's  return. 
She  had  not  been  long  at  her  watch- 
post,  when  a  carriage,  with  the  blinds 
drawn  up,  and  escorted  by  seven  or 
eight  armed  men,  with  masks  on 
their  faces,  pulled  up  at  the  door.  Of 
^his  she  took  no  particular  notice,  but 
kept  looking  attentively  down  the 
street.  But,  a  minute  or  two  after 
the  closed  carriage  drove  under  the 
porte  cochhre^  a  young  gentleman 
^as  ushered  into  the  presence  of  Miss 
Smith,  and  was,  by  tnat  young  lady, 
received  with  the  highest  empresse- 
tnent  possible.  She  had  only  had 
time  to  improve  her  toilette  by  put- 
ting on  Louise's  shawl  and  bonnet, 
which  happened  to  be  lying  on  ^ 
chair ;  and,  in  spite  of-  the  shortness 
of  the  view  she  had  had  of  him  the 
day  before,  she  immediately  recog- 
nised him  as  one  of  her  brother's 
visiters,  the  Baron  Beauvilliers. 

«^  Permit  me,  madam,"  he  said,  in 
very  good  English,  •*  to  apologise  for 
my  intrusion,  but  I  have  the  authority 
of  my  friend  De  Bouillon  to  consider 
myself  here  at  home." 

"Oh,  sir,  you  are  certainly  the 
politest  nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
you  French— that  I  must  say;  but  I 
may  trust,  I  hope,  to  the  honour  of  a 


[Jan. 


gent  like  you  ?  You  won't  be  rude  to 
an  unoffended  female?  for  there  ain't 
a  soul  in  the  'ouse  that  could  give  me 
the  least  assistance." 

The  baron  bowed  in  a  very  assuring 
manner,  and,  taking  a  seat  beside  her, 
*^  May  I  make  bold,  madam,  to  ask 
who  the  tawdry  silly-looking  young 
person  is  who  resides  under  De  Bouil- 
lon's protection  ?" 

"Su-  —  under  Mr  Bull— I  mean, 
under  the  marquee's  protection?  I 
don't  understand  you." 

"Exactly  as  I  suspected.  I  guessed, 
from  the  dignity  of  your  appearance, 
that  such  an  infamous  proceeding  was 
enturely  unknown  to  you.  Command 
my  services,  madam,  in  any  way  you 
can  make  them  available.  Let  me 
deliver  you  from  the  scandal  of  being 
in  the  same  house  with  a  person  ci 
that  description." 

"  Oh,  sir !"  repUed  Miss  Smith, 
"  yon  are  certainly  most  obliging. 
When  we  are  a  little  better  acquaint^ 
perhaps — ^in  a  few  days,  or  even  in 
one — I  shall  be  happy  to  accept  your 
offer;  but,  la!  what  will  my  brother- 
in-law  say  if  I  accept  a  gentleman's 
offer  at  minute's  notice  ?" 

Miss  Smith  accompanied  this  speech 
with  various  blushes  and  pauses,  be- 
tokening the  extent  of  her  modest 
reluctance ;  but  the  baron  either  did 
not  perceive  the  mistake  she  had  made, 
or  did  not  thmk  it  worth  while  to 
notice  it. 

"I  will  convey  the  destroyer  of 
your  peace  away  from  your  sight. 
Show  me  only  the  room  she  is  in. 
And  consider,  madam,  that  you  will 
make  me  the  proiidestof  men  by  allow- 
ing me  to  be  your  knight  and  cham- 
pion on  this  occasion." 

"  Really,  sir,  I  can't  say  at  present 
where  the  gipsy  can  be.  Brother- 
in-law  has  been  very  sly ;  but  if  I  can 
possibly  ferret  her  out,  won't  I  send 
her  on  her  travels?  Wait  but  a 
minute,  sir:  I'll  come  to  yon  the 
moment  she  can  be  found." 

But  the  baron  determined  to  accom- 
pany her  in  her  search,  and  together 
they  left  the  room,  two  active  mem- 
bers of  the  Society  for  the  Suppression 
of  Vice.  Louise  had  heard  the  noise 
of  voices,  without  distinguishing  or 
attending  to  what  was  said,  but  a  low 
and  hurried  tap  at  the  door  now  at- 
tracted her  notice. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Sward  o/Hofumr :  a  Tale  of  1787. 


A*  Miss  Lonise — ^m&'aui — for  heaven's 
sake,  come  oat  I'*  said  the  voice  of  Mr 
Cocker  through  the  key-hole;  "for 
bere*8  a  whole  regiment  of  them 
French,  and  thej  wants  to  ran  away 
with  YOU." 

**  With  me.  Cocker ! "  exclaimed 
Lonise,  coming  into  the  parloar. 
"  What  is  it  yoa  mean  ?" 

"  What  I  say,  miss — and  yonr 
aunt  is  as  bad  as  any  on  'em. 
She's  searching  the  hoase,  at  this 
moment,  to  give  yon  np  into  their 
hands.  She  can't  refnse  nothing  to 
them  noblesse,  as  she  calls  'em.  The 
gentleman  has  gone  down  to  the  conrt- 
Yard  to  see  that  nobody  escapes,  and 
here  we  are,  like  mice  in  a  trap." 

**  Go  for  Cecil,  Cocker ;  leave  me 
to  myself,"  said  Lonise — ^her  features 
dilating  into  tiger-like  beanty,  with 
rage  and  self-confidence.  "  Cfo,  I  tell 
yon — ^yon'll  find  him  retaming  firom 
the  town-hall — and  bid  him  lose  not 
a  moment  in  coming  to  my  help." 
She  waved  Mr  Cocker  impatiently 
from  her,  and  retomed  for  a  moment 
into  the  bed-room. 

*^  Madam,  hist  I  I  beg  yoa  will  be 
quick!"  exclaimed  the  baron,  entering 
the  parlour,  **I  can't  wait  mach  longer. 
What  a  detestable  old  fool  it  is ! "  he 
went  on,  in  a  lower  voice;  "  she  might 
have  found  the  girl  long  ere  this. 
Well,  well,  have  you  found  her  ?  "  he 
continued,  addressing  Loaise,  who 
issued  from  the  bed-room  in  some  of 
the  apparel  ofher  aunt,  and  assuming  as 
nearly  as  she  could  the  airs  and  graces 
of  that  individual.  "  Tell  me,  madam, 
where  she  is." 

^'  La !  sir,  how  is  one  to  find  out 
these  things  in  a  moment — ^besides, 
they  ain't  quite  proper  subjects  for  a 
young  lady  to  be  concerned  with," 
replid  Louise,  keeping  her  bashful 
cheek  from  the  sight  of  the  baron  with 
her  enormous  fan. 

"  Then,  madam,  point  with  that 
lovely  finger  of  yours,  and  I  shall  make 
the  dfiscovery  myself." 

Louise  pointed,  as  required,  to  the 
gallery,  along  which,  at  that  moment, 
her  quick  eye  caught  the  step  of  Miss 
Lucretia;  and  the  baron,  going  to  the 
door,  gave  directions  to  his  attendants 
to  seize  the  lady,  and  carry  her  with- 
out loss  of  time  to  the  Pare  d' Amour, 
a  hotel  on  the  outskirts  of  Tours.  He 
then  closed  the  door,  and  listened— no 


109- 

less  than  did  Louise— to  the  execution 
of  his  commands. 

"  There,  madam,"  he  said,  as  the 
scuffle  of  seizure  and  a  very  faint 
scream  were  heard,  "they've  got  her  I 
Your  pure  presence  shall  never  more 
be  polluted  by  her  society.  A  naughty 
man  old  De  Bouillon,  and  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  strict  morality  of  France. 
Adieu ! " 

*^Adieu,  sir!"  said  Louise ;  but  there 
was  a  tone  in  her  voice,  or  something 
in  her  manner,  that  called  the  atten- 
tion of  her  visitor.  He  went  up  ta 
her,  laid  his  hand  upon  the  fan,  and 
revealed  before  him,  beautiful  from 
alarm  and  indignation,  was  the  face 
of  Louise  de  Bouillon !"  So,  madam  1 
this  was  an  excellent  device,  but  I 
have  more  assistance  at  hand.  Ho ! 
Pierre !  Francois  ! "  he  began  to  call. 
"  I  have  another  carriage  in  the  yard 
— ^you  sha'nt  escape  me  so." 

^*  Stop,  sir  I  "  exclaimed  Louise^ 
and  placed  herself  between  him  and 
the  door.  "  These  are  not  the  arts  of 
wooing  we  are  used  to  in  England.  I 
expected  more  softness  and  persua- 
sion." 

"  Alas,  madam,  'tis  only  the  short- 
ness of  the  opportunity  that  prevents 
me  from  making  a  thousand  protes- 
tations. But,  after  all,  what  is  the  use 
of  them?    Ho!  Fran<?ois!" 

As  he  said  this,  he  approached  nearer 
to  Louise,  and  even  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  arm.  But  with  the  quickness  of 
lightning,  she  made  a  dart  at  the 
diamond-covered  hilt  of  her  assailant's 
sword,  and  pulling  it  from  the  sheath, 
stood  with  the  glittering  point  within 
an  inch  of  the  Frenchman's  eyes. 

"  Back,  back ! "  she  cried,  **  or  you 
are  a  dead  man — or  frog — or  monkey 
— or  whatever  you  are  I " 

Each  of  these  names  was  accom- 
panied with  a  step  in  advance ;  and 
there  was  too  savage  a  lustre  in  her 
look  to  allow  the  unfortunate  baron 
to  doubt  for  a  moment  that  his  life 
was  in  the  highest  peril. 

*'  Madam,"  he  expostulated,  "  do  be 
careful— 'tis  sharp  as  a  needle." 

"  Back,  back !  "  she  continued,  ad- 
vancing with  each  word  upon  his  re- 
treating steps — **  you  thread- paper — 
you  doU-at-a- fair— yon  stuflfed  cock- 
atoo— back,  back ! ''  And  on  arriv- 
ing at  the  bed-room  door,  she  gave 
a   prodigiously    powerful   lunge    in 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


.110  Thi  Sword  of  Ho\ 

adraoce,  «ad  dn>¥6  fcer  victim  fairly 
into  the  room,  and,  with  ta  exdama* 
tion  of  pride  and  triampb,  loclced  brim 
in.  But,  exliaoste^  witli  tlie  ex- 
dtement»  rite  liad  011I7  time  to  laj 


a7Wfeoft797.  [Jan. 

tlie  avrord  on  tlw  tabie,  ware  tlie  key 
tiiree  times  nwnd  tier  liead  in  Mgn  of 
▼ietorj,  ami  fali  faintia^  into  the 
arme  of  Cecii  Hope,  who  at  ^at  mo- 
meat  raahed  iato  tke  room. 


OHAFTEBTL 


The  oercmony  in  tlie  fawn-hall 
passed  off  with  the  greatest  6cl&i\ 
and  the  dinner  was  probably  tbonght 
the  finest  part  of  the  day^s  entertain- 
ment by  all  but  the  newly  re-estab- 
lished noble  himself.  Flashed  witli 
the  glories  of  the  proceeding,  and  also 
with  the  wine  he  had  swallowed  to 
bis  own  liealth  and  happiness,  he 
sallied  forth  with  his  friends  of  the 
preceding^  day — except,  of  coarse,  tiie 
Baron  BeaoTilliers— and,  as  he  him- 
self expressed  it,  was  awake  for  aay- 
thing,  np  to  any  larlc. 

**  A  lark,  says  my  lord?**  inqnired 
the  Dnke  de  Vienxchatean. 

**Ay,*'  replied  the  marqnis,  "if 
ifs  as  big  as  a  tarkey,  all  the  better. 
That  champaign  is  excellent  tipple, 
and  would  be  cheap  at  eighty-four 
shillings  per  dozen.*' 

The  French  nobles  did  not  quite 
miderstand  their  companion's  phra- 
seology, bnt  were  qnite  willing  to  jdfn 
him  in  any  extraragance. 

"  What  shall  we  do  7  "  cried  one ; 
*•  shall  we  break  open  the  jail?  ** 

•*  Ko,"  said  De  Bonillon :  "  hang  it  1 
that's  a  seriooe  matter.  But  111  tell 
yon  what,  IVe  no  objection  to  knodc 
down  a  charley." 

"  No,  no  I  let's  go  to  Rouge  et  Nofr^* 

**  Boys,  boys  I  •*  at  last  exclaimed 
the  Vicomte  de  Lanoy,  "III  tell 
you  what  we  shall  do, — Beaoyilliers 
told  me  that,  while  we  were  all  en- 
gaged at  the  dinner,  he  was  going  to 
seize  a  l)eautifal  creature,  and  carry 
her  off  to  the  Pare  d*  Amour.** 

**  Wrong,  decidedly  wrong !  **  said 
pe_Bouilk>n   jtt    this   propotrition. 

innder- 
ool,  who 
bc«aty. 
Is  name, 
rrgeome^ 
to  do  as 

Red  De 
of  that. 


"  Why,  sir,  we  shall  play  as  good 
a  trick  OB  Beaarillipn  as  he  designed 
for  the  ancient  gentleman.  Let's  get 
there  before  him,  and  cany  her  firora 
bim!" 

"  Agreed,  agreed !  *• 

•'  No,  no,  I  most  declare  off,**  said 
the  marqais.  '"Tis  a  bad  bvsiness 
altogether,  and  thto  would  make  it 
worse." 

"  Bot  who  is  to  carry  the  lady  ?  " 
inqvired  the  dnke,  without  attending 
to  the  scniples  of  bis  fnend. 

"Toss  for  it,**  snggestcd  the  ▼!- 
comte.  A  loais  was  thrown  into  tho 
air.  '* Heads!  heads!'*  erred  the 
nobleman.  *'  Tails  I  **  said  De  Bonillon. 

"'Tb  tails!"  exclaimed  the  ri- 
oomte.  "Marqnis,  the  chance  la 
yours— you've  won." 

"Oh!  have  I?"  replied  the  un- 
willing favonrite  of  fortune;  "I've 
won,  have  I?" 

"  Yon  don't  seem  overpleased  with 
yonrgood  luck,"  said  the  dnke ;  "  give 
me  your  chance,'  and  I  shall  knovr 
how  to  make  better  use  of  it" 

"  No,  gentleuMn,  111  manage  this 
affair  myself." 

"  Come  on,  then ! — wre  lajoie  I "— - 
and  with  great  joviality  they  pursned 
their  way  to  the  Pare  d'Amour. 

But  they  had  been  preceded  in  their 
jonmey  to  that  hostelry  by  Lonise, 
attended  by  Cecil  Hope  and  Mr 
Cocker.  By  the  administration  of  a 
dooceur  to  the  waiter,  they  obtained 
an  entree  to  the  apartment  designed 
for  the  baron  and  his  prey,  and  had 
scarcely  time  to  ensconce  themselves 
behind  the  window-cortaii,  when 
Miss  Lncretia  was  escorted  into  the 
room.  There  were  no  symptoms  cC 
any  violent  resistance  to  her  captors 
having  been  offered,  and  she  took  her 
seat  en  the  sofh  withoat  any  per* 
ceptible  alann. 

"  WeB,  them>  cnrions  people,  them 
French ! "  she  solfloqiiiBed  when  tiio 
men  had  left  her.  "^If  that 'ere  baros 
fell  hi  love  with  a  body,  cortgnl  ie 
say  so  ffithotft  aO  tliat  rigmaieio 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


iai9.] 


The^S^ford  of  Hi 


aTiOgofllSr. 


Ill 


abont  Mr  Ba11ioD*8  behavioar,  and 
pnlliDg  a  body  nearly  to  piecea? 
rm  sure  if  he  had  axed  me  in  a  civil 
way,  I  woskte^  luiTe  laid  m>.  Bit, 
lawkins !  here  lie  cones.** 

So  saying,  she  enveloped  herse^  la 
LoQiee**  shawl,  and  palled  Looise** 
loaael  Cirther  on  her  face,  and  pre- 
pared to  eaact  the  part  of  aa  oflTeaded, 
yes  aotaltogelher  aDforpTieg  beaaty. 
Bot  the  door,  oa  beiag  slowty  opened, 
presented,  not  the  cooateaanoe  of  the 
aaieii,  bat  the  aaxloas  face  of  Mr 
BaUioa  hianelf.  The  three  Frea^ 
aeblea  pashed  hia  forward.  *«Go 
OB,**  Ihey  said; ''  mike  the  best  nse  of 
yeor  eloqaeoee.  We  will  watch  here, 
aad  guard  the  deer  against  Beaa- 
irOfiers  himeir/* 

Hie  marquis,  aew  thoroeghly 
aabered,  slowly  adiraaced  :  ""  If  I 
eaa  save  this  poor  creatnre  from  the 
faeoleaee  of  those  nm^,  it  wUI  be 
weH  worth  the  sofferiag  it  bas  oosl. 
Trast  to  me,  madam,**  he  said,  ia  a 
▼ery  gentle Toice,  to  the  lady:  **I 
wffl  aoi^soilR'  yea  to  be  imnlted  while 
I  live.  Come  with  me,  amdam,  aad 
yoa  sban  not  be  ioterrapted  by  ever 
a  FVeach  profligate  alive."  On  look- 
lig  chMsly  at  the  still  silent  lady  on 
timaofa,  he  was  starUed  at  reeog- 
•islag  a  dress  with  which  he  was  well 
aeqaainted. 

^  In  the  aame  of  heaven!**  besaid, 
**I  adjare  yon  to  tell  aie who  yoa  are. 
▲re  yoa— is  it  possible  can  yoa  be 
sayLoaise!** 

"^  No,  Mr  Bamon,"  replied  Miss 
Uacrecia,  lifting  op  the  veii,.and  tmm- 
iog  round  to  the  trembling  old  maa« 
^^Aad  I  BMHt  say  I'm  considerably 
sf  piised  to  ind  yea  in  a  sitaation 
Ike  this.** 

**  And  yoa,  madam  juai'ielf  bow 
aaasa yoa  here?** 

**  A  voang  gentismaa— nobleman, 
I  ahoald  sa^— ran  off  with  me  hers, 
aad  I  expected   hia 


"And  Lonise  ?"  inquired  tbe  father, 
in  an  agitated  voice — "  when  did  yoa 
leave  her  ?  Ob  !  my  folly  to  let  her 
a  moment  oot  of  my  sight ! — to  reject 
Cecil  Hope  t  —  to  bedtsen  myself  in 
this  ridicokms  fashion  I  Where,  oh 
where  is  I^ionise?** 

''  Here,  sir,**  exclaimed  that  bidy, 
coming  forward  from  b^nd  the  win- 
dow-certain. 

**  Aad  safe?  Ah !  but  I  need  not 
a^.  I  see  two  honest  Boglishmeo 
by  your  side." 

^  And  one  of  tiiem,  sir,  says  he  11 
never  leave  it,**  said  Louise. 

*^  Stop  a  moment,**  replied  tbe  mar- 
quis.   *'  Ho  t  gentlemen,  oome  in.** 

At  his  request  his  companions  en- 
tered the  room. 

^Gentlemen,**  said  the  marquis, 
^^  wheif  I  determined  to  reclaim  my 
ihther*s  sword,  I  expected  to  find  it 
bright  as  Bayard*8,  and  unstained  with 
infamy  or  dishonour.  When  I  wished 
to  resume  my  title,  I  hoped  to  find  it 
a  sign  of  the  heroic  virtues  of  my 
ancestors,  bat  not  a  doak  for  false- 
hood and  vice.  I  warn  yon,  sira, 
yoor  proceedings  will  be  fatal  to  your 
order,  and  to  your  country.  For  my- 
self, I  care  not  for  this  sword,**— he 
threw  it  on  the  ground — ^Hhis  filagree 
I  despise,**— he  took  off  his  star  and 
ribboB— ^*  aad  I  advise  you  to  leave 
this  chamber  as  fast  as  yoa  can  find 
it  convenient.** 

The  French  nobles  obeyed. 

"  Here,  Cocker  1  off  with  aU  this 
silk  and  satin  ;  get  me  my  gaiters 
and  fiaxen  wig ;  and,  please  Heaven, 
one  week  will  see  us  hi  the  little  room 
above  the  warehouse.** 

**  Preparing,  sir,  to  move  into  Hert- 
fordshire ?  **  inquired  Louise,  leaning 
oa  Cecilys  arm. 

**Ay,  my  child;  aad,  in  remem- 
brance of  this  adveature,  we  shall 
hang  up  among  the  pictures  in  the 


Tna  SiPOBD  <w  Hohoub.** 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


112 


Memoirs  o/Kirkaldy  of  Grange. 


[Jan. 


MEMOIRS  OF  KIRKALDT  OF  ORANGE. 


It  must  be  allowed  that  a  perusal 
of  Scottish  history  betrays  more  ano- 
malies than  are  to  be  fonnd  in  the 
character  of  almost  any  other  people. 
It  is  not  without  reason  that  onr 
southern  neighbours  complain  of  the 
difficulty  of  thoroughly  understanding 
onr  national  idiosyncrasy.  At  one 
time  we  appear  to  be  the  most  peace- 
able race  upon  the  surface  of  the 
earth— quiet,  patient,  and  enduring; 
stubborn,  perhaps,  if  interfered  with, 
but,  if  let  alone,  in  no  way  anxious 
to  pick  a  quarrel.  Take  us  in  another 
mood,  and  gunpowder  is  not  more 
inflammable.  We  are  ready  to  go 
to  the  death,  for  a  cause  about  which 
an  Englishman  would  not  trouble 
himself;  and  amongst  ourselves,  we 
divide  into  factions,  debate,  squabble, 
and  fight  with  an  inveteracy  far  more 
than  commensurate  with  the  impor- 
tance of  the  quarrel.  Sometimes  we 
seem  to  have  no  romance ;  at  other 
times  we  are  perfect  Quixotes.  The 
amalgamated  blood  of  the  Saxon 
and  the  Celt  seems,  even  in  its  union, 
to  display  the  characteristics  of  either 
race.  We  rush  into  extremes :  one 
day  we  appear  over-cautions,  and  on 
the  next,  the  perfervidum  ingeniwn 
Scotorum  prevails. 

If  these  remarks  be  true  as  applied 
to  the  present  times,  they  become 
still  more  conspicuous  when  we 
regard  the  troublous  days  of  our 
ancestors.  At  one  era,  as  in  the  reign 
of  David  I.,  we  find  the  Scottish 
nation  engaged,  heart  and  soul,  in 
one  peculiar  phase  of  religions  excite- 
ment. Cathedrals  and  abbeys  are 
starting  up  in  every  town.  All  that 
infant  art  can  do— and  yet,  why  call 
it  infant,  since,  in  architecture  at  least, 
it  has  never  reached  a  higher  matu- 
rity ? — is  lavished  upon  the  structure 
of  our  fanes.  Melrose,  and  Jedburgh, 
and  Ilolyrood,  and  a  hundred  more 
magnificent  edifices,  rise  up  like  ex- 
halations throughout  a  poor  and 
barren  country ;  the  people  are  proud 
in  their  faith,  and  perhaps  even 
prouder  in  the  actual  splendour  of 
their  altars.    A  few  centuries  roll  by. 


and  we  find  the  same  nation  deliber- 
ately undoing  and  demolishing  the 
works  of  their  forefathers.  Hewn 
stone  and  carved  cornices,  tracery, 
mnllions,  and  buttresses,  have  now 
become  abominations  in  their  sight. 
Not  only  must  the  relics  of  the  saints 
be  scattered  to  the  winds  of  heaven, 
and  their  images  ground  into  dust, 
but  every  church  in  which  these  were 
deposited  or  displayed,  must  be  dis- 
mantled as  the  receptacle  of  pollntion. 
The  hammer  swings  again,  but  not 
with  the  same  pious  purpose  as  of 
yore.  Once  it  was  used  to  build; 
now  it  is  heaved  io  destroy.  Aisle 
and  archway  echo  to  the  thnnder  of 
its  strokes,  and,  amidst  a  roar  of  icono« 
clastic  wrath,  the  venerable  edifice 
goes  down.  Another  short  lapse  of 
time,  and  we  are  lamenting  the  vio- 
lence of  the  past,  and  saving  to  prop, 
patch  up,  and  rebuild  what  little  rem- 
nant has  been  spared  of  the  older 
works  of  devotion. 

The  same  anomalies  will  be  fonnd 
if  we  turn  from  the  ecclesiastical  to 
the  political  picture.  Sometimes 
there  is  a  spurit  of  loyalty  manifested, 
for  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  find 
a  parallel.  The  whole  nation  gathers 
round  the  person  of  James  IV. ;  and 
earl  and  yeoman,  lord  and  peasant, 
chief  and  vassal,  lay  down  their  lives 
at  Flodden  for  their  king.  His  suc- 
cessor James  V.,  in  no  respect  un- 
worthy of  his  crown,  dies  of  a  broken 
heart,  deserted  by  his  peers  and  their 
retainers.  The  unfortunate  Mary, 
welcomed  to  her  country  with  ac- 
clamation, is  made  the  victim  of  the 
basest  intrigues,  and  forced  to  seek 
shelter,  and  find  death  in  the  domi- 
nions of  her  treacherous  enemy. 
The  divine  right,  in  its  widest  mean- 
ing and  acceptation,  is  formally  recog- 
nised by  the  Scottish  estates  as  th» 
attribute  of  James  VII. ;  three  years 
afterwards,  a  new  convention  is 
prompt  to  recognise  an  alien.  Half 
a  century  fiirther  on,  we  are  found 
offering  the  gage  of  battle  to  England 
in  support  of  the  exiled  family. 

This  singular  variety  of  mood,  of 


Memoira  and  Adventures  of  Sir  Wm.  Kvrhdldy  of  Orange,  Knight,  <frc.  <tc.    Wm. 
Blackwood  &  Sovs,  Edinbui^h  and  London. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.] 


Memoirs  ofKirkahfy  of  Orange. 


which  the  foregoing  are  a  few  in- 
stances, is  no  doubt  partly  attribut- 
able to  the  peculiar  relationship  which 
existed  between  the  crown  and  the 
principal  nobilitj.  The  latter  were 
not  cousins  by  courtesy  only — thffy 
were  intimately  connected  with  the 
royal  family,  and  some  of  them  were 
near  the  succession.  Hence  arose 
jealousy  amongst  themselves,  a  sys- 
tem of  feud  and  intrigue,  which  was 
perpetuated  for  centuries,  and  a  con- 
stant eflbrt,  on  the  part  of  one  or  other 
of  the  conflicting  magnates,  to  gain 
possession  and  keep  custody  of  the 
royal  person,  whenever  minority  or 
weakness  appeared  to  favour  the 
attempt.  But  we  cannot  help  think- 
ing, that  the  disposition  of  the  people 
o^t  also  to  be  taken  into  account. 
Fierce  when  thwarted,  and  with  a 
m^nory  keenly  retentive  of  injury, 
the  Scotsman  is  in  reality  a  much 
more  impulsive  being  than  his  south- 
em  neighbour.  His  sense  of  justice 
and  ord^  is  not  so  strongl^r  developed, 
but  his  passion  glows  with  a  fire  all 
the  more  intense  because  to  outward 
appearance  it  is  smothered.  His 
ioeas  of  social  duty  are  different  from 
those  of  the  Englishman.  Kindred 
is  a  closer  tie — ^Identit^  of  name  and 
funily  is  a  bond  of  smgular  union. 
Clanship,  in  the  broad  acceptation  of 
the  word,  has  died  out  for  all  practical 
purposes;  chieftainship  is  still  are- 
cognised  and  a  living  principle.  The 
feudal  times,  though  gone,  have  left 
their  traces  on  the  national  character. 
Little  as  baronial  sway,  too  often 
tantamount  to  sheer  oppression,  can 
have  contributed  towards  the  happi- 
ness of  the  people,  we  still  recur  to 
the  history  of  these  troublous  days 
with  a  relish  and  fondness  which  can 
hardly  be  explained,  save  through 
some  undefined  and  subtle  sympathy  of 
mheritance.  Though  the  objects  for 
which  they  contended  are  now  mere 
phantoms  of  speculation  we  vet  con- 
tinue to  fytl  and  to  speak  as  if  we  were 
partisans  of  the  cause  of  our  ancestors, 
and  to  contest  old  points  with  as  much 
ardour  as  though  they  were  new  ones 
of  living  interest  to  ourselves. 

We  have  been  led  into  this  strain  of 
thought  by  the  perusal  of  a  work, 
strictly  auUientic  as  a  history,  and  yet 
as  absorbing  in  interest  as  the  most 
coloured  and  glowing  romance.     Sir 

VOL.  LXV. — ^NO.  CCCXCIX. 


113 

William  Kirkaldy  of  Grange,  the 
subject  of  these  Memoirs,  played  a 
most  conspicuous  part  iu  the  long  and 
intricate  struggles  which  convulsed 
Scotland,  from  the  death  of  James  Y. 
until  the  latter  part  of  the  reign  of 
Queen  Mary.  Foremost  in  battle 
and  in  councU,  we  find  his  name  pro- 
minently connected  with  everv  leading 
event  of  the  period,  and  his  influence 
and  example  held  in  higher  estimation 
than  those  of  noblemen  who  were 
greatly  his  superiors  in  rank,  following, 
and  fortune.  In  fact,  Kirkaldy 
achieved,  by  his  own  talent  and  in- 
domitable valour,  a  higher  reputation, 
and  exercised,  for  a  time,  a  greater  in- 
fluence over  the  destinies  of  the  nation, 
than  was  ever  before  possessed  by  a 
private  Scottish  gentleman,  with  the 
glorious  exception  of  Wallace.  In  an 
age  when  the  sword  was  the  sole 
arbiter  of  public  contest  and  of  private 
quarrel,  it  was  a  proud  distinction  to 
be  reputed,  not  only  at  home  but 
abroad — ^not  only  by  the  voice  of  Scot- 
land, but  by  that  of  England  and 
France — the  best  and  bravest  soldier, 
and  the  most  accomplished  cavalier 
of  his  time.  Mixed  up  in  the  pages 
of  general  history,  too  often  turbidly 
and  incoherently  written,  the  Knight 
of  Grange  may  not  be  estimated,  in 
the  scale  of  importance,  at  the  level 
of  such  personages  as  the  subtle  Moray, 
or  the  vindictive  and  treacherous 
Morton :  viewed  as  an  individual, 
through  the  medium  of  these  truthful 
and  most  fascinating  memoirs,  he  will 
be  found  at  least  their  equal  as  a 
leader  and  a  politician,  and  far  their 
superior  as  a  generous  and  heroic  man. 
His  father,  Sir  James  Kirkaldy, 
was  a  person  of  no  mean  family  or 
reputation.  He  occupied,  for  a  consi- 
derable time,  the  office  of  Lord  High 
Treasurer  of  Scotland,  and,  according 
to  our  author — 

^  Eigoyed,  in  a  very  high  degree,  the 
fkToor  and  confidence  of  King  James  V.; 
and  though  innumerable  efforts  were 
made  by  his  mortal  foe  Cardinal  Beatonn, 
and  others,  to  bring  him  into  disgrace  as 
a  promoter  of  the  Reformation,  they  all 
proved  ineffectual,  and  the  wary  old  baron 
maintained  his  influence  to  the  last."* 

Old  Sir  James  seems  to  have  been 
one  of  those  individuals  with  whom  it 
is  neither  safe  nor  pleasant  to  differ 
in  opinion.    According  to  his  brother- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


114 


ofKiriaU^ifQnm^ 


[Jav. 


in-law,  Sir  James  Mdville  of  HalhOI, 
he  was  **  a  stoute  roan^  who  always 
offered,  bj  single  com  bate,  and  al  point 
of  the  sword,  to  maiDtain  whatever  he 
said;'*  a  te8tiaK>aia&  whieli,  we  ob- 
serve, bas  been  isost  fitlj  selected  as 
tbe  motto  of  ibis  book,  the  sod  having 
been  quite  as  moch  addicted  to  the 
wager  of  battle  as  the  father;  nor, 
though  a  strenooas  supporter  of  the 
BeformatioD,  does  he  appear  to  have 
imbibed  much  of  that  meekness  which 
is  inccdcated  bj  holj  writ.    He  was 
not  the  sort  of  man  whom  John  Bright 
would  have  selected  to  second  a  motkm 
at  a  Peace  Congress;   indeed,  the 
mere  sight  of  him  would  have  caused 
the  voice  of  EUhn  Burritt  to  subside 
into  a  quaver  of  dismaj.    Cardinal 
Beatonn,  that  proud  and  Ucemtions 
prelate,  to  whoee  tragical  end  we  shall 
presently  have   occasion  to  advert, 
was  the  personal  and  bitter  enemy 
of  the  Treasurer,  as  he  was  of  every 
other  independent  Scotsman  who  would 
not  truckle  to  his  power.    But  James 
v.,  though  at  times  too  facile,  would 
not  allow  himself  to  be  persuaded 
into  so  daugerons  an  act  as  coun- 
tenancing   prosecutions    for    heresy 
against  any  of  his  martial  subjects ; 
and,  so  long  as  he  lived,  the  over- 
weening bigotiy  and  arrogance  of  the 
priesthood  were  held  in  check.    But 
other  troubles  brought  the  good  king 
to  an  untimely  end.      James   had 
mortally  offended   some  of  his  tur- 
bulent   nobles,   bj  causing   the  au- 
thority of  the  law  to  be  vindicated 
without  respect  to  rank  or  person. 
He   had    deservedly   won  for  him- 
self the  title  of  King  of  the  Com- 
mons ;  and  was,  in  fact,  even  in  that 
early  age,  bent  upon  a  thorough  re- 
form of  the  abuses  of  the  feudal  sys- 
tem.   But  be  had  proud,  jealous,  and 
stubborn  men  to  deal  with.      They 
saw,  not    without  apprehension  for 
their  own  fate,  that  title  and  birth 
were  no  longer  accepted  as  palliatives 
of  sedition  and  crime;  that  the  in- 
roads,   disturbances,    and  harryings 
which  they  and   their   fathers   had 
practised,    were  now  regarded  with 
detestation  by  the  crown,  and  threat- 
ened with  merited  punishment.  Some 
strong  but  necessary  examples  made 
them   quail  for  their  fbture  supre- 
macy,  and  discontent  soon  ripe     * 
into  something  like  absolute  trea 
Add  to  this,  that  for  a  long  time 


nobilitj  of  Scotland  had  fixed  a  co- 
vetous eye  vpoo  the  great  pos- 
sessions of  thecbmneh.  In  no  conn- 
try  of  Europe,  oonsidering  its  ex- 
tent and  comparative  wealth,  was 
the  diurch  better  endowed  than  in 
Scotland  ;  and  the  endeavours  of  the 
monks,  who,  with  all  their  faults, 
were  not  blind  to  the  advantages  de- 
rivable from  the  arts  of  peace,  had 
greatly  raised  theur  property  in  point 
of  value.  The  confiscations  which 
had  taken  place  in  Protestantised 
England,  whereof  Wobnm  Abbey 
may  be  dted  as  a  notable  ex- 
ample, had  aitmsed  to  the  fallest  ex- 
tent the  cupidity  of  the  rapaeioos 
nobles.  They  longed  to  see  the  day 
when,  unsupported  by  the  regal 
power,  the  church  lands  in  Scotland 
could  be  annexed  by  each  iron-handed 
baron  to  his  own  domain ;  when,  at 
the  head  of  their  armed  and  dissolute 
jackmen,  they  could  oust  the  feeble 
possessors  of  the  soil  fhmi  the  heri- 
tages they  had  so  long  enjoyed  as  a 
corporation,  and  enrich  themselves  by 
plundering  the  consecrated  stores  of 
the  abbeys.  These  were  the  feelings 
and  desires  which  led  most  of  them 
to  lend  a  willing  ear  to  the  preaching 
of  the  fathers  of  the  Reformation. 
They  were  desirous,  not  only  of  less- 
ening the  royal  authority,  but  of 
transferring  the  whole  property  of  the 
clergy  to  themselves ;  and  this  double 
object  led  to  a  combination  which 
resulted  in  the  passive  defeat  of  the 
Scottish  array  at  Solway  Moss. 

Poor  King  James  could  not  bear 
up  against  the  shock  of  this  shameful 
desertion.  Mr  Tytler  thus  describes 
his  latter  moments  : — 

''  When  in  this  state,  intelligeDce  was 
brought  him  that  his  queen  had  given 
bh-th  to  a  daughter.  At  another  time 
it  would  have  been  happy  news;  but 
DOW,  it  seemed  to  the  poor  monarch 
the  last  drop  of  bitterness  which  was 
reserred  for  him.  Both  his  sons  were 
dead.  Had  this  child  been  a  boy,  a  ray 
of  hope,  he  seemed  to  feel,  might  yethave 
visited  his  heart;  he  reeeiTed  the  messen- 
ger and  was  informed  of  the  event  with- 
out welcome  or  almost  recognition;  but 
wandering  back  in  his  thoughts  to  the 
time  when  the  daughter  pf  Bruce  brought 
to  his  ancestor  the  dowry  of  the  king- 
dom, observed  with  melancholy  emphasis. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


iai9.] 


M&ttdtn  Of  SxHnUbf  of  ChrwtffBm 


iiM  MMurck  itretdied  ovt  »• 
kMid  fMT  Ikem  to  kiat;  and  fcgsrdiag 
tliMB  f<Mr  tMM  BOB«iiU  witk  a  look  of 
great  aweetntaa  aod  placidity,  tiumtd 
Eimaelf  apon  the  pillow  and  expired.  Ho 
died  13th  December  1542,  in  the  thirty- 
frat  year  of  his  age,  and  the  twenty-ninth 
of  his  reign;  leaving  an  only  daaghter, 
Hary,  an  infant  of  six  days  old,  who 
Moeeeded  to  the  crown." 

Amongst  those  who  stood  aronnd 
tlutt  memomble  deathbed  were  the 
Lord  High  Treasurer,  joang  William 
Kirkaldj  his  son,  and  Cardinal  Bea- 
toon.  There  was  peace  for  a  moment 
over  the  bodj  of  the  anointed  dead  \ 

Bat  even  the  death  of  a  king  makes 
ft  light  impression  on  this  basj  and 
iDtrigning  world.  The  straggle  for 
masteiT  now  commenced  in  right  ear- 
nest— fer  the  only  wall  which  had 
bhherto  separated  the  contending  fac- 
tions of  the  nobilitj  and  the  clergy 
had  given  way.  Beatonn  and  Arran 
were  both  candidates  for  the  regency, 
which  the  latter  succeeded  in  gaining; 
ftnd,  after  a  temporary  alienation,  these 
two  combined  against  an  inflncnce 
which  began  to  show  itself  in  a  threat- 
enin|r  form.  Henry  VIII.  of  England 
considered  this  an  excellent  opporta- 
nity  for  carrying  oat  those  designs 
against  the  independence  of  the  north- 
em  eonntry,  which  had  been  entertain- 
ed by  several  of  his  predecessors ;  and 
for  that  purpose  he  proposed  to  nego- 
tiate a  marriage  between  his  son 
Edward  and  the  Princess  Mary.  Snch 
an  alliance  was  of  course  decidedly 
opposed  to  the  views  of  the  Catholic 
party  in  Scotland,  and,  moreover,  was 
calculated  to  excite  the  utmost  jealousy 
of  the  Scottish  people,  who  well  under- 
stood the  true  but  recondite  motive  of 
the  proposal.  So  long  as  Beatoun, 
whose  mterest  was  identified  with 
that  of  France,  existed,  Henry  was 
fnlty  aware  that  his  scheme  never  could 
be  carried  into  execution ;  and  ac- 
cordingly, with  that  entire  want  of 
principle  which  he  exhibited  on  every 
occasion,  he  took  advantage  of  their 
position  to  tamper  with  the  Scottish 
barons  who  had  been  made  prisoners 
It  Solway  Moss.  In  this  he  so  far 
ancceeded,  that  a  regular  conspiracy 
was  entered  into  for  the  destruction  of 
the  cardinal,  and  only  defeated  by  his 
extreme  sagacity  and  caution.  It 
will  be  seen  hereafter  that  the  cardi- 
Bal  did  not  fall  a  dctira  to  this  das- 


116 

tftittty  English  plot,  hoi  to  private 
revenge,  do  doubt  augmented  and  !■• 
flamed  by  the  eonsideratioD  of  hie 
arrogance  and  cruelty. 

Beatoun,  one  of  the  most  able  and 
also  dissolute  men  of  his  day,  was  a 
younger  son  of  the  Laird  of  Balfour — 
yet  had,  notwithstanding  every  disad* 
vantage,  contrived  very  early  to  attam 
his  high  positioa.  He  was  hated,  not 
only  by  the  nobility,  hot  by  the  lesser 
borons,  from  whose  own  ranks  be  had 
risen,  on  account  of  his  intolerabto 
pride,  his  rapacity,  and  the  vnscmpu- 
loos  manner  in  which  he  chose  to  exer- 
cise hia  power.  Among  the  barons  of 
Fife,  always  a  disnntt^  and  wrang- 
ling county,  he  had  few  adherents  : 
and  with  the  Kirkaldys,  and  their  re* 
latives,  the  Melvilles,  he  had  an  espe-  ^ 
eial  quarrel  Shortly  after  the  death ' 
of  James,  the  Treasurer  was  dismissed 
from  hia  office,  an  affront  which  the 
**8toiit6  man"  waa  notlikdy  to  forget; 
sod  hia  son,  then  a  mere  youth,  seems 
to  have  participated  in  bis  foelings. 
Bat  the  croelty  of  Beatonn  was  at 
least  the  nominal  cause  which  led  to 
his  destruction.  Wisbart,  the  famoos 
Reforming  preadier,  had  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  the  cardinal,  and  was 
confined  in  his  castle  of  St  Andrews, 
of  which  our  author  gives  ns  the  fol- 
lowing faithful  sketch : — 

^  On  the  rocky  shore,  to  tho  northward 
of  the  venerable  city  of  St  Andrewi, 
stand  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  Episcopal 
palace,  in  other  years  the  residence  of  the 
primates  of  Scotland.  Those  weather- 
beaten  remains,  now  pointed  ont  to  risit- 
ors  by  the  ciceroni  of  the  plaoe,  present 
only  the  fhigments  of  an  edifice  erected 
by  Archbishop  Hamilton,  the  snceesaor  of 
Cardinal  Beatonn,  and  are  ooBewhat  io 
the  style  of  an  antique  Scottish  BSBor- 
hoQse;  hot  very  different  was  the  aspect 
of  that  Tast  bat^tille  which  had  the  prood 
cardinal  for  lord,  and  contained  within 
its  massive  walls  all  the  apportensneea 
requisite  for  ecclesiastical  tyranny,  epicu- 
rean luxury,  lordly  grandeur,  and  military 
defence — at  once  a  fortress,  a  monastery, 
an  inquisition,  and  a  palace. 

*Tbe  sea-mews  and  corraoranta  scream- 
ing among  the  wave-beaten  rocks  and 
luu«  walls  BOW  cmBUing  on  that  bleak 
promoatoryy  and  echoing  only  to  drench- 
iag  sarfy  as  it  rolla  «p  tho  rough  shelviag 
shore,  impoii  a  pectiliarly  desolate  effeot 
to  the  grassy  ruins,  worn  with  the  blaata 
of  the  German  Ocean,  gray  with  tha 
storms  of  winter,  and  the  damp  mistr  of 


Digitized  by 


Gc^^Ie 


116 


Memoirs  ofKhrkaUty  of  Grange, 


[Jan. 


Ifarch  and  April—an  effect  that  is  greatly 
increased  by  the  Tenerable  aspect  of  the 
dark  and  old  ecclesiastical  city  to  the 
sonthwardy  decaying,  deserted,  isolated, 
and  forgotten,  with  its  magnificent  cathe- 
dral, once  one  of  the  finest  gothio  stmc- 
tures  in  the  world,  bnt  now,  shattered  by 
the  hands  of  man  and  time,  passing  rapid- 
ly away.  Of  the  grand  spire  which  arose 
fVom  Uie  cross,  and  of  its  five  lofty  towers, 
little  more  than  the  foundations  can  now 
be  traced,  while  a  wilderness  of  ruins  on 
every  hand  attest  the  departed  splendours 
of  St  Andrews." 

George  Wishart,  the  nnhappj 
preacher,  was  burned  before  the  Castle 
on  the  28th  March  1545,  under  cir- 
cumstances of  pecnliar  barbarity.  We 
refer  to  the  book  for  a  proper  descrip- 
tion of  the  death-scene  of  the  Martyr, 
^  whose  sufferings  were  calmly  wit- 
^nessed  by  the  ruthless  and  impla- 
cable Cardinal.  Bnt  the  avenger 
of  blood  was  at  hand,  in  the  per- 
son of  Norman  Leslie,  Master  of 
Rothes.  This  young  man,  who  was 
of  a  most  fiery  and  intractable  spi- 
rit, had  some  personal  dispute  with 
the  cardinal,  whom  he  accused  of 
having  attempted  to  defraud  him  of 
an  estate.  High  words  followed,  and 
Norman  rode  off  in  wrath  to  the  house 
of  his  uncle,  John  Leslie  of  Parkhill, 
a  moody  and  determined  Reformer, 
who  had  already  vowed  bloody  ven- 
geance for  the  execution  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Wishart.  Finding  him  apt  for 
any  enterprise,  Norman  instantly 
despatched  messengers  to  the  Kirk- 
aldvs  of  Grange,  the  Melvilles  of  Raith 
and  Cambee,  and  to  Carmichael  of 
Kilmadie,  desiring  them  to  meet  for 
an  enterprise  of  ffreat  weight  and  im- 
portance; and  the  summons  having 
been  responded  to,  these  few  men 
determined  to  rid  the  country  of  one 
whom  they  considered  a  murderer  and 
an  oppressor. 

The  manner  in  which  this  act  of 
terrible  retribution  was  executed  Is 
too  well  known  to  the  student  of  his- 
tory to  require  repetition.  Sufilce  it  to 
say  that,  by  a  coup-de-main^  sixteen 
armed  men  made  themselves  masters 
of  the  castle  of  St  Andrews,  over- 
powered and  dispersed  the  retainers 
of  the  cardinal,  and  quenched  the 
existence  of  that  haughty  prelate  in 
his  blood.  William  Kbkaldy  was  not 
the  slayer,  but,  as  an  accomplice,  he 
most  l>ear  whatever  load  of  odium  is 


cast  upon  the  perpetrators  of  the  deed. 
We  cannot  help  thinking  that  our 
author  exhibits  an  unnecessary  degree 
of  horror  in  this  instance.  Far  be  it 
from  us  to  palliate  bloodshed,  in  any 
age  or  under  any  nrovocation :  neither 
do  we  agree  with  John  Knox,  that 
the  extermination  of  Beatoun  was  a 
^*  godly  fact.**  But  we  doubt  whether 
it  can  be  called  a  murder.  In  the 
first  place,  old  Kirkaldy  knew,  on  the 
authority  of  James  Y.,  that  a  list  of 
three  hundred  and  sixty  names,  in- 
cluding his  own  and  those  of  his  most 
immediate  Mends,  had  been  made  out 
by  the  cardinal,  as  a  catalogue  of 
victims  who  were  to  be  burned  for 
heresy.  This  contemplated  atrocity, 
far  worse  than  the  massacre  of  St 
Bartholomew,  might  not,  indeed,  have 
been  carried  into  effect,  even  on  ac- 
count of  its  magnitude  ;  but  the  mere 
knowledge  that  it  had  been  planned, 
was  enough  to  justify  the  Khiuddys, 
and  those  marked  out  for  impeach- 
ment, in  considering  Beatoun  as  their 
mortal  foe.  That  the  cardinal  never 
departed  from  his  bloody  design,  is 
apparent  from  the  fact,  that,  afl^r  his 
death,  a  paper  was  found  in  his  reposi- 
tories, oraaining  that  *^  Norman  Leslie, 
sheriff  of  Fife,  John  Leslie,  father^s 
brother  to  Norman,  the  Lairds  of 
Grange,  eider  and  younger^  Sir  James 
Learmonth  of  Dairsie,  and  the  Laird 
of  Raith,  should  either  have  been  slain 
or  else  taken.**  The  law  at  that  period 
could  afford  no  security  against  such 
a  design,  so  that  Beatoun*s  assassina- 
tion may  have  been  an  act  of  neces- 
sary self-defence,  which  it  would  be 
extremely  difficult  to  blame.  As  to 
the  sacrilege,  we  cannot  regard  that 
as  an  aggravation.  If  a  prelate  of  the 
Roman  Church,  like  Beatoun,  chose 
to  make  himself  notorious  to  the  world 
by  the  number  and  scandal  of  his  pro- 
fligacies ;  if,  with  a  carnality  and  dis- 
regard of  appearances  not  often  exhi- 
bited by  laymen,  he  turned  his  palace 
into  a  seraglio;  and  if  his  mistress 
was  actually  suiprised,  at  the  time  of 
the  attack,  in  the  act  of  escaping  frx>m 
his  bedchamber,  —  great  allowance 
must  be  made  for  the  obtuseness  of 
the  men  who  could  not  understand 
the  relevancy  of  the  plea  of  priesthood 
which  ho  offered,  in  order  that  his 
holy  calling  might  shield  him  from 
secular  consequences.    But  further,  is 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Memoirs  qfKirkdIdy  of  Grange, 


the  hie  of  Wishart  to  go  for  nothing? 
Setting  the  natnral  inflaences  of 
bigotiy  aside,  and  with  every  consi- 
deration for  the  zeal  which  conld^ 
hnrry  even  so  good  a  man  as  Sir 
Thomas  More  to  express,  in  words 
at  least,  a  desire  to  see  the  faggot 
and  the  stake  in  fall  operation — 
what  shall  we  say  to  the  indi- 
Tidaal  who  coald  calmly  issue  hia 
infernal  orders,  and,  in  the  full  pomp 
of  ecclesiastical  vanity,  become  a 
pleased  spectator  of  the  sufferings  of 
ft  human  being,  undergoing  •the  roost 
hideous  of  all  imaginable  deaths  ? 
Tknl^  this,  that  the  brute  deserved  to 
die  in  return;  and  that  we,  at  all 
events,  shall  not  stigmatise  those  who 
killed  him  as  guilty  of  murder.  Poor 
old  Sharpe  was  murdered,  if  ever  man 
was,  in  a  hideous  and  atrocious  man- 
ner ;  but  as  for  Beatoun,  he  deserved 
to  die,  and  his  death  was  invested 
with  a  sort  of  judicial  sanction,  hav- 
ing been  perpetrated  in  presence  of 
the  sheriff  of  the  bounds. 

The  tidings  of  this  act  of  vengeance 
spread,  not  only  through  Scotland,^ 
but  through  Europe,  like  wildfire. 
According  as  men  differed  in  religious 
faith,  they  spoke  of  it  either  with 
horror  or  exultation.  Even  the  most 
moderate  of  the  reforming  party  were 
alow  to  blame  the  deed  which  freed 
them  from  a  bloody  persecutor ;  and 
Sir  David  Lindesay  of  the  Mount,  the 
witty  and  satirical  scholar,  did  not 
characterise  it  more  severely  than  as 
expressed  in  the  following  verses : — 

**  Am  for  Ui«  eardinftl,  I  grant 

He  iPM  the  man  we  well  might  want ; 

Qod  will  foigive  it  soon. 
Bat  of  a  troth,  the  tooth  to  say. 
Although  the  loon  he  well  away, 

The  deed  WM/ouUy  done.'' 

Meanwhile  the  conspirators  had  con- 
ceived the  daring  scheme  of  holding 
the  castle  of  St  Andrews  against  all 
comers,  and  of  setting  the  authority 
of  the  regent  at  defiance.  They  cal- 
culated upon  receiving  support  from 
England,  in  case  France  thought  fit 
to  mterfere ;  and  perhaps  they  ima- 
gined that  a  steady  resistance  on  theur 
part  might  excite  a  general  insur- 
rection in  Scotland.  Besides  this, 
they  had  retained  in  custody  the  son 
and  heir  of  the  Regent  Arran,  whom 
they  had  found  in  the  castle,  and  who 
was  a  valuable  hostage  in  their  hands. 


117 

The  force  they  could  command  was 
not  great.  Amongst  others,  John 
Knox  joined  them  with  his  three 
pupils ;  several  Fife  barons  espoused 
their  cause ;  and  altogether  they  mus- 
tered about  one  hundred  and  fifty 
armed  men.  This  was  a  small  body, 
but  the  defences  of  the  place  were 
more  than  usually  complete,  and  they 
were  well  mnnimented  with  artillery. 
Accordingly,  though  formally  sum- 
moned, they  peremptorily  renised  to 
surrender. 

John  Knox,  when  he  entered  the 
castle»  was  probably  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  joining  a  com- 
pany of  men,  serious  in  their  deport- 
ment, rigid  in  their  conversation,  and 
self-denying  in  their  habits.  If  so, 
he  must  very  soon  have  discovered 
his  mistake.  The  young  Reforming 
gentry  were  not  one  whit  more  scrupu- 
lous than  theur  Catholic  coevals: 
Norman  Leslie,  though  brave  as  steel, 
was  a  thorough- paced  desperado;  and, 
from  the  account  given  by  our  author 
of  the  doings  at  St  Andrews,  it  may 
easily  be  understood  how  uncongenifd 
such  quarters  must  have  been  to  the 
stem  and  ascetic  Reformer. 

Arran  had  probably  no  intention  of 
pushing  matters  to  extremity,  though 
compelled,  for  appearance*  sake,  to 
invest  the  fortress.  After  a  siege  of 
three  weeks  it  remained  unreduced ; 
and  a  pestilence  which  broke  out  in 
the  town  of  St  Andrews,  afforded  the 
regent  a  pretext  for  agreeing  to  an 
armistice.  Hitherto  the  conspirators 
had  received  the  countenance  and  sup- 
port of  Henry  VIII.,  who  remitted 
them  large  sums  from  time  to  time, 
and  promised  even  more  active  assis- 
tance. But  this  never  arrived.  Death 
at  last  put  a  stop  to  the  bereavements 
of  this  unconscionable  widower ;  and 
thereupon  the  French  court  de- 
spatched a  fleet  of  one- and- twenty 
vessels  of  war,  under  the  command  of 
Leon  Strozsio— a  famous  Florentine 
noble,  who  had  risen  in  the  Order  of 
the  Hospital  to  the  rank  of  Prior  of 
Capua — for  the  purpose  of  reducing 
the  stubborn  stronghold  of  heresy. 
Strozzio^s  name  was  so  well  known  as 
that  of  a  most  skilful  commander  and 
tactician,  and  the  weight  of  the  ord- 
nance he  brought  with  him  was  so 
great,  that  the  besieged  had  no  hope 
of  escaping  this  time ;  yet,  on  being 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


118 

flommoned,  Uiej  replied,  with  Um  most 
VBdaatitad  braverj,  that  they  would 
defend  Ihe  castie  against  the  united 
powera  of  Scotland,  Eegland,  and 
France.  With  such  resoKite  ebarae- 
tere  as  these,  it  was  no  use  to  parley 
fortlier;  and  the  Prior  aceordin^^x 
set  about  his  task  with  a  dexterit/ 
which  pnt  to  ahanie  the  feeble  tactics 
of  Arran. 


Mtmain  ^JBkMd^  qfOrtmge. 


[Jam 


'' Bjr  sea  and  land  the  aiego  w 
with  great  fury.  From  the  ramparts  of 
the  Abbey  Church,  from  the  college,  and 
other  places  in  the  adjoining  streets,  the 
French  and  Scottish  cannoneers  main- 
tained a  perpetual  cannonade  upon  the 
castle.  Thc«e  eoldiefB  who  manned  the 
steeples  and  8t  Sstrador's  tower  occupied 
such  an  elevation,  that»  by  depresang 
tiieir  cannon,  they  i^ot  down  into  the 
inner  quadrangle  of  the  castle,  the  pave- 
ment of  which  oould  be  seen  dabbled 
with  the  blood  of  the  garrison ;  and,  to 
aggravate  the  increasing  distress  of  the 
latter,  the  pestilence  found  its  way  among 
them — many  died,  and  all  were  dismayed. 
Walter  Melville,  one  of  their  bravest 
leaders,  fell  deadly  sick ;  while  watching, 
warding,  and  scanty  fere,  were  rapidly 
wearing  out  ttie  rest;  sikI  John  Knox 
dinned  coutimiaUy  in  theirears,  that  their 
present  perils  were  the  just  reward  of 
their  former  oomipt  lives  and  lioentious- 
ness,  and  ndianoe  on  England  nther  than 
Heaven. 

'' '  For  the  first  twenty  days  of  this  siege,* 
ssdd  he,  'ye  prospered  bravely:  but 
when  ye  triumphed  at  your  victory,  I 
lamented,  and  ever  said  that  ye  saw  not 
what  I  saw.  When  ye  boasted  of  the 
^ckneae  of  yonr  walls,  I  said  they  would 
be  but  as  egg-shells :  when  ye  vaunted, 
England  will  rescue  us — I  said,  ye  shall 
not  see  it;  but  ye  iftiall be ddivered  into 
your  enemies*  hands,  aad  esined  afer  off 
Into  a  stmoge  oountiy.' 

"  This  gloou^  prophe^ing  was  but  cold 
oomfort  for  those  whom  his  precepts  and 
exhortations  had  uigod  to  rebellion,  to 
outlawry,  and  to  bloodshed;  but  their 
affiiirs  were  fest  approaching  a  crisis." 

If  John  Knox  showed  little  jodg- 
uent  in  adopting  this  tone  of  vatict* 
nation,  he  is,  at  all  events,  entitled  to 
flome  credit  for  his  courage — since 
Norman  Leslie  poeeessed  a  temper 
which  it  was  rather  dangerons  to 
aggravate^  and  sMwt  sometimes  have 
been  sorely  tempted  to  toss  theiiQeni- 
ious  Refiinner  into  the  aea. 

'^"*''i  ffairieoa  Anally  aorrmdered  te 
^krouio,  bat  aoi  until  battla- 


ment  and  wall  had  been  breached, 
and  an  escalade  rendered  practicable. 

The  prisoners,  iacluding  Williaa 
^irkaldy,  were  conveyed  feo  France^ 
and  there  subjected  to  treatment 
which  varied  according  to  their  sta- 
tion. Those  of  knightly  rank  weso 
incarcerated  in  separate  fortresses; 
the  remainder  were  chained  to  oars 
in  the  galleys  on  the  Loire.  John 
Elnox  was  one  of  those  who  wereforoed 
to  undergo  this  ignominious  punish- 
ment ;  and  we  quite  agree  with  oar 
author  in  holding  that,  '*  it  is  not  pro- 
bable, that  the  lash  of  the  tax-master 
increased  his  goodwill  towards 
popery." 

William  KIrkaldy  was  shut  up  in 
the  great  castle  of  Mont  Saint  Michel, 
alon^  with  Norman  Leslie,  his  uncle 
of  Parkhill,  and  Peter  Carmichael  of 
Kilmadie.  But,  however  strong  the 
fortress,  it  was  imprudent  in  their 
gaolers  to  lodge  four  such  fiery  spirita 
together.  Tl^y  resolved  to  break 
prison ;  and  did  so,  having,  by  an  in- 
genious mse,  succeeded  in  overpower- 
ing the  garrison,  and,  after  some  vicis- 
situdes and  wanderings,  made  good 
their  escape  to  England. 

After  this  event  there  is  a  blank  of 
some  years,  during  which  we  hear 
little  of  Kirkaldy.  It  is,  however,  an 
important  period  in  northern  histoiy, 
for  it  includes  the  battle  of  Pinkie^ 
the  removal  of  the  child,  Qne^  Maiy, 
to  France,  and  ker  betrothment  to  tht 
Daupliin.  Kirkaldy  seems  not  te 
have  arrived  in  England  until  the 
death  of  Edward  VI,  when  the  Bo- 
maoi{$t  party  attained  a  temporary 
ascendency.  We  next  find  bim  in 
the  service  of  Henry  II.  of  France, 
engaged*  in  the  wars  between  that 
monarch  and  the  Emperor  Charles  Y. 
In  tliette  campaigns,  says  our  author, 
by  his  bravery  and  coodoct,  he  eoon 
attained  that  eminent  distinction  and 
reputation,  as  a  skilfnl  and  gallant 
soldier,  which  ceased  only  with  his  lifb. 

Kirkaldy  was  not  the  only  member 
of  the  stout  garrison  of  St  Andrews 
who  fbnnd  employment  in  the  French 
service.  Singularly  enough,  Norman 
Leslie,  the  h^d  of  the  conspiratom, 
had  also  a  comniuid,  and  was  in  high 
fiivonr  with  the  famons  ConstaUe 
Anne  de  Montmorencie.  His  death, 
which  occonvd  the  day  before  the 
battle  of  Eeuti,  is  thus  graphicaUr 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Mtm^in  ofKiHtakfy^Gnm^t. 


119 


reeo«Bled  hi  thi  Memoirs,  and  it  a 
piotnrs  warUi  pretenring: — 

**  The  dmy  beibre  the  b&ttle,  the  eon- 
•tftble,  percetriog  hy  the  rnmnepurrcs  ef 
the  SpMtth  tro«ps  that  Qwries  meMt  to 
takepoMBWin  ajmruin  heighU,  mhkk 
«l«pe4  kbrapdy  4ewm  to  th&  eaaf  or 
bivoaae  of  the  FroMh,  eent  vp  Leelie's 
Soettish  laaoee  and  ether  horseaieB  te 
ekirmisb  with  these  Imperialiste,  aod 
drive  them  hack.  XelTille,  his  fellow- 
floldier,  thas  deserihes  hin  : — In  view  of 
the  whole  French  army,  the  Master  of 
Rothes,  '  with  thirty  Scotsmen,  rode  np 
the  hill  vpen  a  fair  gray  gelding.  He 
bad,  above  his  coat  of  black  velTet,  his 
«oat  of  ansoor,  with  two  broad  white 
creases,  oae  before  aad  the  ether  behiad, 
with  sieeves  ef  Baii«  aad  a  red  bonaet 
ii|Ma  his  bead,  whereby  he  was  seen  aad 
knows  afar  off  by  the  ooiMtable,  the  Duke 
d'Eugliietty  and  the  Prince  of  Cond^' 
Hiis  party  was  diminished  to  seven  by  the 
iiine  he  came  within  lance-length  o(  the 
Imperialists,  who  were  sixty  lu  number  ; 
Irat  he  burst  upon  them  with  the  force  of 
a  thnnderboU,  escaping  the  fire  of  their 
hand-eaUerins,  whkh  they  discharged 
iaaessantly  against  bha.  He  etrack  five 
fivm  their  saddles  with  his  long  lauee, 
befun  it  brake  iata  eplinterd ;  tliea,  draw- 
ing bis  sword,  he  nisbed  again  aad  agata 
aaoag  them,  with  the  heedless  bravery 
Cur  which  he  had  ever  been  distinguished. 
At  the  critical  moment  of  this  unequal 
eoute»t,  of  seveu  Scottish  kuighu  against 
sixty  Spaniards,  a  troop  of  Imperial  spear- 
sen  were  hastily  riding  alung  the  hill  to 
Join  in  the  encounter.  By  this  time 
Leirfte  had  reeeived  several  bullets  In  hts 
perewa  ;  and,  finding  himself  auable  le 
«Mitiaae  the  oonfiiet  Wager,  be  dashed 
ep«n  into  bis  berse,  galluped  back  U  the 
«MslaMe,aad  fell,  faint  aad  exbansted* 
frees  his  saddle,  with  the  bloed  pouring 
tlirvugh  his  butaiidied  armour  on  the 
inrC 

"  By  Che  king's  desire  he  was  im- 
snediately  borne  to  the  royal  tent,  where 
the  Duke  d*Enghien  and  Prince  Luuis  of 
Cmd^  remarked  to  Henry,  that  *  Hector 
oTTroy  had  not  behaved  more  valiantly 
ibaa  Norman  Leelie.' 

"^  fle  highly  did  that  brave  prinoe  valne 
Weriann  Leslie,  and  no  greaUy  <fid  hede- 
ptiNW  his  death,  that  all  the  eurvivets«f  his 
Soottiidi  troop  ef  iauoes  were»  «i»4er 
Crichtea  of  Brun«tane,  eetit  back  to  their 
own  country,  laden  irith  rewards  and 
hoiionrs  ;  and,  by  his  influeuce,  such  as 
were  ezflas  were  restored  by  the  regent 
to  their  estates  and  possessions,  as  a  re- 
cempense  for  their  valour  en  the  frontiers 
•r  PlaMders." 

Kirkaldj  seems  to  lisve  reinalDed 


ia  Fraoee  until  the  mrfoitttmite  deaA 
of  Henry  IL,  who  wm  aecklMCalljr 
killed  in  a  towDafneat.  llie  estima- 
tion in  wbieb  he  was  held,  after  his 
aobievomenta  in  the  wars  of  Fieardy, 
maj  be  learned  from  the  following 
oontemporarj  testimony: — 

"I  beard  Henry  11.,-  Melrille 
states,  ^potat  nato  him  and  say — 
*  Yoader  is  <me  ol  the  most  Taliant 
men  of  oar  age.' "  And  the  same 
writer  meatioas  "^that  the  proud  old 
Moutmorencie,  the  great  constable  of 
Fi*auce,  treated  the  exiled  Kirkaldy 
with  such  defereace  that  be  never 
addressed  him  with  his  head  covered." 
This  was  high  tribute*  when  paid  to 
a  soldier  then  under  thirty  years  of 
age. 

Ten  years  after  he  had  been  con- 
Teyed  a  prisoner  from  St  Andrews 
on  board  tb«  Frendi  galley,  Kn-kaldy 
retnrned  tu  Scotland,  but  not  to  repose 
nuder  the  laurels  be  had  already  won. 
Suou  after  this  we  find  him  married, 
in  possetisiun,  through  tlie   death  of 
his  lather,  ol'  bis   aucestral  estates, 
the  iMtimata  friend  of  Maitland  of 
Lethhigton  and  td'  Lord  James,  afterw 
wards   the  Regent   Moray,   and    a 
stat^  supporter  of  the  lyirds  of  the 
Congregation.    This  period  fhniishcs 
to  OS  oue  of  the  most  melancholy 
chapters  of  ScoUish  history.    Mary 
ot  Guise,  the  queen-regent,  oa  the  one 
baud,    was  resolute    to    put    down 
the  growing   here:*y ;   on  the  other, 
the  landed  nobility  were  determined  to 
overthrow  the  Catholic  church.  Knox, 
who  had  by  this  time  returned  from 
France,  aud  other  Reformed  preachers, 
did  their  ntmost  to  fan  the  flame; 
and  the  result  was  that  mdsDcholr 
work  of  inccudiarism  and  ruin,  whioi 
men  of  all  parties  must  bitterly  de- 
plore.   Then  came  the  French  auxi- 
liaries  under   ITOtsel,  wasting  the 
land,   raragtng   the  states  of  the 
Protestants,  aud  burning  their  houses 
and  TilUges-,  a  savsj^  mode  of  war- 
fare,  from  which   Kirttsldy  sutfered 
much— Fife    baring    been    pillaged 
from  one  end  to  the  other— but  for 
which  he  exacted  an  ample  rengesnce. 
The  details  of  ^his  partisan  warfare 
are  given  with  much  mtnutene-t^,  but 
great  j*pirit,  by  the  chronicler ;  and  it 
did  not  cease  nntil  the  death  of  Mary 

of  Gnbje.  

A  new  Tictks  was  now  to  be  oflerea 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


120 

to  the  distempered  spirit  of  the  age : 
on  the  19th  August  1561,  the  young 
Queen  Mary  arrived  at  Leitb.  She 
was  then  in  the  nineteenth  year  of 
her  age,  and  endowed  with  all  that 
surpassing  loveliness  which  was  at 
once  her  dower  and  her  misfortune. 
Her  arrival  was  dreaded  by  the 
preachers,  who  detested  the  school  in 
which  she  had  been  educated,  and  the 
influence  she  might  be  enabled  to  ex- 
ercise ;  but  the  great  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple hailed  her  coming  with  acclama- 
tions of  unfeigned  delight : — 

"Despite  the  efforts  of  these  dark- 
browed  Reformers,  agitated  by  the 
memory  of  her  good  and  gallant  &ther, 
— the  king  of  the  poor— by  that  of  her 
thirteen  years*  absence  from  them,  and 
stirred  by  that  inborn  spirit  of  loyalty 
which  the  Scots  possessed  in  so  intense 
a  degree,  the  people  received  their  beau- 
tiful queen  with  the  utmost  enthusiasm, 
and  outvied  each  other  in  her  praise. 

"  Her  mothei^s  dying  advice  to  secure 
the  support  of  the  IVotestants,  and  to 
cultivate  the  friendship  of  their  leaders, 
particularly 'Maitland  of  Lethington  and 
'Kirkaldy  of  Orange,  whom  the  Con- 
stable de  Montmorencie  had  named  the 
first  soldier  in  Europe/  had  been  fiuth- 
fiilly  conveyed  to  Mary  in  France  by  the 
handsome  young  Count  de  Mardguea,  the 
Sieur  de  la  Brosse,  the  Biehop  of  Amiens, 
and  others,  who  had  witnessed  the  last 
moments  of  that  dearly-loved  mother  in 
the  castle  of  Ekiinburgh ;  and  Mary 
treasured  that  advice  in  her  heart — but 
it  availed  Her  not"* 

Hurried  on  by  her  evil  destiny,  and 
persecuted  by  intrigues  which  had 
their  origin  in  the  fertile  brain  of 
Elizabeth,  Mary  determined  to  be- 
stow her  hand  upon  Damley,  a  weak, 
dissolute,  and  foolish  boy,  whose  only 
recommendations  were  his  birth  and 
his  personal  beauty.  Such  a  mar- 
riage never  could,  under  any  circum- 
stances, have  proved  a  happy  one. 
At  that  juncture  it  was  peculiarly 
unfortunate,  as  it  roused  the  jealousy 
of  the  house  of  Hamilton  against  that 
of  Lennox ;  and  was  further  bitterly 
opposed  by  Moray,  a  cold,  calculating, 
selfish  man,  who  concealed,  under  an 
appearance  of  zeal  for  the  Protestant 
faith,  the  most  restless,  unnatural, 
and  insatiable  ambition.  Talents  he 
did  possess,  and  of  no  ordinary  kind : 
above  all,  he  was  gifted  with  the 
faculty  of  imposing  upon  men  more 


Memoirs  ofKitkaUty  of  Grange. 


[Jan. 


open  and  honourable  than  himself. 
l6iox  was  a  mere  tool  in  his  hands : 
Kirkaldy  of  Grange  regarded  him  as 
a  pattern  of  wisdom.  For  years,  this 
straightforward  soldier  surrendered 
his  judgment  to  the  hvpocrite,  and, 
unfortunately,  did  not  detect  his  mis- 
take until  the  Queen  was  involved  in 
a  mesh  from  which  extrication  was 
impossible.  Moray's  first  attempt  at 
rebellion  proved  an  arrant  failure: 
the  people  refused  to  join  his  standard, 
and  he,  with  the  other  leading  insur- 
gents, was  compelled  to  seek  refuge 
in  England. 

All  might  have  gone  well  but  fof 
the  folly  of  the  idiot  Damley.  No 
long  period  of  domestic  intercourse 
was  requisite  to  convince  the  unfortu- 
nate Queen  that  she  had  thrown 
away  her  affections,  and  bestowed  her 
hand  upon  an  individual  totally  inca- 
pable of  appreciating  the  one,  and 
utterly  unworthy  of  the  other.  Dam- 
ley was  a  low-minded,  fickle,  and 
imperious  fool-^ vicious  as  a  colt,  ca* 
pricious  as  a  monkey,  and  stubborn 
as  an  Andalusian  mide.  Instead  of 
showing  the  slightest  gratitude  to  his 
wife  and  mistress,  for  the  preference 
which  had  raised  him  firom  obscurity 
to  a  position  for  which  kings  were 
suitors,  he  repaid  the  vast  boon  by  a 
series  of  petty  and  unmanly  persecu- 
tions. He  aimed  to  l>e  not  only 
prince-consort,  but  master ;  and  be- 
cause this  was  denied  him,  he  threw 
himself  precipitately  into  the  counsels 
of  the  enemies  of  Mary.  It  was  not 
diflicult  to  sow  the  seeds  of  jealousy 
in  a  mind  so  well  prepared  to  receive 
them;  and  Riocio,  the  Italian  secre- 
tary, was  marked  out  by  Ruthven 
and  Morton,  the  secret  adherents  of 
Moray,  as  the  victim.  Even  this 
scheme,  though  backed  byDaraley^ 
might  have  miscarried,  had  not  Manr 
been  driven  into  an  act  which  roused, 
while  it  almost  justified,  the  worst 
fears  of  the  Protestant  party  in  Scot- 
land. This  was  her  adhesion  to  the 
celebrated  Roman  Catholic  League^ 
arising  from  a  coalition  which  bad 
been  concluded  between  France, 
Spain,  and  the  Emperor,  for  the  de- 
straction  of  the  Protestant  cause  in 
Europe.  "  It  was,"  says  Tytler,  **  a 
design  worthy  of  the  dark  and  unscru- 
pulous politicians  by  whom  it  had 
'  been  planned— Catherine  of  Medicii^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Memoirs  o/Kirkakfy  of  Orange. 


md  the  Duke  of  Ahra.  In  the  sum- 
mer of  the  preoedhig  year,  the  qneen- 
dowager  of  France  and  Alva  had  met 
at  Bayonne,  dnring  a  progress  in 
which  she  condncted  her  youthful  son 
and  soyereign,  Charles  K.,  through 
the  sonthem  proyinces  of  his  king- 
dom; and  there,  whilst  the  court  was 
dissolved  in  pleasure,  those  secret 
conferences  were  held  which  issued  in 
the  resolution  that  toleration  must  be 
at  an  end,  and  that  the  only  safety 
for  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  was  the 
extermination  of  its  enemies."  To 
this  document,  Mary,  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  Ricdo,  who  was  in  the  interest 
of  Rome,  and  who  really  possessed 
eonriderable  influence  with  his  mis- 
tress, affixed  her  siffnature.  The  bond 
was  abortive  for  its  ostensible  pur- 
poses, but  it  was  the  death-warrant 
of  the  Italian  secretary,  and  ultimately 
of  the  Queen. 

It  is  not  our  province  to  usurp  the 
Ihnctions  of  the  historian,  and  there- 
fore we  pass  willingly  over  that  intri- 
cate portion  of  history  which  ends  with 
the  murder  of  Damley.  It  was  noto- 
riously the  work  of  Bothwell,  but  not 
his  alone,  for  Lethington,  Huntly, 
and  Argyle,  were  also  deeply  implicat- 
ed. Bi^well  now  stands  forward  as  a 
prominent  character  of  the  age.  He 
was  a  bold,  reckless,  desperate  adven- 
turer, with  little  to  recommend  him 
save  personal  daring,  and  a  fidelity  to 
his  mistress  which  hitherto  had  re- 
mained unshaken.  Lethington,  in  all 
probability,  merely  regarded  him  as 
an  instilment,  but  Bothwell  had  a 
higher  aim.  With  daring  ambition, 
he  aimed  at  the  possession  of  the  per- 
son of  Mary,  and  actually  achieved 
his  purpose. 

This  unhappy  and  most  unequal 
union  roused  the  ire  of  the  Scottish 
nobles.  Even  such  of  them  as,  hi- 
timidated  by  the  reckless  character  of 
Bothwell,  had  sworn  to  defend  him  if 
impeached  for  the  slaughter,  and  had 
recommended  him  as  a  fitting  match 
lor  Mary,  now  took  up  arms,  under  the 
pretext  that  he  had  violently  abducted 
their  sovereign .  We  fear  it  cannot  be 
asserted  with  truth  that  much  violence 
was  used. .  Poor  Queen  Mary  had 
found,  by  bitter  experience,  that  she 
could  hajdly  depend  upon  one  of  her 
principal  subjects.  Damley^  Moray, 
Morton,  Lethington,  and  Airan,  each 


121 

had  betrayed  her  in  turn;  every- 
where her  steps  were  surrounded  by  a 
net  of  the  blackest  treachery  :  not  one 
true  heart  seemed  left  to  beat  with 
loyalty  for  its  Queen.  Elizabeth,  with 
fiendish  malice,  was  goading  on  her 
subjects  to  rebellion.  The  Queen  of 
England  had  determined  to  ruin  the 
power  of  her  sister  monarch  ;  the 
elderly  withered  spinster  detested  the 
young  and  blooming  mother.  Why, 
tden,  should  it  be  matter  of  great 
marvel  to  those  who  know  the  acnte- 
ness  of  female  sensibility,  if,  in  the 
hour  of  desertion  and  desolation,  Mary 
should  have  allowed  the  weakness  ot 
the  woman  to  overcome  the  pride  of 
the  sovereign,  and  should  have  opposed 
but  feeble  resistance  to  the  advances 
of  the  only  man  who  hitherto  had 
remained  stanch  to  her  cause,  and 
whose  arm  seemed  strong  enough  to 
insure  her  personal  protection  ?  It  is 
not  the  first  time  that  a  daring  villain 
has  been  taken  for  a  hero  by  a  dis- 
tressed and  persecuted  woman. 

But  Bothwell  had  no  fiiends.  The 
whole  of  the  nobles  were  against  him ; 
and  the  Commons,  studiously  taught 
to  believe  that  Mary  was  a  consenting 
party  to  Damley's  death,  were  hostile 
to  their  Queen.  Kirkaldy,  at  the  in- 
stance of  Moray,  came  over  from  his 
patrimonial  estates  to  join  the  confe- 
derates, and  bis  first  feat  in  arms  was 
an  attack  on  Borthwick  Castle,  from 
which  Bothwell  and  the  Queen  escaped 
with  the  utmost  difficulty.  Then 
came  the  action,  if  such  it  can  be 
called,  of  Carbeny  Hill,  when  Both- 
well  challenged  his  accusers  to  single 
combat — a  defiance  which  was  accept- 
ed by  Lord  Undesay  of  the  Byres,  but 
prevented  from  being  brought  to  the 
test  of  combat  by  the  voluntary 
submission  of  the  Queen.  Seeing  that 
her  forces  were  utterly  inadequate  to 
oppose  those  of  the  assembled  nobles, 
she  sent  for  Sir  William  Kirkaldy  of 
Grange,  as  a  knight  in  whose  honour 
she  could  thoroughly  confide,  and, 
after  a  long  interview,  agreed  to  pass 
over  to  the  troops  of  the  confederates, 
provided  they  wonld  again  acknow- 
ledge and  obey  her  as  their  sovereign. 
This  being  promised,  she  took  her  last 
leave  of  Bothwell,  and  her  first  step 
on  the  road  which  ultimately  brought 
her  to  Lochleven. 

We  must  refer  our  readers  to  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


123 


Mmmmn  0/ KmUUty  ef  Qrm^. 


[J« 


volame  for  the  spirited  eeooant  e^ 
these  events,  and  of  the  expedi- 
tioa  UDdertakem  bj  Kirkaldj  in 
imrsait  of  Bothwell,  his  narrow  es- 
capes, and  sea-fights  amonf  the 
shores  of  Shetland,  and  the  eaptore 
of  the  fogicive's  vessel  on  the  coast  of 
Norway.  Neither  wiU  onr  space  per- 
mit ns  to  dwell  npoa  the  particnian 
of  the  battle  of  Langside,  that  last 
aotioB  haaarded  and  lost  by  the  adhe- 
rents of  Qneen  Marjt  jnst  after  her 
escape  from  Lochleven,  and  before 
she  quitted  the  SeoUish  soil  for  ever. 
Bat  for  the  tacti^  of  Kirkaldy,  the 
iasae<^that  fight  imght  have  been  dif- 
ferent ;  and  deeply  is  it  to  be  regretted 
that,  before  that  time,  the  eyes  of  the 
Knight  of  Grange  had  not  been  opened 
to  the  perfidy  of  Moray,  whom  he 
loved  loo  trustingly,  and  served  far  too 
welL  It  was  only  after  Mary  was  in 
the  power  of  Elisabeth  that  he  knev 
how  mnch  she  had  been  betrayed. 

Under  the  regency  of  Moray,  Kir- 
kaldy  held  the  post  of  governor  of  the 
castle  of  Edinburgh,  and  retained  it 
ontii  the  fortress  went  down  before  the 
battery  of  the  English  cannon. 

He  was  also  elected  Lord  Provost 
of  Edinburgh— a  dignity  which,  be- 
fore chat  time,  had  been  held  by  the 
highest  nobles  of  the  land,  bat  whicK 
has  since  deteriorated  under  the  in- 
flaence  of  the  Union,  and  bungled  acts 
of  corporation.  He  was  in  this  posi- 
tion when  he  seems  first  to  have  per- 
ceived that  the  queen  had  been  made 
the  victim  of  a  deep-laid  plot  of 
treachery  —  that  Moray  was  the  areh- 
conspirator— and  that  he,  along  with 
other  men,  who  wished  well  both  to 
their  conntry  and  their  sovereign,  had 
been  nsed  as  instruments  for  his  owu 
advancement  by  the  &lse  and  nnscru- 
polons  statesman.  The  arrest*  of 
Chatelheranlt  and  of  Lord  Uerries, 
both  of  them  declared  partisans  of 
Mary,  and  their  commiital  to  the 
castle  of  Ediabargh,  a  measure  against 
which  Kirkaidy  remonstrated,  was  the 
oariiett  act  which  aroaned  ids  aaspi- 
cions: — 

"  Upon  tfaii,  Mr  John  Wood,  a  pious 
fiooid  of  the  ngwit'4^  ohaenred  to  JUdb- 
aldy,  in  the  trua  spirit  of  his  psrtj; — 

" '  I  marvd,  tu;  thai  you  aro  offended 
at  those  two  being  committed  to  ward;  for 
how  shall  we,  who  are  the  defenders  of 
my  lord  regent,  get  rewards  bat  by  the 
ruin  of  sabh  menl* 


^'Hal'  rejoined  Eakaidy  sternly,  'is 
that  your  hdEiaesB  ?    I  see  nat^t  among 

Chut  envy,  greed,  and  ambition,  whers- 
^  ye  will  wreck  agood  regent  and  ruin 
the  realm ! ' — a  retort  wluch  made  him 
many  enemies  among  the  train  of 
Moray.* 

But  another  event,  which  occurred 
soon  afterwards,  left  no  doubt  in  the 
mind  of  Kirkaidy  as  to  the  natm%  of 
Moray*s  policy*  Maitlaad  of  Lethiog- 
ton,  unquestionably  the  ablest  Scottish 
diplomatist  of  his  time,  but  unstable 
and  shifting,  as  diplomatists  ofU*n  are, 
had  aeoi  cause  to  adopt  very  different 
Wews  from  those  which  he  formeriy 
ptofeased-  WhilstMary  was  in  power, 
he  had  too  often  thrown  the  weight  of 
his  influenoe  and  councfl  against  her: 
no  sooner  was  she  a  fugitive  and 
prisoner,  than  his  loyalty  appeared  to 
revive,  it  is  impossible  now  to  say 
whether  he  was  touched  with  remorse; 
whether,  on  refiectiou,  he  became  con- 
vinced that  he  had  not  acted  the  part 
of  a  patriotic  Scotsman  ;  or  whether 
he  was  merely  led^  through  excite- 
ment, to  launch  himself  into  anew  sea 
of  polttica]  intrigue  This,  at  It^ast,  is 
certain,  that  he  applied  himself,  heart 
and  aont  to  baffle  the  machinatiotta 
of  Etiaatieth,  and  to  deliver  tho 
unhappy  Mary  from  the  toils  ia 
wfaidi  ohe  was  involved.  It  was 
Lethmgton  who  conceived  the  prqjeot 
of  reatoring  Mary  to  liberty,  *iy  bring* 
ing  about  a  msiriage  between  her  and 
the  Duke  of  Norfolk :  and  the  know- 
ledge of  his  seal  on  that  oceanion  in- 
censed Eliiabech  to  the  utmost.  That 
vindictive  queen,  who  bad  always 
found  Moray  nMMt  ready  to  obey  hor 
wishes,  op^ed  a  negotiation  with  hint 
for  the  destruction  of  his  former  friend; 
md  the  regent,  mot  daring  to  thwart 
her^  took  meaaures  to  have  Maitland 
charged,  through  a  third  party,  ef 
direct  pafticipatiou  hi  the  death  of 
Damley,  whereupon  ^his  arrest  fol- 
lowed. 

Kirkaidy,  whe  leved  Maitlaad,  would 
set  allow  dus  nanannrre  to  pans  mi- 
Dotaoed.  He  remeust rated  with  the 
regent  for  taking  such  a  step;  bat 
l£ray  coldly  informed  bim,  that  it  was 
out  of  hte  power  to  save  Lethington 
tfrora  prises.  The  biuiit  siddi^,  ott 
receiving  this  rpply,  sent  hack  a  %ma^ 
sage,  demaudinf  that  the  same  charge 
shauhi  be  prafomd  agalaat  the  £afi 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S49.] 


Memok^  ^  KitkMy  of  QroMgt. 


#f  Morton  and  ArcliiMd  Dooglas; 
and  be  did  more — for,  Maitlmod  having 
been  detained  a  prisoner  in  the  town 
of  Edtnhnrgh,  nnder  coBtodj  of  Lord 
Home,  Kirialdj  despatched  at  night 
a  party  of  the  garrison,  and,  by  means 
of  a  connterfe^ed  order,  got  posses- 
aion  of  the  statesman's  penon,  and 
broQght  him  to  the  castle,  where 
Cha^herault  and  Herriee  were  al- 
ready residing  as  guests.  Next  roora- 
ing,  to  the  consternation  of  Moray,  a 
tminpeter  appeared  at  the  croM,  de- 
manding, in  name  of  Kiriutldy,  that 
process  for  regicide  should  insuintly 
be  commenced  against  Morton  and 
l>ongla8';  and,  says  onr  author, — 

"  Remembering  the  precepts  of  the  stout 
old  knight  his  Either,  who  always  offisred 
'  the  wngle  oombfttft  *  in  m^iir>t^nftn<^  of 
bis  aaMTtioD^  he  o&red  himflelf,  body 
iar  body,  to  fi^^  DougUs  on  fbot  or 
bonehsck ;  whflie  his  prisoner,  the  Lord 
Uerries,  sent,  as  s  peer  of  the  realm,  a 
aimilsr  cartel  to  the  Eari  of  Morton. 
The  challenges  bore^  '  that  they  were  in 
the  council,  and  consequently  art  and 
part  in  the  king's  murder.' 

In  Tain  did  Moray  try  to  wheedle 
Kirkaldy  from  his  stronghold — In  Yaia 
did  the  revengeful  Morton  lay  plots 
and  bribe  assassins.  The  castle  of 
Edinburgh  bad  become  the  rallying 
point  for  those  who  loved  their  queeo. 
An  attempt  was  made  to  ous»t  Kirk- 
kaldy  from  the  provostship ;  but  the 
•tout  bmigbers,  proud  of  their  martial 
bead,  tarucd  a  deaf  ear  to  the  insidi- 
ous sugieestions  of  the  regent.  Yet 
atHl  the  banner  of  King  James  floated 
•pon  the  walls  of  the  castle,  nor  was  the 
authority  of  Mary  again  prodaimtfd  by 
aouod  of  trumpet  until  afttir  the  shot 
4)f  the  injnred  Bothwellhangh  struck, 
down  the  false  and  dangerous  Mi>ray 
la  the  street  of  Linlithgow.  Thes 
the  whole  £Ktiou  of  Chatelherault, 
the  whole  race  of  Uaaulton,  rose  in 
anns,  and  prepared  to  place  thein^ 
•elvee  under  the  gnidaace  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam  Kirkaldy.  The  followiog  ia,  w« 
think,  a  noWe  trait  in  tba  duuaoterof 
4beaiaa:— 

"  The  latter  mourned  deeply  the  un- 
limdy  fiite  of  Moray :  they  had  been  old 
comrades  ia  the  field,  stanch  friends  in 
many  a  rongh  pobtiohl  broil ;  and  though 
they  had  quarrelled  of  late,  be  bad  loo 
amoh  of  the  franknaw  of  his  pi  ufwiion 
«•  maintain  bostili^  to  tbs  dead,  and  no 


xn 

came  to  aae  him  laid  in  his  lant  rfisliiig, 
pbee.  Bi^  lords  bore  the  body  up  St 
Anthony's  loAy  aisle,  in  the  great  cathe- 
dral of  StOUes;  Kirkaldy  preceded  i<^ 
bearing  the  paternal  bamwr  of  Moray 
with  the  royal  arms;  the  Laird  of  Cleish, 
who  bore  the  coat  of  armour,  walked 
beside  him.  Knox  prayed  solemnly  and 
earnestly  as  the  body  was  lowered  into 
the  dust;  a  splendid  tomb  was  erected 
over  hie  remains,  and  long  marked  the 
spot  where  they  lay." 

Lennox  succeeded  Moray  as  regent 
of  Scotland,  but  no  salute  from  the 
guns  of  the  grim  old  fortress  of  £din« 
burgh  greyed  his  inanguratioiL 
Henceforward  Kirkaldy  had  no  com- 
mon cause  with  the  confederates. 
Maitland  had  revealed  to  him  the 
whole  hidden  machinery  of  treason, 
the  scandalous  complexity  of  intrigues, 
by  which  he  had  been  made  a  dupe. 
He  now  saw  that  neither  religion  nor 
patriotism,  but  simply  selfishness  and 
ambition,  had  actuated  the  nobles  in 
rebelling  Hgainst  their  lawful  sove- 
reign, aud  that  those  very  acts  whicb 
they  fixed  upon  as  apologies  for  their 
treason,  were  in  fact  the  direct  con- 
sequences of  their  own  deliberate 
guilt.  If  any  further  corroboration 
of  their  baseness  had  been  required  ia 
order  to  satisfy  the  mind  of  Kirkaldjr, 
it  wan  afforded  by  Morton,  who,  not- 
withstanding tlie  detiauce  so  latelv' 
hurled  at  him  from  the  castle,  solictted, 
with  a  roeanneas  and  audacity  almost 
incredible,  the  assistance  of  the  gover- 
nor to  drive  Lennox  out  of  the  king- 
donu  aud  procure  hia  own  acknow- 
ledgement as  regeut  instead.  It  Is 
ne^less  to  say  that  his  application 
was  re(ui*ed  with  scorn.  Kirkaldy 
now  began  to  doubt  the  sincerity  of 
Knox,  who,  although  with  no  selfish 
motive,  had  been  deeply  implicated  in 
the  cruel  plots  of  the  time  ;  some 
sharp  correspondeuce  took  place,  aud 
the  veteran  Reformer  was  pleased  to 
denounce  his  farmer  pupil  from  the 
pulpit. 

Edinburgh  now  was  made  to  aoffer 
the  lucouveniencea  to  which  every  ctU" 
threatened  with  a  ai«*ge  is  ex|)Ose<L 
The  bui'ghen  began  to  grumble 
against  tbelr  provost,  who,  on  one 
oooaaioa,  sent  a  psrty  to  ret«cne  a 
pri^on4'r  from  the  Tuibooth,  and  who 
always  preferred  the  character  of 
uilitagr   i^vemor  to  that  of  dvlo 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


124 

magistrate.  Knox  thnndered  at  him 
every  Sabbath,  and  doubtless  contri- 
buted largely  to  iucrease  the  differ- 
ences between  him  and  the  uneasy 
citizens.  The  later  might  well  be 
pardoned  for  their  apprehensions. 
Not  only  were  they  commanded  by 
the  castle  guns,  but  Kirkaldy,  as  if 
to  show  them  what  they  might  expect 
in  case  of  difference  of  political  senti- 
ment,— 

"  Hoisted  cannon  to  the  summit  of  St 
Qiles's  loftv  spire,  which  rises  in  the 
middle  of  the  central  hill  on  which  the 
city  stands,  and  commands  a  view  of  it 
in  every  direction.  He  placed  the  artil- 
leiy  on  the  stone  bartizan  beneath  the 
flying  arches  of  the  imperial  crown  that 
surmounts  the  tower,  and  thus  turned 
the  cathedral  into  a  garrison,  to  the 
great  annoyance  of  Knox  and  the  citizens. 
The  latter  wore  also  compelled,  at  their 
own  expense,  to  maintain  the  hundred 
harquebussiers  of  Captain  Melville,  who 
were  billeted  in  the  CasUehill  Street,  for 
the  queen's  service;  and  thus,  amid 
preparations  for  war,  closed  the  year 
1670." 

We  may  fedrly  suppose,  that  the 
cannon  of  the  governor  were  more 
obnoxious  than  a  modem  annuity-tax 
can  possibly  be ;  yet  no  citizen  seemed 
desirous  of  coming  forward  as  a  can- 
didate for  the  crown  of  martyrdom. 
The  bailies  very  quietly  and  very 
properly  succumbed  to  the  provost. 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that 
Edinburgh  was,  in  those  days,  no 
pleasant  place   of  residence. 

Next,  to  the  alarm  of  the  citizens, 
came  a  mock  fight  and  the  roar  of 
cannon,  intended  to  accustom  the 
garrison  to  siege  and  war,  which 
latter  calamity  speedily  commenced 
in  earnest.  No  possible  precau- 
tion was  omitted  by  Kirkaldy, 
whose  situation  was  eminently  criti- 
cal; and  he  had  received  a  terrible 

'  truce, 
on  was 
'  under 
1.  Lord 
igh  to 
I,  areh- 
ide  pri- 
ced by 
.  An 
brtable 

drew 
^inlith- 


Memoira  of  KirhaJidy  of  Grange. 


[Jan. 


gow,  and  the  latter  from  Dalkeith, 
advanced  against  the  city,  then  occu- 
pied by  the  Hamiltons :  skirmishes 
went  on  under  the  walls  and  on  the 
Boroughmuir,  and  the  unfortunate 
citizens  were  nearly  driven  to  dis- 
traction. The  following  dispositions 
of  Provost  Kirkaldy  were  by  no  means 
calculated  to  restore  a  feeling  of  con- 
fidence, or  to  better  the  prospects  of 
trade : — 

"  Ho  loop-holed  the  spacious  vaults  of 
the  great  cathedral,  for  the  purpose  of 
sweeping  with  musketry  its  steep  church- 
yard to  the  south,  the  broad  Lawnmarket  - 
to  the  west,  and  High  Street  to  the  east- 
ward ;  while  his  cannon  from  the  spire 
commanded  the  long  line  of  street  called 
the  Canongate — even  to  the  battlements 
of  the  palace  porch.  He  seized  the  ports 
of  the  city,  placed  guards  of  his  soldiers 
upon  them,  and  retained  the  keys  in  his 
own  hands.  He  ordered  a  rampart  and 
ditch  to  be  formed  at  the  Butter  Tron, 
for  the  additional  defence  of  the  castle ; 
and  another  for  the  same  purpose  at  the 
head  of  the  West  Bow,  a  steep  and  wind- 
ing street  of  most  picturesque  aspect 
His  soldiers  pillaged  the  house  of  the 
regent,  whose  movables  and  valuables 
they  carried  off;  he  broke  into  the  Tol- 
boo^  and  ooxmcU-chamber,  drove  forth 
the  scribes  and  councillors,  and  finally 
deposed  the  whole  bench  of  magistrates^ 
installing  in  the  civic  chair  the  daring 
chief  of  Femihirst,  (who  had  now  become 
the  husband  of  his  daughter  Janet,  a 
young  girl  barely  sixteen ;)  while  a  coun- 
cil composed  of  his  mosstrooping  vassals, 
clad  in  their  iron  jacks,  steel  caps,  call* 
vers,  and  two-handed  whingers,  officiated 
as  bailies,  in  lieu  of  the  douce,  paunchy, 
and  well-fed  buigeeses  of  the  Craims  and 
Luckenbooths." 

The  Blue  Blanket  of  Edinburgh-* 
that  banner  which,  according  to  tradi- 
tion, waved  victoriously  on  the  ram- 
parts of  Acre — had  faUen  into  singular 
custody !  John  Knox  again  fled,  for 
in  truth  his  life  was  in  danger.  Kirk- 
aldy, notwithstanding  their  diffe- 
rences, exerted  his  authority  to  the 
utmost  to  protect  him,  but  the  Hamil- 
tons detested  his  very  name ;  and  one 
night  a  ballet  fired  throngh  his  win- 
dow, was  taken  as  a  significant  hint 
that  his  absence  from  the  metropolis 
would  be  convenient.  Scandal,  even 
in  those  times,  was  rife  in  Edinburgh ; 
for  we  arcvtold  that — 

"John  Low,  a  carrier  of  letters  to  Si 
Andrews,  being  in  the  '  Castell  of  Edin- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Memoirs  ofKirkaidy  of  Grange. 


burgh,  the  Lftdie  Home  would  neids 
threip  in  his  fiice,  thai  Johne  Knox  was 
banist  the  toune^  because  in  his  yard  he 
had  raisit  some  ianctit,  amang^  whome 
their  came  up  the  devill  with  homes, 
which  when  his  servant  Richart  saw  he 
ran  wud,  and  so  deid/  " 

It  is  htrdlj  credible,  bnt  it  is  a 
hci^  that  a  meeting  of  the  Estates  of 
Scotland,  called  bj  Lennox,  was  held 
in  Edinburgh  at  this  very  jnnctore. 
Eiitaldj  occupied  the  upper  part  of 
the  town,  whilst  the  lower  was  in  the 
,  hands  of  the  regent,  protected,  or 
rather  covered,  bj  a  batteiy  which 
Morton  had  erected  upon  the  "  Doo 
Craig,**  that  bluff  black  precipice  to 
the  south  of  the  Calton  Hill.  The 
meeting,  however,  was  a  short  one. 
**Mons  Meg  "  and  her  marrows 
belched  forth  fire  and  shot  upon  the 
town,  and  the  scared  representatives 
fled,  in  terror  of  the  falling  ruins.  A 
sortie  from  the  castle  was  made,  and 
the  place  of  assembly  burned. 

Kirkaldy  now  summoned  and  actu- 
ally held  a  parliament,  in  name  of 
Queen  Mary,  in  Edinburgh.  The 
possession  of  the  Regalia  gave  this 
assembly  a  show  of  legality  at  least 
equivalent  to  that  pertaining  to  its 
rival,  the  Black  Parliament^  which 
was  then  sitting  at  Stirling. 

We  must  refer  to  the  work  itself 
for  the  details  of  the  martial  exploits 
which  followed.  So  very  vividly  and 
picturesquely  are  the  scenes  described, 
that,  in  reacung  of  them,  the  images 
arise  to  our  mind  with  that  distinct- 
ness which  constitutes  the  principal 
charm  of  the  splendid  romances  of 
Scott.  We  accompany,  with  the 
deepest  personal  interest,  the  gallant 
Captain  Melville  and  his  l^rqne- 
bnssiers,  on  his  expedition  to  dis- 
lodge grim  Morton  from  his  Lion*s 
Den  at  Dalkeith — we  follow  fiery 
Claud  Hamilton  in  his  attack  upon 
the  Black  Parliament  at  Stirling, 
when  Lennox  met  his  death,  and 
Morton,  driven  by  the  flames  firom 
his  burning  mansion,  surrendered  his 
sword  to  Buccleugh — and,  amidst  the 
din  and  uproar  of  the  Douglas  wars, 
we  hear  the  cannon  on  the  bastion  of 
Edinburgh  castle  battering  to  mln 
the  gray  towers  of  Merchbton. 

The  career  of  Kirkaldy  was  rapidly 
drawing  towards  its  close.  During 
the  life  of  Mar,  who  succeeded  Len- 


125 

nox  in  the  regency,  the  brave  governor 
succeeded  in  maintaining  possession 
not  only  of  the  castle,  but  of  the  city 
of  EdLaburgh,  in  spite  of  all  op- 
position. But  Morton,  the  next 
regent,  was  a  still  more  formidable 
foe.  The  hatred  between  this  man 
and  Kirkaldy  was  mutual,  and  it  was 
of  the  most  deadly  kind.  And  no 
wonder.  Morton,  as  profligate  as 
cruel,  had  seduced  the  fair  and  false 
Helen  Leslie,  wife  of  Sir  James 
Kirkaldy,  the  gallant  brother  of  the 
governor,  and  thereby  inflicted  the 
worst  wound  on  the  honour  of  an 
ancient  family.  A  more  awful  story 
than  the  betrayal  of  her  husband,  and 
the  seizure  of  his  castle  of  Blackness, 
through  the  treai^ery  of  this  wretched 
woman,  is  not  to  be  found  in  modem 
history.  Tarpela  alone  is  her  rival 
in  infamy,  and  the  end  of  both  was 
the  same.  The  virulence  of  heredi- 
tary feud  is  a  marked  feature  in  our 
Scottish  annals ;  but  no  sentiment  of 
the  kind  could  have  kindled  such  a 
flame  of  enmity  as  burned  between 
Morten  and  Kirkaldy.  From  the 
hour  when  the  former  obtained  the 
regency,  the  war  became  one  of  ex- 
termination. 

Morton,  it  must  be  owned,  showed 
much  diplomatic  skill  in  bis  arrange- 
ments. His  flrst  step  was  to  nego- 
tiate separately  with  the  country  party 
of  the  loyalists,  so  as  to  detach  them 
from  Kirkaldy;  and  in  this  he  per- 
fectly succeeded.  The  leading  nobles, 
Huntley  and  Argyle,  were  wearied  with 
the  war;  -Chatelherault,  whom  we 
have  already  known  as  Arran,  was 
broken  down  by  age  and  infirmities ; 
and  even  those  who  had  been  the 
keenest  partisans  of  the  queen,  Herries 
and  Seton,  were  not  disinclined  to 
transfer  their  allegiance  to  her  son. 
The  treaty  of  Perth  left  Kh-kaldy  with 
no  other  adherents  save  Lord  Home, 
the  Melvilles,  Maitland>  and  his  gar- 
rison. The  city  had  revolted,  and 
was  now  under  the  provostship  of 
fierce  old  Lord  Lindesay  of  the  Byres, 
who  was  determined  to  humble  his 
predecessor.  Save  the  castle  rock  of 
Edinburgh,  and  the  hardy  band  that 
held  it,  all  Scotland  had  submitted  to 
Morton. 

Killlgrew,  the  English  ambassador, 
advised  him  to  yield.  "  No !"  replied 
Kirkaldy.    «' Though  my  friends  have 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


126 


Mmmn^ESrUUfytfCkmf^ 


[J« 


Ibnaken  ne,  and  tiie  dtj  of  Edin* 
borgh  hath  done  so  too,  yet  I  will 
defend  this  castle  to  the  listr  The 
man  whom  Moray  thought  a  tod^  had 
expanded  to  the  balk  of  a  hero. 

Meantime,  English  engineers  were 
ooenpied  in  estimating  the  capabilities 
of  the  castle  as  a  place  of  defence. 
lliey  reported  that,  with  sufficient 
artillefy,  it  might  be  redaoed  in  twenty 
days;  and,  accordingly,  Morton  de- 
termined to  besiege  it  so  soon .  as 
the  period  of  tmce  agreed  on  by 
the  treaty  of  Perth  should  expire. 
Ejrkaldy  was  not  less  resolute  to 
maintain  it. 

At  six  o'dodc,  on  the  momini^  of 
1st  January  1573,  a  wamug  gun  from 
the  castle  annonneflj^  that  the  treaty 
had  expired,  and  the  standard  of  the 
Queen  was  nnforied  on  the  highest 
tower,  amidst  the  acclamations  c?  the 
garrison .  Four-  and-twen ty  hours  pre- 
Tiously,  Eariuildy  had  issued  a  pro- 
clamation, warning  all  loyal  subjects 
of  the  Queen  to  d^>art  forthwith  from 
the  city ;  and  terrible  indeed  was  the 
sitnatioa  of  those  who  neglected  that 
seasonable  warning.  Morton  began 
the  attack ;  and  it  was  answered  by 
an  incessant  discharge  from  the  bat- 
teries upon  the  town. 

Civil  war  had  assumed  its  worst 
form.  By  day  the  cannon  thundered ; 
at  night  the  garrison  made  sorties, 
and  fired  the  city :  all  was  wrack  and 
min.  Morton,  bursting  with  fury, 
found  that,  nnassisted,  he  could  not 
conquer  Grange. 

English  aid  was  asked  from,  and 
given  by,  the  nnscmpulons  Eliaabeth. 
Dmry,  who  had  helped  Morton  in  his 
dishonourable  treason  at  Restalrig, 
mardied  into  Scotland  with  the  Eng- 
lish standard  displayed,  bringing  with 
him  fifteen  hundred  harquebwsiers, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pikemen,  and  a 
numerous  troop  of  gentlemen  volun- 
teers ;  while  the  train  of  cannon  and 
l^^g^^  cs^^  round  by  sea  to  Leith, 
where  a  fleet  of  English  ships  cruised, 
to  cut  off  all  sncconr  firom  the  Con- 
tinent. 

The  English  summons  to  surrender 
was  treated  by  Kirkaldy  with  scorn. 
Up  went  a  scarlet  banner,  significant 
of  death  and  defiance,  on  the  great 
tower  of  King  David.  Indomitable, 
as  in  the  days  of  his  early  youth, 
when  the  oonfedcnitea  of  St  Andiews 


d^ed  the  miverse  in  arms,  tiie  Scot^ 
tish  champion  looked  calmly  from  his 
rock  on  the  preparations  for  the  terrible 
assault. 

Five  batteries  were  erected  around 
the  castle,  but  not  with  impunity. 
The  cannon  of  Kirkaldy  mowed  down 
the  pioneers  when  engaged  in  their 
trenching  operations;  and  it  was  not 
nntO  Trinity  Snnday,  the  17th  of  May, 
that  the  beeiegers  opened  thebr  fire. 

**  At  two  o^do^  in  the  afternoon,  tiio 
five  batteries  opened  a  sinniltaneoiis  die- 
diaige  upon  the  walls  of  the  eastla. 
Brsvdy  and  bri^y  ita  cmnooeerB  re- 
plied to  them,  and  deep-mouthed  Mona 
If  e§^  with  her  vast  bullets  of  bkick  whiiv 
the  thundering  carthouna,  basilisks,  seiv 
pents,  and  culverins,  amid  fire  and  smok% 
belched  Uieir  missiles  firom  the  old  gray 
towers,  showering  balls  of  iron,  lead,  and 
stone  at  the  batteries ;  while  the  inces- 
sant ringing  of  several  thousand  harque- 
busses,  caKvera,  and  wheel-lock  petronels^ 
added  to  the  din  of  the  doable  cannonade. 
From  the  caGbre  of  the  great  Mons  Meg> 
which  yet  frowns  cm-  haihe  over  the  ram- 
partSy  one  may  easily  imagine  the  disniay 
her  enormoui  bullets  must  have  caused 
in  the  ti^enchea  so  fkr  below  her. 

"  For  ten  days  tiie  furious  cannonade 
continued,  on  both  sideB,  without  a  mo- 
ment's cessation.  On  the  19th,  three 
towers  were  demolished,  and  enormoiis 
gaps  appeared  in  the  curtain  waUs;  many 
of  the  castle  guns  were  dismounted,  and 
destroyed  by  the  falling  of  the  ancient 
masonry :  a  shot  struck  one  of  the  largest 
colverins&iriy  on  the  nrazxle,  shattering 
it  to  pieoes^  and  scattering  the  splinters 
aronnd  those  who  stood  near.  A  very 
heavy  battery  wasdischaigedagainst  King 
David's  Tower,  a  great  square  battel- 
house,  the  walls  of  which  were  dark  with 
the  lapse  of  four  centuri^.  On  the  23d, 
a  great  gap  had  been  beaten  in  its  north- 
em  side,  revealing  the  arched  hall  within ; 
and  aa  the  vast  old  tower,  with  its  cannon, 
its  steel-dad  defenders,  and  the  red  ffag 
of  defiance  still  waving  above  its  machico- 
latod  bartinm,  sank  with  a  mighty  crash 
to  shapelosB  ruin,  the  wild  shriek  raised 
by  the  females  in  the  castle^  and  the  roar 
of  the  masonry  ndliag  like  thunder  down 
the  perpendicular  rodu^  were  distinctly 
heard  at  the  distant  English  camp^" 

One  hundred  and  fifty  men  const!- 
tited  the  whole  force  which  Khkaldy 
could  muster  when  he  commenced  his 
desperate  defence.  Ten  times  that 
number  would  searedy  have  sufficed  to 
maintain  an  adeqaate  resistance ;  but 
high  heroic  iralour  in  the  foce  of  death 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1M9.} 


qfSBfhanbfof€hntK§§k 


is  imeniftts  W  utj  oddik  After  % 
Tigoffovs  reaiBtMeet  the  beaegen  rao- 
OMded  in  gtining  poesessm  of  Ike 
8par  or  bloekkowe— an  onter  work 
wUch  was  cuumucicd  betwen  the 
fortroBS  mad  the  to  WB ;  bat  an  attoBpl 
to  scale  the  rod^  en  the  weet  side 
vtterfy  failed. 

The  bloclnde  had  for  some  time 
been  so  Btriet^tbaft  the  garrisoa  began 
tosofierfrom  waatof  provisioM;  boi 
their  sorest  priradon  was  the  loss  of 
water.  Atthoogh  there  are  laige  and 
deep  wdia  in  the  Castle  of  Ediobergh, 
a  remarkable  peculiaritj  renders  them 
asdess  in  the  time  of  siege.  To  this 
daj,  wheacrer  the  canaoa  are  fired^ 
the  water  deserts  tlM  welle,  oosaig 
oot  of  sooie  fissnres  at  the  bottom  of 
the  rode.  There  is,  however,  a  lower 
spring  oa  the  north  side, 'called  81 
Mar|^u^*s  WeU,  and  from  this  the 
garriBOB  for  a  tnae  obtained  a  scanty 
Bapply.  Under  dond  of  niglit  a  sol- 
dier was  let  down  bj  a  rope  from  the 
fortificatioBS,  and  in  this  manner  the 
wliolesome  element  was  drawn.  This 
drcnmstance  beeeme  known  to  tlie 
besiegers;  and  they,  with  diabolical 
cmeltj,  had  recourse  to  the  expedient 
of  poiiwning  the  well,  and  permitted 
the  noctamal  visitor  to  draw  the 
deadlj  liquid  without  molestation. 
The  conBequeuees,  of  course,  were 
fMrfnl.  Many  expired  in  great  agoBj; 
and  those  whose  strength  enabled 
them  to  throw  off  the  more  active 
efiecte  of  the  poison,  were  so  enfeebled 
that  they  coald  hardly  work  the  heavy 
cannon,  or  support  the  fatigue  of 
watching  day  and  night  upoo  the  bat- 
tiements. 

"  Maddened  by  the  miaerieB  they  un- 
derwent, and  rendered  desperate  by  all 
hopes  of  escape  from  torture  and  death 
being  utterly  cut  oS^  a  frenzy  seized  the 
soldiers;  they  broke  into  a  dangerous 
mutiny,  and  threatened  to  hang  Lething- 
ton  over  the  walk,  as  beinr  the  primary 
cause  of  all  these  danger^  from  the  greet 
influence  he  exercised  over  Kirkaldy, 
their  governor.  But  even  now,  when 
amid  Uie  sick,  the  dying,  and  the  dead, 
and  the  mutinous — aurrounded  by  crum- 
bling ramparts  and  dismounted  cannon, 
among  which  the  shot  of  the  beaegers 
were  rebounding  every  instant — with  the 
lives,  honour,  and  safety  of  his  wife,  his 
brother,  and  numerous  brave  and  faith- 
ful friends  depending  on  his  efforU  and 
example,  the  heart  of  the  brave  governor 


117 


At  length,  as  fhrther  resistance  was 
useless,  and  as  certain  movements  on 
the  part  of  the  enemy  indicated  their 
intention  of  proceeding  to  storm  the 
castle  by  the  breach  which  had  been 
effected  on  the  eastern  side,  Kirkaldy 
requested  an  interview  with  his  old 
fellow-Boldier  Drory,  the  Marshal  of 
Berwick.  This  being  acceded  to,  the 
governor  and  his  node,  *^  Sir  Robert 
If elviDeof  Murdocaimie,  were  lowered 
over  the  ruhis  by  cords,  as  there  was 
no  other  mode  of  egress,  the  flight  of 
forty  steps  being  completely  buried  in 
the  same  ruin  which  bad  choked  up 
the  ardiways,  and  hidden  both  gatea 
and  portcullis.  The  CasUehill,  at 
that  time,  says  Melville  of  Kilrenny, 
in  his  Diary,  was  covered  with  stones, 
*  rioning  like  a  sandie  bray  ;*  but  be- 
hind the  breaches  were  the  men -at- 
arms  drawn  up  in  firm  array,  with 
their  pikes  and  helmets  gleaming  in 
the  setting  sun. " 

Kirkaldy's  requests  were  not  un- 
reasonable. He  asked  to  have 
security  for  the  lives  and  property  of 
those  in  the  garrison,  to  have  leave 
for  Lord  Home  and  Maitland  of 
Lethington  to  retire  to  England,  and, 
for  himself,  permission  to  live  unmo- 
lested at  the  estate  in  Fife.  Drury 
might  have  consented,  but  Morton 
was  obdurate.  The  thought  of  hav- 
ing his  enemy  unconditionally  in  his 
hands,  and  the  prospect  of  a  revengo 
delicious  to  his  savage  and  unrelenting 
nature,  made  him  deaf  to  all  applica- 
tions ;  and  the  only  terms  he  would 
grant  were  these, — 

"  That  if  the  aoldJerB  marabed  forth 
witiKNit  tibeir  armowr,  and  submitted  to 
his  demency,  he  would  grant  them  their 
lives ;  but  there  were  te»  persona  who 
must  yield  nnctndUumaJly  to  him*  and 
whose  fate  he  would  leave  to  the  decision 
of  their  unfpire,  Elizabeth.  The  unfor- 
timate  exceptions  were — the  governor. 
Sir  James  Kirkaldy,  Lethington,  Alexan- 
der Lord  Home,  the  Bishop  of  Dunkeld, 
Sir  Etobert  Melville  of  Murdocaimie, 
Logan  of  Restalrig,  Alexander  Qrichton 
of  Drylaw,  Fitarrow  the  oonatabto,  and 
Patrick  WiBhart 

Kirkaldy  returned  to  the  castle,  re- 
solved to  die  in  the  breach,  but  by 
this  time  the  mutiny  had  begun. 
The  soldiers  insisted  upon  a  surrend  r 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


128 

even  more  clamorously  than  before, 
and  several  of  them  took  the  oppor- 
tnnityiof  clambering  over  the  ruins  and 
deserting.  It  would  have  been  mad- 
ness under  such  circumstances  to  hold 
out;  yet  still  Kirkaldy,  jealous  of  his 
country's  honour,  could  not  brook  the 
idea  of  handing  over  the  citadel  of 
Scotland's  metropolis  to  the  English. 

"  Therefore,  when  compelled  to  adopt 
the  expedient  (which  is  supposed  to  have 
originated  in  Lethington*s  tortile  brain) 
of  admitting  a  party  of  the  besiegers 
within  the  outworks,  or  at  least  close  to 
the  walls,  he  sent  privately  in  the  night 
a  message  to  Himie  and  Jordanhill,  to 
march  their  Scottish  companies  between 
the  English  batteries  and  the  fortress, 
lest  the  old  bands  of  Drury  should  have 
the  honour  of  entering  first" 

Next  morning  he  came  forth,  and 
surrendered  his  sword  to  Drury,  who 
gave  him  the  most  solemn  assurances 
that  he  should  be  restored  to  his 
estates  and  liberty  at  the  intercession 
of  the  Queen  of  England,  and  that  all 
his  adherents  should  be  pardoned. 

Drury,  probably,  was  in  earnest, 
but  he  had  either  overstepped  his  com- 
mission, or  misinterpreted  the  mind 
of  his  mistress.  Morton  had  most 
basely  handed  over  to  Elizabeth  the 
person  of  the  fugitive  Eari  of  Nor- 
thumberland, whom  she  hurried  to 
the  block,  nor  could  she  well  refuse 
to  the  Scottish  regent  a  similar  favour 
in  return.  Morton  asked  for  the  dis- 
posal of  the  prisoners,  and  the  gift 
was  readily  granted. 

Three  of  them  were  to  die:  for  these 
there  was  no  mercy.  One,  William 
Maitland  of  Lethington,  disappointed 
the  executioner  by  swallowing  poison, 
a  draught  more  potent  than  that 
drawn  from  the  well  of  St  Margaret. 
The  vengeance  of  Morton  long  kept 
his  body  from  the  decencies  of  the 
grave.  Of  the  two  Kirkaldys,  one 
was  the  rival  of  the  regent,  who  had 
foully  wronged  the  other,  and,  there- 
fore, their  doom  was  sealed. 

One  hundred  barons  and  gentlemen 
of  rank  and  fortune,  kinsmen  to  the 
ffallant  Kirkaldy,  offered,  in  exchange 
for  his  life,  to  bind  themselves  by 
bond  of  manrent,  as  vassals  to  the 
house  of  Morton  for  ever:   money, 


Memoirs  ofEarkaXdy  of  Grange. 


[Jan.  1849. 


jewels,  lands,  were  tendered  to  the 
regent;  but  all  in  vain.  Nothing 
could  induce  him  to  depart  from  his 
revenge.  Nor  were  odiers  wanting 
to  urge  on  the  execution.  The  Re- 
form^ preachers,  remembering  the 
dying  message  of  Knox,  were  da- 
morons  for  the  realisation  of  the  pro- 
phecy through  his  death ;  the  burghers, 
who  had  suffered  so  much  from  his 
obstinate  defence,  shouted  for  his  exe- 
cution ;  only  stout  old  Lord  Lindesay, 
fierce  as  he  was,  had  the  magnanimity 
to  plead  on  behalf  of  the  unfortunate 
soldier. 

Then  came  the  scaffold  and  the 
doom.  Those  who  are  conversant 
with  Scottish  history  cannot  but  be 
impressed  with  the  remarkable  re- 
semblance between  the  last  closing 
scene  of  Khrkaldy,  as  related  in  this 
work,  and  that  of  Montrose,  which 
was  exhibited  on  the  same  spot,  in 
another  and  a  later  age/ 

So  died  this  remarkable  man,  the 
last  of  Queen  Mary's  adherents.  If, 
in  the  course  of  his  career,  we  caa 
trace  out  some  inconsistencies,  it  is 
but  fair  to  his  memory  to  reflect  how 
early  he  was  thrown  upon  the  troubled 
ocean  of  politics,  and  how  difficult  it 
must  have  been,  in  such  an  age  of 
conflicting  opinions  and  desperate  in- 
triffue,  to  maintain  a  tangible  prin- 
ciple. Kirkaldy  seems  to  have 
selected  Moray  as  his  guide—not  pene- 
trating certainly,  at  the  time,  the 
selfish  disposition  of  the  man.  But 
the  instant  he  perceived  that  his  own 
aggrandisement,  and  not  the  w^are 
of  Scotland,  was  the  object  of  the  de- 
signing Earl,  Grange  drew  off  from 
his  side,  and  valorouslv  upheld  the 
cause  of  his  injured  and  exiled  sove- 
reign. 

We  now  take  leave  of  a  work 
which,  we  are  convinced,  will  prove  of 
deep  and  thrilling  interest  to  every 
Scotsman.  It  is  sddom  indeed  that  we 
find  history  so  written  —  in  a  style 
at  once  vigorous,  perspicuous,  and 
picturesque.  The  author's  heart  is 
thoroughly  with  his  subject :  and  he 
exhibits,  ever  and  anon,  flashes  of 
the  old  Scottish  spirit,  which  we  are 
glad  to  believe  has  not  decio^ed  from 
the  land. 


Prmttd  by  WiUiam  Biackueood  and  Sans,  Edinlmiyk, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


BLACKWOOD^S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCCC. 


FEBRUARY,  1849. 


Vol.  LXV. 


CAUCASUS  AND  THE  CO8SACKSI. 


A  HANDFUL  of  men,  frugal,  hardy, 
and  valiant,  snccessMly  defending 
their  barren  monntains  and  dearly- 
won  independence  against  the  reite- 
rated assaults  of  a  nOghty  neighbour, 
offer,  apart  from  political  considera- 
tions, a  deeply  interesting  spectacle. 
When,  upon  a  map  of  the  world's 
eastern  hemisphere,  we  behold,  not 
far  from  its  centre,  on  the  confines  of 
barbarism  and  civilisation,  a  spot, 
black  with  mountains,  and  marked 
'^Chrcassia;'*  when  we  contrast  this 
petty  nook  with  the  vast  territory 
stretching  from  the  Black  Sea  to  the 
Northern  Ocean,  from  the  Baltic  to 
Behring's  Straits,  we  admire  and  won- 
der at  the  inflexible  resolution -and 
determined  gallantry  that  have  so 
long  borne  up  against  the  aggressive 
ambition,  iron  will,  and  immense  re- 
sources of  a  czar.  Sixty  millions 
against  six  hundred  thousand — a  hun- 
dred to  one,  a  whole  squadron  against 
a  single  cavalier,  a  colossus  opposed 
to  a  pifmy— these  are  the  odds  at 
issue.  It  seems  impossible  that  such 
a  contest  can  long  endure.  Tet  it 
has  lasted  twenty  years,  and  still  the 
dwarf  resists  subjugation,  and  con- 
trives, at  intervals,  to  inflict  severe 
punishment  upon  his  gigantic  adver- 
sary. There  is  something  strangely 
excitUig  in  the  contemplation  of  so 
brave  a  struggle.  Its  interest  is  far 
superior  to  tfiit  of  any  of  the  "  little 


wars  '*  in  which  Europe,  since  1815, 
has  evaporated  her  superabundant 
pugnacity.  African  ndds  and  Spanish 
skirmishes  are  pale  affairs  contrasted 
with  the  dashmg  onslaughts  of  the 
intrepid  Circassians.  And,  in  other 
respects  than  its  heroism,  this  contest 
merits  attention.  As  an  important 
section  of  the  huge  mountain-dyke, 
opposed  by  nature  to  the  south-eastern 
extension  of  the  Russian  empire,  Cir- 
cassia  is  not  to  be  overlooked.  On 
the  rugged  peaks  and  in  the  deep  val- 
leys of  the  Caucasus,  her  fearless  war- 
riors stand,  the  vedettes  of  southern 
Asia,  a  living  barrier  to  the  forward 
flight  of  the  double  ea^le. 

Matters  of  pressing  mterest,  nearer 
home,  have  diverted  public  attention 
from  the  warlike  Circassians,  whose 
independent  spirit  and  unflkching 
bravery  deserves  better  than  even 
temporary  oblivion.  Not  in  our  day 
only  have  they  distinguished  them- 
selves in  freedom's  fight.  Surrounded 
by  powerful  and  encroaching  poten- 
tates, thefr  history,  for  the  last  five 
hundred  years,  records  constant 
strugs^es  against  oppression.  Often 
conauered,  they  never  were  fully  sub- 
dued. Their  obscure  chronicles  are 
illumined  by  flashes  of  patriotism  and 
heroic  courage.  Eariy  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  they  conquered  their  freedom 
from  the  Georgian  yoke.  Then  came 
long  wars  with  the  Tartars,  who  could 


Der  Kauhomu  und  da$  Land  d^r  Ko$aktn  in  dm  Jakren  1843  bi$  184^. 
Moam  Waohbb.    2  vols.    Dreodea  und  Leipng,  1848. 

VOL.  LXV.— KO.  COCC.  I 


Von 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


180 


Caucasus  and  the  Cossacks, 


[Feb. 


hardly,  perhaps,  be  considered  the 
aggressors,  the  Circassians  having 
overstepped  their  mountain  limits, 
and  spread  over  the  plains  adjacent 
to  the  Sea  of  Azov.  In  1555,  the 
Bnssian  grand-duke,  Ivan  Yasilivitch, 
pressed  forward  to  Tarki  npon  the 
Caspian,  where  he  plteedt  a  gpxmon^ 
A  (Jircassian  tribe  submitted  to  him ; 
he  married  the  daughter  of  one  of 
their  princes,  anch  assisted  them 
against  the  Tartars.  But  after  a 
Tniile  the  Russians  withdrew  their 
succour ;  and  the  Circassians,  driven 
back  to  the  river  Kuban,  their  natural 
boundary  to  the  north-west,  paid 
tribute  to  the  Tartars,  till  the  com- 
mencement of  the  eighteenth  century, 
when  a  decisive  victory  liberated  them. 
Meanwhile  Russia  strode  steadily 
southwards,  reached  the  Kuban  in  the 
west,  whilst,  in  the  east,  Tarki  aad 
Derbent  fall,  in.  1722,  into  the  haods 
of  Peter  the  Great.  The  tot  of 
Swiatoi-Krest,  built  by  the  conqnemr, 
was  soon  afterwards  retaken,  l^  a 
swarm  of  faoadeal  moaBtaineers  finom 
the  eastern  Caucasus^  It  is  now 
about  seventy  years  since  Rnssian 
and  Circasaan  first  croflaed  swards  in 
serious  war£ara«  A  &naiac  dervlae, 
who  called  himoelf  Sheikh.  Mansour, 
preached  a  religions  wair  against  the 
Mnacovites;  but,  althou^  fbllowed' 
with  enthusiasm,  his  snceesfr  was  not 
great,  and  at  last  he  was  captnred 
and  sent  prisoner  into  the  interior  of 
Russia.  With  his  M  the  furious 
aeal  of  the  Cancasiaas  subsided  for  a 
while.  But  the  Tusks,  who  viewed 
Ghxsassia  as  thebr  main  bulwark 
affainst  tiie  nH)idly  incraasing  power 
ef  their  dangerous  northern  nei^di- 
bom*,  made  mends  of  the  monntun- 


eers,  and  stirred  them  up  against 
Russia.  The  fortified  town  of  Anapa, 
on  the  north-west  coast  of  Circassia, 
became  the  focus  of  the  intercourse 
between  the  Porte  and  its  new  allies. 
The  creed  of  Mahomet  was  actively 
propagated  amongst  the  Circassians, 
whose  relations  with  Turkey  grew 
more  and  more  intimate,  and  in  the 
year  1824  several  tribes  took  oath  of 
allegtance  to  the  soltani  In  1829, 
during  the  war  between  Russia  and 
Turkey,  Anapa,  which  had  more  than 
once  changed  hands  in  the  course  of 
previous  contests,  was  taken  by  the 
former  power,  to  whom,  by  the  treaty 
of  Adrianople,  its  possession,  and  that 
of  the  other  Turkish  posts  on  the  same 
coast,  was  finally  conceded  Hence 
the  chief  claim  of  Russia  upon  Cir- 
casaift^althongh  Ciroassia  had  never 
belonged  to  the  Turksy  nor  been  occu- 
pied by  them  ;  and  firam  that  period 
dates  the  war  that  has  elicited  from 
Russia  so  great  a  display  of  force 
against  an  apparently  feeble,  but  in 
reality  fbrmidEible  antagonist  —  an 
antagonist  who  has  hitherto  baffled 
her  best  generals,  and  jMdud  troopi, 
and  most  skilful  strategists. 

The  tribes  of  the  Caui^sus  may  be- 
oomprehended.  Hat  the  sake  of  sim- 
plicity, under  two  denominations : 
the  Tchericeeses  or  Circasdans,  In 
the  west,  and  the  Tshet^ens  ia  the 
east.  In  loose  newspiH[>erstatementB, 
and  in  the  garbled  reports  of  the 
war  which  remote  potttion,  Rus- 
sian jealousy,  and  the  pecidiariy  in^ 
accessible  character  of  this  Cancasiaii8». 
suffer  to  reach  us,  even  this  broad 
distinction  is  ftequently  disregarded.  **" 
It  is  nevertheless  importent,  at  least 
in  a  physiological  pmnt  of  view  ; 


*  " Amon^Bt  the  CtxxouasaEi  tribes,  the  interest. of  Europe  has  attached  itself 
specially  to  the  CiraaniiBB,  because  they  are  regarded  (in  Urquhart*s  word^  'as 
the  only  people^  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Indian  Ocean,  ever  ready  to  revenge  an 
injury  and  natort  a  menace  proceeding  firom  the  Czar  of  the  Muaoovites/  Urqu- 
hieVs  opinion,  which  is  abared  by  the  great  majority  of  the  European  ptUilic,  is  not 
^uite  correct,  the  CircasBiana  not  being  the  only  combatants  against  Russia.  Indeed 
it  so  happens  that,  for  Uie  last  four  years,  they  have  kept  tolerably  quiet  in  their 
mountains,  contenting  themselves  with  small  forays  into  the  Cossack  coimtxy  on  the 
Kuban ;  whilst  the  warlike  Tshetshens  in  the  eastern  Caucasus,  their  chief,  Chamyl, 
at  dieir  head,  have  given  ihe  Rossian  army  much  more  to  do.  But,  in  the  abaence  of 
Offficial  intelligenee,  and  of  regular  newq[>aper  information  concerning  the  events  of 
the  war,  people  in  Europe  have  got  aoeustomed  to  admiro  and  praise  the  Circas- 
sians as  the  only  defenders  of  Caucasian  fi'eedom  against  Russian  agsression ;  and 
even  in  St  Petersbuxg  the  intelligent  public  hold  the  famous  Chamy[  to  be  chief 
of  the  Carmwiins,  with  wfaetn  he  has  nothmg  Tdiatcver  to  do," — JDm^  Jl^tukemu, 
Ac,  vol.  il  p.  22-3. 


Digitized  bj^ 


and^even  as  regiyniB  the  resutuGe 
offered  to  Riif«%  there  are  diffe- 
reaces  between  the  Eastern  aed  the 
Western  Caucasians.  TW  miUtacy 
tactics  of  both  are  miich.alike,  but  the 
character  of  the  war  varies^  On  the 
banks  of  the  Eaban,  and  on  the  Eox- 
ine  shores,  the  strife  has  never  betti 
so  desperate^  and  so  dangerous  for  the 
Bnaaians,  as  in  Daghestan^  Lesghis- 
tan,  and  the  land  of  the  Tshetshens^ 
The  Abclasiaos,  Mingreliaiis,  and 
ottor  Cireassian  tribes^  dwelling^  on 
the  sovthem  slopes  of  Caucasus,  and 
OH  the  margin  of  tiie  Black  Sea,  are 
of  more  peaceable  and  passire  charac- 
ter than  their  brethren  to  the  North 
and  East  The  Tshetshens,  by  far 
the  nKMt  warUke  and  enterprising  of 
the  Caucasians,  have  had  the  ablest 
leaders,  and  have  at  all  tunes  been 
stimidated  bj  fieioe  religious  aeaL  As 
ihr  bade  as  1745,  Bnssian  misrionaries 
were  sent  to  the  tribe  of  the  Oseeti, 
"whQ  had  relapsed  from  Christianity 
to  the  heathen  creed  of  their  fbre« 
flrthers.  Eyeiy  Osset  who  presented 
hims^  at  the  baptismal  font  receiyed 
a  silyer  cross  and  a  new  shirt.  The 
bait  brought  thousands  of  the  moun- 
taineers to  the  Bnssian  priests,  who 
contented  themselves  with  the  outward 
and  Tisible  sign  of  conversion.  These 

MMBeSntriJbesY  and  then  it  was  that 
th^  thronged  aromidSfaeikhMansour; 
as  tliey  have  done  in  our  day  (in  1880) 
around  that  strange  fanatic  Chasi- 
Mbllah,  when  in  his  turn  he  preached  a 
holy  war  against  the  Russian.  In  the 
livtter  year,  General  Faskewitch  had 
list  been  called  away  to  Poland,  and 
his  successor,  Baron  Boeen,  found  all 
Da^ieiAan  in  an  uproar.  He  imme- 
diately opened  the  campaign^  but  met 
a  strenuous  resistancOt  and  sn£fored 
heai^loss.  Thed^aiceof  the  village 
of  Hennentacfank,  held  against  him> 
in  the  year  1832,  by  9000  Tshetshens, 
was  an  extraordinary  example  of  he- 
it^n.  When  l^e  Russian  Infantry 
forced  thehr  way  into  the  place  with 
the  bayonet,  a  portion  of  the  garrison 


131 

shot  Aemselwea  up  in  afiirtiied  heuaet 
and  made  it  good  against  ovesw^ehn- 
ing  nuBsbersii  smging  paogages  from 
tiie  Eocanamidst  astom  of  beoibs  and 
grapediot.  At  kst  the  buildmg  took 
nre,  and  its  undtumted  de(fende»8,  the 
sacred  verses  still  upon  their  lips, 
found  death  la  the  flames.  In  an 
equity  desperate  defence  of  ths  fbrti- 
fied  village  of  mmri^  Chasi-MoUab 
met  his  deaths  fUling  la  the  very 
breach,  bleeding'  from  many  wonnda. 
The  chief  who  succeeded  him  was  leaa 
venecated  nd  less  energetfc,.  and  for 
a  fbw  years  the  Tshetdms  remained 
tolerably  <|BiatT  but  witiiout  atiioo^ 
of  submission.  Nevertheless  the  Bos*- 
siansflatteredthemaelvestiiat  the  worst 
was  past ;  that  the  death  of  the  mad 
dervisb  was  an  ineparable-loss  to  the 
moontanieeES.  They  wtm  mistaken* 
Outofhismost  ardent  adherentsChasi* 
MoUah  had  finned  a  sort  of  sacred 
band,  whom  he  called  Murides,  f^oamj 
fanatics,  half  warriors,  half  priests. 
They  conq)eBed  his  bec^-gnard,  were 
unwearied  ia  pveaching  up  the  fight 
fbr  the  Prophet's  faith,  and  in  battle 
devoted  themsdves  to  death  witii  a 
heroism  tiiat  has  never  been  surpassed. 
From  these,  within  a  short  time  of 
their  first  leader's  death,  Chamyl,  t^ 
present  renowned  chief  ef  the  Tshet- 
shens, soea  stood  fbrtii  pre-emiaeBt, 
and  the  Morides  Mtowed  him  to  the 


fidd  with  the  same  entlinsiaam  and 
valour  they  had  shown  under  his  pre- 
decessor. He  did  not  poove  leas  wor» 
thy  oi  gniding^them;  and  theBas- 
sians  were  oompdled  to  oeafess,  Ifluit 
it  was  eerier  fi»^  the  Triketahens  to 
find  an  aUe  laader  than  fhr  them  to 
find  a  general  aUe  to  beat  him.  And 
victcnies  over  the  reetlesa  and  enter- 
prising Caucasians  were  of  little  pro- 
fit, even  whtti  obtained.  For  the 
mort  part,,  they  <mly  served  to  fill  the 
RnsnaD  hospitahH  and  to  procure  the 
officers  fftose  ribbons  and  disthielieiH 
they  so  greedily  covet,  and  which,  in 
that  service,  are  so  liberally  bestow- 
ed.* Thus,  in  1845,  Count  Woron- 
zoff  made  a  most  daring  expedition 


'  **B  must  be  admitted  that  lUiBsianoffiemv  are  second  to  Aoseirf no  otiier  nation 
in  ^dret  fbr  distinetion,  and  in  hononrable  ambition^  to  awaken  and  Btisralate  whieby 
imnmLerable  means  are  employed.  In  no  ottier  army  are  the  rewards  fbr  those  oA- 
oers  who  distingnish  themselves  in  the  field  of  so  many  kinds,  and  so  lavishly  dealt 
out.  There  are  all  manner  of  medals  and  marks  fbr  good  eerrioe— crosses  and  stars  of 
Saints  George,  Stanislaus,  Vladimir,  Andrew,  Anna,  and  other  holy  personages ;  some 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


132 


Caucastis  and  the  Cossacks. 


[Feb. 


into  the  heart  of  Daghestan.  He  found 
the  villages  empty  and  in  flames,  lost 
three  thousand  men,  amongst  them 
many  brave  and  valuable  officers,  and 
marched  back  again,  strewing  the  path 
with  wounded,  for  whom  the  means 
of  transport  (the  horses  of  the  Cossack 
cavalry)  were  quite  insufficient.  With 
great  diifficulty,  and  protected  by  a 
column  that  went  out  to  meet  them, 
the  Russians  regained  their  lines,  ha- 
rassed to  the  last  by  the  fierce  Cauca- 
sians. This  affaur  was  called  a  vic- 
tory, and  Count  Woronzoff  was  made 
a  prince.  Two  more  such  victories 
would  have  reduced  his  expeditionanr 
column  to  a  single  battalion.  Chamyl, 
who  had  cannonaded  the  Russians 
with  their  own  artillery,  captured  in 
former  actions,  possibly  considered 
himself  equally  entitled  to  triumph, 
as  he  slowly  retreated,  after  followmg 
up  the  foe  nearly  to  the  gates  of  their 
fortresses,  into  the  recesses  of  his  na- 
tive valleys. 

The  interior  of  Circassia  is  still  an 
unknown  land.  The  investigations  of 
Messrs  Bell,  Longworth,  Stewart,  and 
others,  who  of  late  years  have  visited 
and  writCen  about  the  country,  were 
confined  to  small  districts,  and  cramped 
by  the  jealousy  of  the  natives.  Mr 
Bell,  who  made  the  longest  residence, 
was  treated  more  like  a  prisoner  than 
a  guest.  Other  foreigners  find  a  worse 
reception  stUl.  Even  the  Poles,  who 
desert  from  the  Russian  army,  are 
made  slaves  of  by  the  Circassians,  and 
so  severely  treated  that  they  are  often 
glad  to  return  to  their  colours,  and 
endure  the  flogging  that  there  awaits 
them.  The  only  European  who, 
having  penetrated  into  the  interior, 
has  again  seen  his  own  country,  is  the 


Russian  Baron  Tnmau,  an  aide-de- 
camp of  General  Gurko ;  but  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  abode  in  Circassia 
were  too  painful  and  peculiar  to  allow 
opportunity  for  observation.  They 
are  well  told  by  Dr  Wagner. 

^  By  the  Emperor's  commajidy  Russian 
officers  acquainted  with  the  language  are 
sent,  from  time  to  time,  as  spies  into  Cir- 
cassia,*— ^partly  to  make  topographical 
surreys  of  districts  preriously  unknovm ; 
partly  to  ascertain  the  numbers,  mode 
of  life,  and  disposition  of  those  tribes 
with  whom  no  intercourse  is  kept  up. 
These  missions  are  extremely  danger- 
ous, and  seldom  succeed.  Shortly  be- 
fore my  arriyal  at  Terek,  four  Russian 
staff-officers  were  sent  as  ^spies  to  va- 
rious parts  of  Lesghistan.  They  as- 
sumed the  Caucasian  garb,  and  were  at- 
tended by  natiyes  in  Russian  pay.  Only 
one  of  them  erer  returned;  the  three 
others  were  recognised  and  murdered. 
Baron  Tumau  prepared  himself  long 
beforehand  for  his  dangerous  mission.  He 
gave  his  complexion  a  brownish  tint,  and 
to  his  beard  the  form  affected  by  the  abo- 
rigines. He  also  tried  to  learn  the  lan- 
guage of  the  Ubiches,  but,  finding  the 
harsh  pronunciationof  certain  words  quite 
unattainable,  he  agreed  with  his  guide  to 
pass  for  deaf  and  dumb  during  his  stay 
in  the  country.  In  this  guise  he  set  out 
upon  his  perilous  journey,  and  for  several 
days  wandered  undetected  from  tribe  to 
tribe.  But  one  of  the  wtrkt  (nobles)  un- 
der whose  roof  he  parsed  a  night,  con- 
ceived suspicions,  and  threatened  the 
guide,  who  betray edhis  employer's  secret. 
The  baron  was  kept  prisoner,  and  the 
Ubiches  demanded  a  cap-fiill  of  silver  for 
his  ransom  from  the  Russian  command- 
ant of  Fort  Ardler.  When  this  officer 
declared  himself  ready  to  pay,  they 
increased  their  demand  to  a  bushel  of 
silver  rubles.  The  commandant  referred 
the  matter  to  Baron  Rosen,  then  com- 


with  crowns,  some  with  diamonds,  peculiar  distinctions  on  the  epaulets  and  uniforms^ 
&c.  &c.  I  was  once  in  a  distinguished  society,  composed  almost  entirely  of  officers 
of  the  army  of  the  Caucasus.  Not  finding  very  much  amusement,  I  had  the  patience  to 
count  idl  the  orders  and  decorations  in  the  room,  and  found  that  upon  the  breasts  of 
the  thirty-five  military  guests^  there  glittered  more  than  two  hundred  stars,  crosses, 
and  medals  ;  on  some  of  the  generals'  coats  were  more  orders  than  buttons.  As  it 
usually  happens,  the  desire  for  these  distinctions  increases  with  their  possession. 
The  Russian  who  has  obtained  a  medal  leaves  no  stone  unturned  to  get  a  knight's 
cross,  and  when  the  cross  is  at  his  button-hole,  he  is  ravenous  for  the  glittering  star, 
and  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  to  obtain  \V*—I>er  Kaukaeut,  &c.,  vol.  ii.  p.  98. 

*  The  reference  in  this  instance  is  more  particularly  to  the  land  of  the  Ubiches 
and  Tchigetes,  two  tribes  that  abide  south  of  Circassia  Proper,  and  whose  lan- 
guaM  diifbrs  ftrom  those  of  the  Circassians  and  Abchasians,  their  neighbours  to  the 
north  and  south.  The  general  medium  of  conversation  amongst  the  various  Caucasian 
tribes  is  the  Turkish-Tartar  dialect,  current  amongst  most  of  the  dwellers  on  the 
^res  of  the  Bhick  and  Caspian  Sea;*. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


Caucasus  and  tlie  Cossacks, 


mander-in-chief  of  the  army  of  the  Cau- 
casus; the  baron  reported  it  to  St  Peters- 
burg, and  the  Emperor  consented  to  pay 
the  heayy  ransom.  Bat  Rosen  repre- 
sented it  to  him  as  more  for  the  Russian 
interest  to  leave  Tornau  for  a  while  in 
the  hands  of  the  Ubiches;  for,  in  the  first 
place,  the  payment  of  so  large  a  sum  was 
a  bad  precedent,  likely  to  encourage  the 
mountaineers  to  renew  the  extortion,  in- 
stead of  contenting  themseWes,  as  they 
previously  had  done,  with  a  few  hundred 
rubles  ;  and,  secondly,  as  a  prisoner^ 
Baron  Tumau  would  perhaps  have  oppor- 
tunities of  gathering  valuable  information 
concerning  a  country  and  people  of  whom 
little  or  nothing  was  known.  The  unfor- 
tunate young  officer  was  cruelly  sacrificed 
to  these  considerations,  and  passed  a  long 
winter  in  terrible  captivity,  tortured  by 
frost  and  hunger,  compelled,  as  a  slave, 
to  the  severest  labour,  and  often  jpreatly 
ill-treated.  Several  attempts  at  flight 
fkiled  ;  and  at  last  the  chief,  in  whose 
hands  he  was,  confined  him  in  a  cage 
half-buried  in  the  ground,  and  withal  so 
narrow  that  its  inmate  could  neither 
stand  upright  nor  lie  at  length." 

Thus  immared,  a  prey  to  painful 
maladies,  his  clothes  rotting  on  his 
emaciated  limbs,  the  unhappy  man 
moaned  through  his  long  and  sleep - 
Jess  nights,  and  gave  np  hope  of  rescue. 
No  tender-hearted  Circassian  maiden 
l»t>nght  to  him,  as  to  the  hero  of 
Pasbkin*8  well-known  Caucasian 
poem,  deliverance  and  love.  Such 
hick  had  been  that  of  more  than  one 
Russian  captive ;  but  poor  Tumau,  in 
his  state  of  filth  and  simalor,  was  no 
very  seductive  object.  He  mighthave 
pined  away  his  life  in  his  case,  before 
baron  Rosen,  or  his  patemd  majeshr 
the  Czar,  had  recalled  his  fate  to  mind, 
but  for  an  injury  done  by  his  merci- 
less master  to  one  of  his  domestics, 
who  vowed  revenge.  Watching  his 
opportunity,  this  servant,  one  day  that 
the  rest  of  the  household  were  absent, 
murdered  his  lord,  released  the  pri- 
soner, tied  him  with  thongs  upon  his 
saddle,  upon  which  the  baron,  covered 
with  sores  and  exhausted  by  illness, 
was  unable  to  support  himself,  and 
groped  with  him  towards  the  fron- 
tier. In  one  day  they  rode  eighty 
verstSy  (about  fifty-four  English  miles,) 
outstripped  pursuers,  and  reached 
Fort  ij^er.  The  accounts  given  by 
Baron  Tumau  of  the  land  of  bis  cap- 
tivity could  be  but  slight:  he  had 
seen  little  beyond  his  place  of  confine- 


133 


ment.  What  he  did  relate  was  not 
very  encouraging  to  Russian  invasion. 
He  depicted  the  country  as  one  mass 
of  rock  and  precipice,  partially  clothed 
with  vast  tracts  of  aboriginal  forest, 
broken  by  deep  ravines  and  mountain 
torrents,  and  surmounted  by  the  huge 
ice-dad  pinnacles  of  the  loftiest  Cau- 
casian ndge.  The  villages,  some  of 
which  nestle  in  the  deep  recesses  of 
the  woods,  whilst  others  are  perched 
upon  steep  crags  and  on  the  brink  of 
giddy  precipices,  are  universally  of 
most  difiScult  access. 

Dr  Wagner,  whose  extremely 
amusing  book  forms  the  text  of  this 
article,  has  never  been  in  Circassia, 
although  he  gives  us  more  informa- 
tion about  it,  of  the  sort  we  want, 
than  any  traveller  in  that  singular 
land  whose  writings  have  come  under 
our  notice.  His  wanderings  were 
under  Russian  guidance  and  escort. 
During  them,  he  skirted  the  hostile 
territory  on  more  than  one  sidej 
occasionally  setting  a  foot  across  the 
border,  to  the  alarm  of  his  Cossacks, 
whose  dread  by  day  and  dreams 
by  night  were  of  Circassian  ambus- 
cades; he  has  lingered  at  the  base 
of  Caucasus,  and  has  traversed  its 
ranges — without,  however,  deeming  it 
necessary  to  penetrate  into  those 
remote  valleys,  where  fordgners  find 
dubious  welcome,  and  whence  they  are 
not  always  sure  of  exit.  He  has 
mixed  much  with  Circassians,  if  he 
has  not  actually  dwelt  in  their  vil- 
lages. It  were  tedious  and  unneces- 
sary to  detail  his  exact  itinerary. 
He  has  not  printed  his  entire  joumal 
— according  to  the  lazy  and  egotis- 
tical practice  of  many  travellers — ^but 
has  taken  the  trouble  to  condense  it. 
The  essence  is  full  of  variety,  anec- 
dote and  adventure,  and  gives  a  dear 
insiffht  into  the  nature  of  the  war. 
Professedly  a  man  of  sdence,  an  anti- 
quary and  a  naturalist,  Dr  Wagner 
has  evidently  a  secret  hankering  after 
matters  military.  He  loves  the  sound 
of  the  dram,  and  willingly  directs  his 
scientific  researches  to  countries  where 
he  is  likely  to  smell  powder.  We 
had  heard  of  him  in  the  Atlas  moun- 
tains, and  at  the  siege  of  Constantina, 
before  we  met  him  risking  his  neck 
along  the  banks  of  the  Kuban,  and 
across  the  wild  steppes  of  the  Cauca- 
sus.   He  has  travelled  much  in  the 


Digitized  by 


Goos 


134 


tmd^  OMHidg. 


[Feb. 


East,  and  firq>ared  himself  for  iufi 
Caocawm  trq)  by  a  leng  vta^  m 
TmiLef  and  in  Soaltiern  Kossia. 
Wen  mtFodaoed,  lie  dermd  frcMn 
dJatingiHBiied  fiassian  generab,  kitel- 
figeot  Gwiliaiis,  and  CircassiaQ  cbiefiB, 
partioolarB  ef  the  war  more  aotiieotic 
tiuui  ate  te  be  obtained  eitiier  from 
St  Pelerd^org  boUetins,  or  from  the 
ordinaiy  trans^Oaocanaa  correq>on- 
deoto  of  German  and  other  news- 
papers,  many  of  whom  are  in  the  paf 
of  Rnaeia.  His  African  reminisoences 
proved  of  great  valoe.  The  officere 
of  the  army  of  Caocasas  take  the 
strongest  interest  in  the  oontest  be- 
tween French  and  Arabs,  findmg  in 
it,  doubtless,  points  (^sindUtnde  with 
the  war  in  which  they  themselres  ape 
engaged.  Amongst  these  ofilcers  he 
met,  besides  Russians  and  Germans, 
several  satoralised  Poles  and  French- 
men, Flemings  and  Spaniards,  who 
gave  in  exchange  for  his  tales  of 
razdas  and  fiedonins,  details  of  Cir- 
cassian warfare  which  he  bi^y 
prized,  as  likely  to  be  more  impartial 
than  the  accounts  afforded  by  the 
native  Russians.  He  own  Journey  to 
the  Caucasus  took  place  in  1843  ;  but 
a  subsequent  «orreq)ondeace  with 
well-informed  friends,  on  both  sides 
the  Caucasian  range,  enabled  him  to 
faring  down  Itis  sketch  of  the  struggle 
to  the  year  1846. 

Many  English  writers  on  Oircassia 
have  been  accused  of  an  undue  pre- 
ference fertile  monntatneers,  of  exag- 
gerating their  good  qualities,  and  of 
elevating  them  by  invidious  contrasts 
with  the  Russians.  There  is  no 
ground  for  suq>ecting  a  German  of 
wch  partiality;  and  Dr  Wagner, 
whilst  lauding  the  bermc  valour  and 
independent  spirit  of  the  Circassians 
— qualities  which  Russian  authors 
have  themselves  admitted  and  extol- 
led—does net  forget  io  do  jnstioe  to 
Ids  Jioscovite  and  Cossack  frieacto, 
to  whom  he  devotee  a  consideri^le 
portion  of  his  book,  many  of  ins 
detais  concenng  them  being  ex- 
tremely novel  and  carious.  He  care- 
folly  studied  both  Cossacks  and  Cfr- 
cassians,  liviog  amongst  the  former 
and  flNeting  thonsaads  of  tbe  brtter, 
who  go  and  come  fredy  upon  Bunian 
territory.  At  Ekaterinodar,  the  capi- 
tal of  the  Tcheiaaiaortsy  Cossacks, 
tbe  Fridty^g  aari^  swamai  wHk 


Circassians.  In  Turkey,  and  else- 
where, Dr  Wagnw  had  met  many 
indtvidnals  of  that  nation,  but  thm 
was  the  first  time  he  beheld  them  in 
crowds.  He  describes  them  as  very 
handsome  men,  wltk  black  beards;, 
aquiline  noses,  and  flashing  black 
eyes.  He  was  struck  with  their  lofl^ 
mien,  and  attiibntes  it  to  their  mental 
energy,  and  to  a  oooaciousness  of 
physical  strong^  and  beaoty. 

"This  superiority  of  the  pure  CHrcaa- 
sian  blood  does  not  belie  itself  under 
Russian  discipline,  any  more  than  it  does 
in  Mahometan  lands,  where,  as  Mame- 
lukes in  Cairo,  and  as  pashas  in  Stam- 
boul,  the  sons  of  Caucasus  hare  ever 
played  a  prominent  and  distinguished 
part  The  Turk,  who  by  cert^n  impos- 
ing qualities  awes  all  other  Orientals, 
tiicitly  recognises  the  superiority  of  the 
Circassian  mud^n,  or  noble.  The  Empe- 
ror Nicholas,  who  preserves  so  rigid  a 
discipline  in  the  various  corps  of  his 
vast  army,  shows  himself  extraordinarily 
considerate  towards  the  Circassian  squa- 
drons of  his  guard.  Persons  well  versed 
in  the  military  chronicles  of  St  Peters- 
burg relate  many  a  characteristic  traif^ 
proving  the  bold  stubborn  spirit  of  these 
Caucasian  men  to  be  still  unbroken,  and 
showing  how  it  more  than  once  has  so  im- 
posed upon  the  emperor,  and  even  upon 
the  grand-duke  Michael,  reputed  the  strict- 
est disciplinarian  in  Huasia,  that  they  have 
shut  their  eyes  even  to  open  mutiny. 
At  a  review,  where  the  Caucasian  cavaby 
formally  refused  obedience,  the  emperer 
contented  himself  with  sending  a  cour- 
teous repro€xf  by  •General  Bei^LendoiC 
Beside  the  ooarse  oonaiion  BuaeianSy  the 
Circassian  lo<^  like  an  eagle  amidst  a 
flock  of  bustards.  Even  capital  crimes 
are  not  visited  upon  Circassians  with  the 
same  severity  as  upon  the  other  subjects 
of  the  emperor.  A  Circassian  who  had 
struck  his  dagger  into  the  heart  of  a 
hackney-coachman  at  St  Petersburg,  in 
requital  of  an  insolent  overchaajge,  was 
merely  sent  back  to  the  CauoasuB.  For 
a  like  oflenoe,  a  RusBian  might  reckon 
aq)on  the  knout,  and  upon  hanifibment 
for  life  to  the  Siberian  mines. 

"  Amongst  the  Circaaaians  at  Ekateci- 
nodor,  a  work,  or  noble,  of  the  Shan- 
sookiau  tribe,  was  particularly  remm- 
able  for  his  beauty  and  dignity.  None 
of  the  picturesque  figures  of  Arabs  and 
Moors  furnished  me  by  my  A&ioan  recol- 
lections, could  bear  comparison  witii  this 
Caucasiaa  eagle.  I  afterwards  saw,  in 
Mingrelia,  a  more  ideal  mmld  of  feature^ 
rwembling  the  asKaqae  Apalk  ^rpe: 
but  there  the  espramoa -was  too  afiunir 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18«9.3 


GmimmiB  and^  Comaeks. 


181 


nttte ;  "the  fasreic  liead  of  the  dweller  on 
the  Kilban  pleased  me  better,  i  stood 
m  good -while  <beftire  the  Shi^Mookiaii,  as 
if  £ettered  to-the  ground,  so  extraordinary 
was  the  effect  of  his  striking  beauty. 
What  a  «tudy,  I  thought,  for  a  German 
jMunter,  who  would  in  vain  seek  such 
models  in  Borne;  or  for  a  Yemet^  whose 
Arabian  groups  prove  the  great  power  of 
bis  pencil !  The  Arabs,  rather  priestly 
than  knightly  in  their  aspect,  produce 
far  less  effect  upon  the  large  Algerine 
pictures  at  VerBullee  than  the  OivoBSBian 
-wsrrior  would  do  in  a  battle-pieoe  by 
sooh  maetars  as  Vemet  or  Peter  Hess. 
The  Shapaook  chief  at  Ekaterinodar 
seemed  oonsoions  of  his  magnificent  ap- 
pearanoe.  With  proud  mien,  and  that 
light  half-gliding  gait  observable  in 
most  Caucasians,  he  sauntered  amongst 
tbe  groups  of  Cossacks  upon  the  market- 
place, casting  glances  of  profonndest 
scorn  upon  thek  clumsy  sheepskin- 
"wrapped  figures.  His  slender  form  and 
EmaU  foot,  the  grace  and  elegance  of  his 
person  and  carriage,  the  richness  of  his 
eoBtmne  amd  beatnty  of  his  weapons,  con- 
trasted most  advantageously  with  the 
antscnlar  but  somewhiict  thidkset  figures, 
and  with  the  ugly  woolly  winter  dress  of 
the  Tohemamortsies.  By  help  of  a  Cos- 
sack I  made  his  acquaintance,  and  got 
into  conversation.  His  name  was  Chora- 
Beg,  and  he  dwelt  at  a  hamlet  thirty 
ver8tB  south  of  Ekaterinodar." 

Clioim-6eg  wondered  greatly  that 
fats  new  acqnatntanoe  was  neither 
RBBSian  nor  English.  He  had  beard 
vaguely  that  Idiere  was  a  third  Chris^ 
tiaa  natioB,  which,  under  Soltan 
Bnnapait,  had  made  war  npon  the 
Padisha  of  the  Russians,  but  he  had 
iM  notM»  of  ancfa  a  people  as  the 
Geraau.  fle  greatly  admired  Dr 
Wagner's  xiAe,  bat  rather  donbted  its 
canying  liirlber  than  a  smooth  i>ore, 
«Dd  aflewed  free  inspection  of  bis^wn 
arms,  ooBsislBig  of  pistols  and  dagger^ 
and  <tf  the  ftnens  ^AoAba— a  tong 
iiearr  cavalry  sabre,  aligbtly  carved, 
with  mlt  of  ntvo'  and  iveiy.  At  the 
dodor^  request  he  drew  this  weapon 
#om  the  soabtMwd,  aad  cot  twioe  or 
tknce  at  tiie  •evmty  air,  his  dark  ^^es 
ilasfaiag  as  be  aid  so.  *^How  many 
Ssaeiaas  Ins  Ibat  sabre  sent  to  their 
aoooMtt "  aaioed  the  laqmsitive  Doc- 
tor. The  Civoasrian's  intdKgeBft 
cawtuuaautj  assumed  an  expression 
hard  to  interpret,  but  in  which  his 
interlocQtor  thonglfat  he  dlstingoished 
a  gleam  of  scorn,  and  a  ^hade  of  sas- 


pidon.  ^It  was  long,"  he  replied, 
**  shice  his  tribe  had  taken  the  field 
against  the  Russians.  Shice  the  deaf 
general  (Sass)  had  left  the  land  of  the 
Oossacks,  peace  had  reigned  between 
Muscovite  and  Sh]^>80okian.  Indivi- 
duals of  his  tribe  Itad  certainly  been 
known  to  join  bonds  from  the  moun- 
tains, and  to  cross  the  Kuban  with 
arms  in  hand.*^  And  as  Chora-Beg 
spoke,  tlie  expression  of  his  proud  eye 
belied  his  pacific  pretensions. 

The  general  Sass  above-named 
icommanded  for  several  years  on  the 
Une  of  the  Kuban,  and  is  the  only 
Russian  general  who  has  understood 
the  mountain  warfare,  and  proved 
himself  a  match  for  the  Circassians  at 
their  own  game  of  ambuscades  and 
smprises.  His  tactics  were  those  of 
tlie  Spanish  gneriUa  leaders.  Lavish 
in  his  pigment  <^  spies,  he  was  al- 
ways aoomately  informed  of  the  mus- 
ters and  projects  of  the  Circassians ; 
whilst  he  kept  his  own  plans  so  secret, 
that  his  personid  staff  often  knew  no* 
tiling  of  an  intended  expedition  until 
the  call  to  *^  boot  and  saddle"  sounded. 
His  raids  were  accomplished,  under 
guidance  of  his  well-paid  scouts,  wit^ 
sucb  rapidity  and  local  knowledge  that 
the  mountaineerB  rarely  bad  thne  ta 
assemble  in  foitce,  pursue  t^e  retbing 
column,  and  revenge  their  burnt  vil- 
ages  and  ravished  cattle.  But  ona 
day  the  veport  spread  on  the  lines  of 
the  Kuban  that  the  general  was  dan- 
gerously ill;  shortty  afterwards  it 
became  known  thaft  the  physicians 
had  given  him  up;  and  finally  Ids 
death  was  amiomMed,  and  bewaOed 
by  the  whole  army  of  the  Caucasus. 
Tbe  oonstemotion  of  tbe  Cossacks, 
accustomed,  under  bis  command,  to 
victory  and  ndti.  booty,  was  as  (^reat 
as  the  exaltation  of  the  movntaineers. 
Hundreds  of  these  v^ted  the  Russian 
territory,  to  witness  the  interment  of 
their  dreaded  ^oe.  A  magnificenit 
coffin,  with  the  general's  codrod  hat 
and  decoratioas  laid  upon  it,  was  de* 
posited  fai  theeorth  amidst  the  monm- 
ftd  soBods  of  minote  guns  and  muffled 
drans.  With  }oyM  hearts  the  Cir^ 
<}assian8  retmved  to  their  mountains, 
to  t^  wbat  tbey  bod  seen,  and  to  con- 
gratulale  eodh  other  »t  the  pro^iect  of 
tranquillity  for  themselves,  and  safety 
to  their  flocks  and  berds.  But  upon 
tlie  second  aigbt  after  Sass's  funeral, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


136 


Caucasus  and  the  Cossacks, 


[Feb. 


a  strong  Bosaian  column  crossed  the 
Kuban,  and  the  dead  general  suddenly 
appeared  at  the  hea^  of  his  trusty 
lancers,  who  greeted  with  wild  hurrahs 
their  leader's  resurrection.  Several 
large  auls  (villages)  whose  inhabitants 
were  sound  adeep,  unsuspicious  of 
surprise,  were  destroyed,  vast  droves 
of  cattle  were  carried  off,  and  a  host 
of  prisoners  made.  This  ingenious 
and  successful  stratagem  is  still  cited 
with  admiration  on  the  banks  of  the 
Kuban.  Notwithstanding  his  able 
generalship,  Sass  was  removed  from 
his  command  when  in  full  career  of 
success.  All  his  military  services 
could  not  shield  him  from  the  conse- 
quences of  St  Petersburg  intrigues  and 
trumped-up  accusations.  None  of  his 
successors  have  equalled  him.  Gene- 
ral Willaminoff  was  a  man  of  big 
words  rather  than  of  great  deeds.  In 
his  bombastic  and  blasphemous  pro- 
clamation of  the  28th  May  1837,  he 
informed  the  Circassians  that  ^^  If  the 
heavens  should  fall,  Russia  could  prop 
them  with  her  bayonets ;  "  following 
up  this  startling  assertion  with  the 
declaration  that  "  there  are  but  two 
powers  in  existence — God  in  heaven, 
and  the  emperor  upon  earth !"  *  The 
Cu*cassians  laughed  at  this  rhodomon- 
tade,  and  returned  a  firm  and  becom- 
ing answer.  There  were  but  few  of 
them,  they  said— but,  with  God's  bless- 
ing, they  would  hold  their  own,  and 
fi^t  to  the  very  last  man:  and  to 
prove  themselves  as  good  as  their 
word,  they  soon  afterwards  made 
fierce  assaults  upon  the  line  of  forts 
built  by  the  Russians  upon  the  shores 
of  the  Black  Sea.  In  1840  four  of 
these  were  taken,  but  the  triumph  cost 
the  victors  so  much  blood  as  to  dis- 
gust them  for  some  time  with  attack- 
ing stone  walls,  behind  which  the  Rus- 
sians, perhaps  the  best  defensive  com- 
batants in  the  world,  fight  like  lions. 
Indeed,  the  Circassians  would  hardly 
have  proved  victorious,  had  not  the 
garrisons  been  enfeebled  by  disease. 
During  the  five  winter  months,  the  ra- 
tions of  the  troop  employed  upon  this 
service  are  usually  salt,  and  the  con- 
sequences are  scurvy  and  fever.  In- 
formed by  Polish  deserters  of  the  bad 
condition  of  the  garrisons,  the  Cir- 


cassians held  a  great  council  in  the 
mountains,  and  it  was  decided  to  take 
the  forts  with  the  sabre,  without  firing 
a  shot  It  is  an  old  Caucasian  cus- 
tom, that,  upon  suchlike  perilous  un- 
dertakings, a  chosen  band  of  enthu- 
siastic warrors  devote  themselves  to 
death,  binding  themselves  by  a  solemn  ' 
oath  not  to  turn  then:  backs  upon  the 
enemy.  Ever  in  the  van,  their  ex- 
ample gives  courage  to  the  timid;  and 
their  fnends  are  bound  in  honour  to 
revenge  their  death.  With  these 
fanatics  have  the  Circassian  and 
Tshetshen  chiefe  achieved  their  great- 
est victories  over  the  Russians. 

When  it  was  decided  to  attack  the 
forts,  several  hundred  Shapsookians, 
including  gray-haired  old  men  and 
youths  of  tender  age,  swore  to  con- 
quer or  to  die.  They  kept  their  word. 
At  the  fort  of  Michailoff,  which  made 
the  most  obstinate  defence,  the  ditch 
was  filled  with  their  corpses.  The 
conduct  of  the  garrison  was  truly 
heroic.  Of  five  hundred  men,  only 
one  third  were  fit  for  duty ;  the  others 
were  in  hospital,  or  on  the  sick-list. 
But  no  sooner  did  the  Circassian  war- 
cry  rend  the  air  than  the  sufferers 
forgot  their  pains ;  the  fever-stricken 
left  their  beds,  and  crawled  to  the 
walls.  Their  commandant  called  upon 
them  to  shed  their  last  drop  of  blood 
for  their  emperor ;  their  old  p<wa  ex- 
horted them,  as  Christians,  to  fight  to 
the  death  against  the  unbelieving 
horde.  But  numbers  prevailed :  after 
a  valiant  defence,  the  Russians  re- 
treated, fighting,  to  the  innermost 
enclosures  of  the  fortress.  Their  chief 
demanded  a  volunteer  to  blow  up  the 
fort  when  farther  resistance  should 
become  impossible.  A  soldier  stepped 
forward,  took  a  lighted  match,  and 
entered  the  powder  magazine.  The 
last  defences  were  stormed,  the  Cir- 
cassians shouted  victory.  Then  came 
the  explosion.  Most  of  the  buildings 
were  overthrown,  and  hundreds  of 
maimed  carcases  scattered  in  all  di- 
rections. Eleven  Russians  escaped 
with  life,  were  dragged  off  to  the 
mountains,  and  subs^uently  ransom- 
ed, and  from  them  the  details  of  this 
bloody  fight  were  obtained. 

The  capture  of  these  forts  spread 


•  Longworth*8  Cfircastia,  voL  L  p.  1689. 


/Google 


Digitized  by  VjOOQI 


1849.] 


Caucasus  and  the  Cossacks, 


137 


discouragement  and  consternation  in 
the  ranks  of  the  Russian  army.  Tlie 
emperor  was  furious,  and  General 
Rajewski,  then  commander- in- chief  on 
the  Circassian  frontier,  was  super- 
seded. This  officer,  who  at  the  ten- 
der age  of  twelve  was  present  with 
his  father  at  the  battle  of  Borodino, 
and  who  has  since  distinguished  him- 
self in  the  Turkish  and  Persian  wars, 
was  reputed  an  able  general,  but  was 
reproached  with  sleeping  too  much, 
and  with  being  too  fond  of  botany. 
His  enemies  went  so  far  as  to  accuse 
him  of  making  military  expeditions 
into  the  mountains,  with  the  sole  view 
of  adding  rare  Caucasian  plants  to  his 
herbarium,  and  of  procuring  seeds  for 
his  garden.  General  Aurep,  who  suc- 
ceeded him,  undertook  little  beyond 
reconnoissances,  always  attended  with 
very  heavy  loss ;  and  the  Circassians 
remained  upon  the  defensive  until  the 

?ear  1843,  when  the  example  of  the 
'shetshens,  who  about  that  time 
obtained  signal  advantages  over  the 
Russians,  roused  the  martial  ardour 
of  the   chivalrous  Circassians,  and 

Surred  them  to  fresh  hostilities.  But 
e  war  at  the  western  extremity  of 
Caucasus  never  assumed  the  impor- 
tance of  that  in  Daghestan  and  the 
country  of  the  Tshetshens. 

From  the  straits  of  Zabache  to  the 
frontier  of  Guria,  the  Russians  possess 
seventeen  iGr<;po«ts,  or  fortified  posts, 
only  a  few  of  which  deserve  the  name 
of  regular  fbrtresses,  or  could  resist  a 
regular  army  provided  with  artillery. 
To  mountameers,  however,  whose  sole 
weapons  are  shaska  and  musket,  even 
earthen  parapets  and  shallow  ditches 
are  serious  obstacles  when  well  man- 
ned and  resolutely  defended.  The 
object  of  erecting  Uiis  line  of  forts  was 
to  cut  off  the  communication  by  sea 
between  Turkey  and  the  Caucasian 
tribes.  It  was  thought  that,  when  the 
import  of  arms  and  munitions  of  war 
firom  Turkey  was  thus  checked,  the 
independent  mountain  tribes  would 
soon  be  subjugated.  The  hope  was 
not  realised,  and  the  expensive  main- 
tenance of  15,000  to  20,000  men  in 
the  fortresses  of  the  Black  Sea  has  but 
little  improved  the  position  of  the 
Russians  in  the  Caucasus.  The  Cau- 
casians have  never  lacked  arms,  and 
with  money  they  can  always  get  pow- 
der, even  from  the  Cossacks  of  the 


Kuban.  In  another  respect,  however, 
these  forts  have  done  them  much 
harm,  and  thence  it  arises  that,  since 
theii*  erection,  and  the  cession  of 
Anapa  to  Russia,  the  war  has  assumed 
so  bitter  a  character.  So  long  as 
Anapa  was  Turkish,  the  export  of 
slaves,  and  the  import  of  powder, 
found  no  hindrance.  The  ne^y  Cir- 
cassian noble,  whose  rude  mountains 
supply  him  but  spaiingly  with  daily 
bread,  obtained,  by  the  sale  of  slaves, 
means  of  satisfying  his  warlike  and 
ostentatious  twtes— of  procuring  rich 
clothes,  costly  weapons,  and  ammuni- 
tion for  war  and  for  the  chase.  In  a 
moral  point  of  view,  all  slave  traffic  is 
of  course  odious  and  reprehensible,  but 
that  of  Circassia  differed  from  other 
conmierce  of  the  kind,  in  so  far  that 
all  parties  were  benefited  by,  and 
consenting  to,  the  contract.  The 
Turks  obtained  from  Caucasus  hand- 
somer and  healthier  wives  than  those 
bom  in  the  harem ;  and  the  Circassian 
beauties  were  delighted  to  exchange 
the  poverty  and  toil  of  then*  father's 
mountain  huts  for  the  luxurious  ^or- 
niente  of  the  seraglio,  of  whose  won- 
ders and  delights  their  ears  were  re- 
galed, from  childhood  upwards,  with 
the  most  glowing  descriptions.  The 
trade,  although  greatly  impeded  and 
very  hazardous,  still  goes  on.  Small 
Turkish  craft  creep  up  to  the  coast, 
cautiously  evading  the  Russian  cruis- 
ers, enter  creeks  and  inlets,  and  are 
dragged  by  the  Circassians  high  and 
drv  upon  the  beach,  there  to  remain 
till  the  negotiation  for  their  live  cargo 
is  completed,  an  operation  that  gener- 
ally takes  a  few  weeks.  The  women 
sold  are  the  daughters  of  serfs  and 
freedmen :  rarely  does  a  unn-k  consent 
to  dispose  of  his  sister  or  daughter, 
although  the  case  does  sometimes 
occur.  But,  whilst  the  sale  goes  on, 
the  slave-  ships  are  anjrthing  but  secure. 
It  is  a  small  matter  to  have  escaped 
the  Russian  frigates  and  steamers. 
Each  of  the  Kreposts  possesses  a  little 
squadron  of  row-boats,  manned  with 
Cossacks,  who  pull  along  the  coast  in 
search  of  Turkish  vessels.  If  they 
detect  one,  they  land  in  the  niirht,  and 
endeavour  to  set  fire  to  it,  before  the 
mountaineers  can  come  to  the  assis- 
tance of  the  crew.  The  Turks,  who 
live  in  profound  terror  of  these  Cos- 
sack  coast-guards,  resort  to  every 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


U8 

possible  ffiLpodient  to  escape  their 
obsenration ;  often  ooveringl^irves- 
Mis  with  dry  leaves  and  bon^^  and 
tying  fir  branches  to  the  masts,  that 
the  sooniB  may  tske  them  for  trees. 
If  they  are  captared  at  sea  by  the 
cmiserB,  the  crew  are  sent  to  hard 
labour  in  Siberia,  and  the  Circassian 
gbls  are  married  to  Cossacks,  or 
divided  as  handmaidens  amongst  the 
Bossian  staff  officers.  From  thirty 
to  forty  slaves  compose  the  nsnal 
caiigo  of  each  of  these  vessels,  which 
are  so  small  that  the  poor  creatm^ 
are  packed  almost  like  herrings  in  a 
barrel.  But  they  patiently  endm'e  the 
miseiy  of  the  voyage,  m  anticipation 
of  the  honeyed  existence  of  the  harem. 
It  is  caloaiated  that  one  vessel  out  of 
six  is  taken  or  lost.  In  the  winta: 
of  1843-4,  eight-and-twenty  ships  left 
tkit  coast  of  Asia  Minor  for  liiat  of 
Caucasia.  Twenty-three  safely  re- 
tmned,  three  were  burned  by  the 
BiHwians,  and  two  swallowed  by  the 
waves. 

A  Toi^h  captain  at  Sinope  told 
Dr  Wagner  the  following  interesting 
anecdote,  illustratingCircassian  hatrod 
of  the  Russians : — ^^  A  ^em  years  ago 
a  fliave-i^p  sprang  a  leak  out  at  sea, 
just  as  a  Russian  steamer  passed  in 
tbB  distance.  The  Tmidsh  slave- 
^eider,  who  preferred  even  the  cfafll 
blasts  of  Siberia  to  a  grave  in  deep 
water,  made  signals  of  dista-ess,  and  the 
flieamer  came  up  in  time  to  rescue  tiie 
Mp  aod  its  living  cargo  from  destmc- 
taosL  But  so  deeply  is  hatx«d  of 
Russia  implanted  in  every  Circasaan 
lieart,  that  the  sphit  of  the  giris  re- 
volted at  the  thou^t  of  beconnag  tiie 
iielpmates  of  gray-coated  solders,  in- 
stead of  sharing  the  somptuons  conch 
of  a  Turkish  pasha.  They  had  bid 
adieu  to  their  native  mountains  with 
Mttle  emotaon,  but  as  the  Russian  ship 
approached  they  set  vp  terrible  and 
^BspairiAg  screams.  Seme  sprang 
headioi^i^  into  the  sea;  ot^ieis  drove 
tbdr  knives  into  their  hearts :— to  these 
berohiee  death  was  preferable  to  the 
bridal-bed  of  a  detested  Masoovite. 
Tk»  survivors  wein  taken  to  Am^ia, 
and  manried  to  Cossacks,  or  given  to 
cfiloers  as  servants."  Nearly  every 
Aostriaa  or  Turkish  steamboat  tiMt 
jnakes,  in  the  winter  months,  the  ^Foy. 
«ge  from  Trdnzond  to  Contantiaople, 
iias  a  aomher  of  OifcassiaB  giiia  an 


[FA. 

board.  DrWagaermade^ie  passage 
in  an  i^istriaa  atoamer  with  several 
doaens  of  ^Aese  inllrag  slaves,  chiefly 
mere  ohildren,<twelve  or  thhteen  years 
old,  with  interesting  coantenances  and 
daik  wild  eyes,  but  very  pale  and  thin — 
with  the  -exception  of  two,  who  were 
some  years  older,  far  better  dressed, 
and  carefully  vdled.  To  this  favoured 
pan:  the  slave-deaier  paid  particular 
attention,  and^«qnently  brought  them 
jcoffBO.  Dr  Wagner  got  into  conver- 
sation with  this  man,  who  was  richly 
dressed  in  furs  and  silks,  and  who, 
deiq)ito  his  vile  profession,  had  the 
manners  of  a  gentleaian.  The  two 
ooflfee- drinkers  were  daughters  of 
noblemen,  he  said,  with  fine  rosy 
cheeks,  and  in  better  condition  than 
the  others,  consequently  worth  more 
money  at  Constantiaople.  For  the 
handsomest  he  hoped  to  obtain  80,000 
piastres,  and  for  the  other  20,000— 
about  £250  and  £170.  The  herd  of 
young  creatures  he  spc^e  of  with  con- 
tempt, and  should  think  himself  lucky 
to  get  2000  piastres  for  them  all  round. 
He  further  informed  the  doctor  that, 
although  1^  slave-trade  was  more 
dangerous  and  difficult  since  the  Rus- 
sian occupation  of  the  Caucasian  coast, 
it  was  also  far  more  profitable.  For- 
merly, whea  Greek  and  Armenian 
women  were  brought  in  <srowds  to 
the  •Constantinople  mariiet,  the  most 
beaotifiil  Oircassians  were  not  worth 
more  than  10,000  piastres ;  but  now 
a  raey,  well^ed,  fifteen-year-old  slave 
is  hardly  to  be  bad  under  40,000 
piastres. 

The  Tshetdien  successes,  already 
referred  to  as  having  at  the  close  of 
1642  staired  into  fiame  and  action,  by 
Ibe  force  of  example,  the  smouldering 
but  atiM  ardent  embers  of  Circassian 
hatred  to  Russia,  are  described  with 
venarkable  spirit  by  Br  Wagner,  in  the 
obapter  entitled  ^Caucasian  War- 
Soenes,^*-^ep^estakeD  down  by  him 
^m  the  fips  of  ef^-witnesses,  and 
of  riiarecs  m  the  saaguinary  conflicts 
described.  This  graphic  dbapter  at 
•oaoe  finniliaiises  m  reader  with  tbe 
CaucasJaa  wnr,  with  which  he  thence- 
inward  iesls  as  weH  aoqwunted  as 
whh  our  wan  in  India,  the  Frencb 
oonleat  In  Africa,  «r  with  any  other 
4mies  of  oeaibats,  of  whose  native 
andpragrsss  lainiils  sflforaation  has 
been  xenftariy  wot&vmL     The  fint 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.] 


Cmumam-audliieCoaadu. 


189 


e^ent  described  is  the  Btonning  ef 
AoiAdio,  in  tbe  Bummer  €f  1889.  It 
Is  always  a  great  point  with  gaeiilla 
gienerak,  and  with  leaders  of  meon- 
tatn  w«if  are,  to  hmt  a  centre  of  c^ra- 
tioDs — ^a  strong  post,  whither  tiiey  can 
retreat  after  a  reverse,  with  the  confi- 
dence that  the  enemy  will  hesitate  1>e- 
fore  sttackinff  them  there.  In  Spain, 
Catotra  had  Morelia,  tlie  CooBt 
•d^Bspagne  had  Berga,  the  Kwnureae 
Tiewed  Esteila  as  thdr  citadel.  la 
the  eastern  Cancasns,  Ohafli-M<dlah 
had  Himn,  and  preferred  falUBg  in  its 
defence  to  abandoning  bis  stronghold ; 
Ihb  SQOcessor,  Chamyl,  who  snrpasses 
bim  in  talent  for  war  and  organisa- 
tioo,  established  Iris  headquarters  at 
Aculdho,  a  sort  ef  eagle's  nest  on  the 
riyer  Keisa,  whither  lus  escorts 
^ron^  him  intelligence  of  each  move- 
nient  of  Russian  troops,  and  whence 
he  swooped,  like  the  bird  whose  eyrie 
he  occupied,  upon  the  ood7<^  tra- 
Tersmg  the  steppe  of  the  Terek. 
Here  he  jiAanned  expeditions  and 
surprises,  and  kept  a  store  of  arms 
and  ammunition ;  and  ttisfort  General 
GnMbbe,  who  commanded  in  1889  the 
Russian  forces  in  eastern  Caucasus, 
and  w%o  was  always  a  strong  advo- 
cate -of  the  offensive  system,  obtained 
penmssioa  from  St  Petersburg  to 
attadL  General  Grolowin,  com- 
mander-in-chief of  the  whole  Mmy  of 
the  Caucasus,  and  then  resident  at 
Teffis,  approved  the  enterprise,  whose 
idtimate  results  cost  both  genends 
tiieir  command.  The  ta^ng  of 
Acalcho  itself  was  of  little  moment ; 
tiiere  was  vo  intention  of  placng  a 
Rusman  garrison  there;  but  the 
doirt)Ie  end  to  be  obtained  was  to 
capture  Chamyl,  and  to  intinddate 
lAie  Tshetsfaens,  l^  proving  to  them 
that  no  part  of  their  mountains,  how- 
erer  Aflcnlt  of  access  and  biravely 
deluded,  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
Russian  valour  and  resources.  Their 
uUbMBuion,  at  least  nominal  and 
temporary,  was  the  reeidt  hoped  for. 

Nature  has  done  much  for  the  forti- 
ftcatien  of  Aculoho.  Imagine  a  hill 
cf  sand-stone,  nearly  surrounded  by 
a  loop  cf  the  river  Koisu — a  msaia- 
tm  peninsula,  in  short,  connected 
with  tiie  continent  by  a  narrow  neck 
«f  land-^pfovided  with  three  natnnd 
twnoes,  aocessiUe  only  by  a  email 
WKJky  pafli,  whose  entrance  is  forti- 


fied and  defended  by  500  resolute 
Triietshen  warriors.  A  fierw  artifioial 
parapets  and  introichments,  some 
stone  huts,  and  several  excavations  in 
the  sand  rook,  where  the  besieged 
found  sh^ter  from  shot  and  shell, 
complete  the  picture  of  tiie  plaoe 
before  which  Grabbe  and  his  column 
sat  down.  At  first  they  hoped  to 
reduce  it  by  artillery,  and  bombs  and 
congreve  rockets  were  poured  upon 
the  fortress,  destroying  hots  and 
parapets,  but  doing  litlde  harm  to  the 
Tshetshens,  who  lay  dose  as  conies 
in  their  burrows,  and  watched  their 
opportunity  to  send  well-aimed  buBets 
into  the  Russian  camp.  From  time 
to  time,  one  of  the  fanatical  Mnridea, 
of  whom  the  garrison  was  chiefly 
composed,  impatient  that  the  foe 
delayed  an  assault,  rushed  headlong 
down  from  the  rock,  his  shaska  in  lus 
right  hand,  his  pistol  in  Ins  left,  his 
dagger  between  his  teeth ;  causing  a 
momentary  panic  among  the  Cossadm, 
who  were  prepared  for  the  whistling 
of  bullets,  but  not  for  l^e  sudden 
appearance  of  a  foaming  demon  armed 
cap-h-pie^  who  general^^,  before  th^ 
could  use  their  bayonets,  avenged  in 
advance  his  own  oertam  death  by  the 
slaughter  of  several  of  his  foes,  whilst 
his  comrades  on  t^  rook  applauded 
and  rejoiced  at  the  heroic  self-sacri- 
fice. The  first  attempt  to  storm  was 
costly  to  the  besiegers.  Of  fifteen 
hundred  men  who  ascended  the  nar- 
row path,  only  a  hundred  and  fifty 
survived.  Tiie  Tshetshens  mamtained 
such  a  well-directed  platoon  fire,  that 
not  a  Russian  set  foot  on  the  seoond 
terrace.  The  foremost  men,  mown 
down  by  the  bullets  of  the  besieged, 
foil  ba^L  upon  then-  comrades,  and 
predpitated  them  from  the  rock. 
General  Grabbe,  undismayed  by  his 
heavy  loss,  ordered  a  seoond  and  a 
third  assault;  the  three  cost  two 
thousand  men,  but  the  lower  and 
middle  terraces  were  taken.  The 
defence  of  the  upper  •one  was  despe- 
rate, and  the  Russians  might  have 
been  compiled  to  turn  the  si^e  into 
a  bloduMie,  but  for  the  impmdenoe 
of  eome  of  the  garrison,  who,  anxious 
to  ascertain  the  prooeedings  ^  the 
enemyls  «nginee» — then  hard  at 
work  at  a  mine  mder  the  hill — ven- 
tured too  far  from  their  defmoee,  and 
were  attacked  ty  a : 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


140 


Caucasus  and  the  Cossacks. 


[Feb. 


The  Tshetshens  fled;  bat,  swift  of  foot 
though  they  were,  the  most  active  of 
the  Russians  attained  the  topmost 
terrace  with  them.  A  hand-to-hand 
fight  ensued,  more  battalions  came 
up,  and  Aculcho  was  taken.  The 
victors,  furious  at  their  losses,  and  at 
the  long  resistance  opposed  to  them, 
(this  was  the  22d  August,)  raged  like 
tigers  amongst  the  unfortunate  little 
band  of  mountaineers ;  some  Tshet- 
shen  women,  who  took  up  arms  at 
this  last  extremity,  were  fQaughtered 
with  their  husbands.  At  last  the 
bloody  work  was  apparently  at  an 
end,  and  search  ensued  amonmst  the 
dead  for  the  body  of  Chamyl.  It  was 
nowhere  to  be  found.  At  last  the 
discovery  was  made  that  a  few  of  the 
garrison  had  taken  refuge  in  holes  in 
the  side  of  the  rock,  looking  over  the 
river.  No  path  led  to  these  cavities ; 
the  only  way  to  get  at  them  was  to 
lower  men  by  ropes  from  the  crag 
above.  In  this  manner  the  surviving 
Tshetshens  were  attacked;  quarter 
was  neither  asked  nor  given.  The 
hole  in  which  Chamyl  himself  was 
hidden  held  out  the  longest.  Escape 
seemed,  however,  impossible;  the 
rock  was  surrounded;  the  banks  of 
the  river  were  lined  with  soldiers; 
Grabbers  main  object  was  the  capture 
of  Chamyl.  At  this  critical  moment 
the  handful  of  Tshetshens  still  alive 
gave  an  example  of  heroic  devotion. 
They  knew  that  their  leader's  death 
would  be  a  heavy  loss  to  their  country, 
and  they  resolved  to  sacrifice  them- 
selves to  save  him.  With  a  few 
beams  and  planks,  that  chanced  to  be 
in  the  cave,  they  constructed  a  sort 
of  raft.  This  they  launched  upon  the 
Koisn,  and  floated  with  it  down  the 
stream,  amidst  a  storm  of  Russian 
lead.  The  Russian  general  doubted 
not  that  Chamyl  was  on  the  raft,  and 
ordered  every  exertion  to  kill  or  take 
him.  Whilst  the  Cossacks  spuired 
thehr  horses  into  the  river,  and  the 
infantry  hurried  along  the  bank,  fol- 
lowing the  raft,  a  man  sprang  out  of 
the  hole  into  the  Koisu,  swam  vigor- 
ously acix)ss  the  stream,  landed  at  an 
unguarded  spot,  and  gained  the 
mountains  unhurt.  This  man  was 
Chamyl,  who  alone  escaped  with  life 
from  the  bloody  rock  of  Aculcho. 
His  deliverance  passed  for  miraculous 
amongst  the  enthusiastic  mountaineers. 


with  whom  his  influence,  from  that 
day  forward,  increased  tenfold. 
Grabbe  was  ftirious ;  Chamyl's  head 
was  worth  more  than  the  heads 
of  all  the  garrison :  three  thousand 
Russians  had  been  sacrificed  for  the 
possession  of  a  crag  not  worth  the 
keeping. 

After  the  fall  of  Aculcho,  Chamyl's 
head-quarters  were  at  the  village  of 
Dargo,  in  the  mountain  region  south 
of  the  Russian  fort  of  Girsdaul,  and 
thence  he  carried  on  the  war  with 
great  vigour,  surprising  fortified  posts, 
cutting  off*  convoys,  and  sweeping  the 
plain  with  his  horsemen.  Generals 
Grabbe  and  Golowin  could  not 
agree  about  the  mode  of  operations, 
lie  former  was  for  taking  the  of- 
fensive; the  latter  advocated  the 
defensive  and  blockade  systenu 
Grabbe  went  to  St  Petersburg  to 
plead  in  person  for  his  plan,  obtained 
a  favourable  hearing,  and  the  emperor 
sent  Prince  Tchemicheff',  the  minis- 
ter at  war,  to  visit  both  flanks  of  the 
Caucasus.  Before  the  prince  reached 
the  left  wing  of  the  line  of  operations, 
Grabbe  resolved  to  surprise  him  with 
a  brilliant  achievement ;  and  on  the 
29th  May  1842,  he  marched  from 
Girselaul  with  thirteen  battalions,  a 
small  escort  of  mounted  Cossacks,  and 
a  train  of  mountain  artillery,  to  attack 
Dargo.  The  route  was  through  forests, 
and  along  paths  tangled  with  wild 
flowers  and  creeping  plants,  through 
which  the  heavy  Russian  infantiy, 
encumbered  with  eight  days'  rations 
and  sixty  rotinds  of  ball-cartridge, 
made  but  slow  and  punful  progress. 
The  first  day's  march  was  accom- 
plished without  fighting;  only  here 
and  there  the  slender  active  form  of  a 
mountaineer  was  descried,  as  he  peered 
between  the  trees  at  the  long  column 
of  bayonets,  and  vanished  as  soon 
as  he  was  observed.  After  mid- 
night the  dance  began.  The  troops  had 
eaten  their  rations,  and  were  comfort- 
ably bivouacked,  when  they  were 
assailed  by  a  sharp  fire  frt)m  an  in- 
visible foe,  to  which  they  replied  in 
the  durection  of  the  flashes.  This 
skirmishing  lasted  all  night ;  few  were 
killed  on  either  side,  but  the  whole 
Russian  division  were  deprived  of 
sleep,  and  wearied  for  the  next  day's 
march.  At  daybreak  the  enemy  re- 
tired;  but  at  noon,  when   passing 


|GoogIe 


1849.] 


Caucasus  and  the  Cossacks, 


141 


through  a  forest  defile,  the  column 
was  again  assailed,  and  soon  the 
horses,  and  a  few  light  carts  [accom- 
panying it,  were  insufficient  to  convey 
the  wounded.  The  staff  urged  the 
general  to  retrace  his  step,  but 
Grabbe  was  bent  on  welcoming 
Tchemicheff  with  a  triumphant  bul- 
letin. Another  sleepless  biyouac 
— another  flagging  day,  more  skir- 
mishing. At  last,  when  within  sight 
of  the  fortified  village  of  Dargo, 
the  loss  of  the  column  was  so  heavy, 
and  its  situation  so  critical,  that 
a  retreat  was  ordered.  The  daring 
and  fury  of  the  Tdhetshens  now 
knew  no  bounds;  they  assailed  the 
troops  sabre  in  hand,  captured  bag- 
gage and  wounded,  ana  at  night 
prowled  round  the  camp,  like  wolves 
round  a  dying  soldier.  On  the  1st 
June,  the  fight  recommenced.  The 
valour  displayed  by  the  mountaineers 
was  admitted  by  the  Russians  to  be 
extraordinary,  as  was  also  theur  skill 
in  wielding  the  terrible  shaska.  They 
made  a  fierce  attack  on  the  centre  of 
the  column— cut  down  the  artillery- 
men and  captured  six  guns.  The 
Russians,  who  throughout  the  whole 
of  this  trying  exp^ition  did  their 
duty  as  good  and  brave  soldiers,  were 
furious  at  the  loss  of  their  artillery, 
and  by  a  desperate  charge  retook  five 
pieces,  the  sixth  being  relinquished 
only  because  its  carriage  was  broken. 
Upon  the  last  day  of  the  retreat, 
Chamyl  came  up  with  his  horsemen. 
Had  he  been  able  to  get  these  together 
two  days  sooner,  it  is  doubtful  whether 
any  portion  of  the  column  would  have 
esci^ed.  As  it  was,  the  Russians 
lost  nearly  two  thousand  men ;  the 
weary  and  dispirited  survivors  re- 
entering Girselaul  wtih  downcast 
mien.  Preparations  had  been  made 
to  celebrate  their  triumph,  and,  to 
add  to  their  general's  mortification, 
Tchemicheff  was  awaiting  theur  arri- 
val. On  the  prince's  return  to  St 
Petersburg,  both  Grabbe  and  Golowin 
were  removed  fipom  their  commands. 

Agahist  this  same  Tshetshen  for- 
tress of  Dargo,  Count  Woronzoff's 
expedition  (uready  referred  to)  was 
made,  in  July  1845.  A  c^>ital  ac- 
count of  the  affair  is  g^ven  in  a  letter 
firom  a  Russian  officer  engaged,  printed 
in  Dr  Waffner's  book.  Darao  had 
become  an  important  place.    Chamyl 


had  established  large  stores  there, 
and  had  built  a  mosque,  to  which 
came  pilgrims  from  the  remotest  vil- 
lages of  Daghestan  and  Lesghistan, 
partly  to  pray,  partly  to  see  the 
dreaded  cWef— -equally  renowned  as 
warrior  and  priest — and  to  give  him 
information  concerning  the  state  of 
the  country,  and  the  movements  of  the 
Russians.  Less  vigorously  opposed 
than  Grabbe,  and  his  measures  better 
taken,  Woronzoff  reached  Dargo  with 
moderate  loss.  ^^The  village,"  says 
the  Russian  officer :  ^^  was  situated 
on  the  slope  of  a  mountain,  at  the 
brink  of  a  ravine,  and  consisted  of  sixty 
to  seventy  small  stone-houses,  and  of  a 
few  larger  buildings,  where  the  stones 
were  joined  with  mortar,  instead  of  be- 
ing merely  superimposed,  as  is  usually 
the  case  in  Caucasian  dwellings.  One 
of  these  buildings  had  several  irregu- 
lar towers,  of  some  apparent  antiquity. 
When  we  approached,  a  thick  smoke 
burst  from  them.  Chamyl  had  or- 
dered everything  to  be  set  on  fire 
that  could  not  be  carried  away.  One 
must  confess  that,  v^  this  fierce  detei*- 
mination  of  the  enemy  to  refuse  sub- 
mission—to defend,  foot  by  foot,  the 
territory  of  his  forefathers,  and  to 
leave  to  the  Russians  no  other  tro- 
phies than  ashes  and  smoking  ruins — 
there  is  a  certain  wild  grandeur  which 
extorts  admiration,  even  though  the 
hostile  chief  be  no  better  than  a  fan- 
atical barbarian.**  This  reminds  us 
of  the  words  of  the  Circassian  chief 
Mansour : — "When  Turkey  and  Eng- 
land abandon  us,"  he  said,  to  Bell  of 
the  *  Vixen,' — "  when  all  our  powers 
of  resistance  are  exhausted,  we  will 
bum  our  houses  and  our  goods, 
strangle  our  wives  and  our  children, 
and  retreat  to  our  highest  rocks,  there 
to  die,  fighting  to  the  very  last  man." 
"  The  greatest  difficulty/*  said  Gen- 
eral Neidhardt  to  Dr  Wagner,  who 
was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  house  of 
that  distinguished  officer,  "with  which 
we  have  to  contend,  is  the  unappeas- 
able, deep-rooted,  ineradicable  hatred 
cherished  by  all  the  mountaineers 
against  the  Russians.  For  this  we 
know  no  cure ;  every  form  of  severity 
and  of  kindness  has  been  tried  in  turn, 
with  equal  ill-snccess.**  Valour  and 
patriotism  are  neariy  the  only  good 
qualities  the  Caucasians  can  boast. 
They  are  cruel,  and  for  the  most  part 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


142 


Caueamu  amd  ^  Cmmckt 


[Felr. 


faithless^  eipeciflily  tiie  TahetsheiUK 
said  Dr  Wagnor  ivarns  as  againat 
crediting  tiie  asfiaggerated  accomitB 
fireqnenSj  given  of  their  many  vir- 
tues. The  Circaasiana  are  said  to< 
respect  their  plighted  word,  bat  tiiere 
are  mai^  exceptioaa^  CraieralNeid* 
hardt  toid  Dr  Wagner  an  anecdote  of 
a  CireaBsoBi,  who  pres^ted  Mma^ 
before  the  commaodant  of  one  of  the 
Black  Sea  fortresses,  and  offered  to 
cofranonieate  most  important  intelli- 
gence, on  condition  of  a  certain  re^ 
ward.  The  reward  was  promised. 
Then  said  the  Circassian,—*^  To-mor- 
row after  sanset,  vonr  fort  will  be 
assailed  by  thoosands  of  my  country- 
men."  The  informer  was  retained, 
whilst  Cossacks  and  riflemen  were  sent 
ont,  and  it  proved  that  he  had  spoken 
the  tmth.  The  enemy,  finding  the 
garrison  on  their  gnard,  retired  after 
a  short  skirmish.  The  Circassian  re- 
ceived his  recompense,  whieh  he  took 
withont  a  word  of  thanks,  and  left  die 
fortress.  Without  the  walls,  he  met 
an  nnarmed  soldier;  ha^d  of  the 
Russians,  and  Uiirst  of  blood,  again 
got  the  ascendency:  he  shot  the  sol- 
diar  dead,  and  scampered  off  to  the 
moontains. 

Chamyl  did  not  loD^  remain  in- 
debted to  the  Bnsnans  ror  their  visit 
to  Dargo.  His  repotadon  of  sanctity 
and  valonr  enabled  him  to  nnite  nnder 
his  orders  many  tribes  habitoally  hos- 
tile to  each  other,  and  which  previously 
had  foni^t  each  **  on  its  own  hook.*' 
Of  these  tribes  he  formed  a  powerful 
league;  and  in  May  1846  he  burst 
into  Cabardia  at  the  head  of  twenty 
thousand  mountaineers,  four  thouaand 
of  whom  were  horsemen.  Formidable 
though  this  force  was,  the  venture  waa 
one  of  extreme  temerity.  He  left  be- 
hind him  a  double  line  of  Bnssian 
camps  and  forts,  and  two  rivans,  tiien 
at  the  flood,  and  difficult  to  pass. 
With  an  und^plined  and  heteroge- 
neous army,  without  artillery  or  re- 
gular commissariat,  this  daring  chief 
threw  hhnself  into  a  flat  country,  un- 
favourable to  guerilla  warfore ;  slipphig 
through  the  Russian  posts,  marching 
more  than  four  hundred  miles,  and 
utterly  disregarding  the  danger  be  was 
in  from  a  well-equipped  army  of  up- 
wards of  seventy  thousand  men,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  numerous  mUitaiy 
population  of  the  Cossack  setdements 


on  the  Terek  andSundsoha,  andof  the 
foet  that  the  Cabardians,  kmg  sob- 
misaiira  to  Roano,  ware  mexe  likely 
to  arm  in*  defenee-ef  their  rulers  than 
to  fEUFOor  the  mountaineenk  8h^^ 
herds  and  dwellera  in  the  plain,  and 
far  less  warlike  than  the  other  Cir- 
cassian, tribes,  they  never  wa»  able 
to  make  head  against  the  Russians ; 
and  had  remained  mdiffiu^ent  to  all 
the  moentives  of  Tshetdien  iiuntica 
and  iNTopagandists.  For  years  past^ 
Chamyl  had  threatened  them  with  a 
visifc;  but  nevertheless^  his  sudden 
appearance  greatly  suiprised  and  eon- 
founded  both  t^em  and  the  Rais«an 
general,  who  had  just  conoentrated  all 
his  movable  columns,  with  a  view  te 
an  expedition,  relying  overmuch  upon 
his  lines  of  forts  and  blockhooees. 
The  Tshetrilen  raid  was  more  darinff^ 
and  at  least  aa  successful,  asAbd-d- 
Kader's  celebrated  foray  in  the  Me- 
tii^ay  in  the  year  1839.  Chamyl  ad- 
dressed to  the  Cabardian»  a  thundering 
proclamation,  full  of  quotations  fieom 
the  Koran,  and  denouncing  vengeance 
on  themtif  they  did  not  floek  to  the 
banner  of  the  Prophet.  The  unludcy 
Iraepers  of  sheep  found  themselvea  be^ 
tween  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea 
From  terror  rather  than  sympathy, 
a  large  number  of  villages  dedared  for 
Chamyl,  whose  wild  honies  bnmed 
and  plundered  the  property  of  allwhe 
adhered  to  the  Russians ;  leaving,  like 
a  swarm  of  locusts,  desolati<ML  in  their 
track.  When  the  Coaaadm  begaa  to- 
gathar,  and  the  Russian  generals  tor 
manoBUvre,  Chaonrl,  who  knew  he 
could  not  contend  in  the  plaia  with 
disciplined  and  superior  forceS)  and 
whose  retreat  by  the  road  he  cane 
was  aheady  cut  ofl;  traversed  Ghreat 
and  Little  Cabardia,  burning  and  de- 
stroying as  he  went ;  dadied  throof^ 
the  Cossack  oolomea  to  the  south  of 
Ekatsrinograd,  and  regainedhis  moun- 
tains in  safety— dragging  with  him 
booty,  prisoners,  and  Cabaadian  re- 
cruits. These  latter,  who  had  joined 
through  fear  of  Chamyl^  ranatned 
with  him  through  fear  of  the  Rwwians. 
By  this  foray,  whose  apparent  great 
rashness  was  justified  by  its  oomplete 
success,  Cham^rl  enriched  his  pe^et 
stiengthraed  his  army,  and  greatly 
weakened  the  confidence  of  the  tribes 
of  the  plain  in  the  efficacy  of  Russian 
protection.    As  usual,  in  cases  of  dia- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


astor,  th«  BaaiAiiw  kept  Ham  afiair  a& 
qoiet  as-  thay  orald;.  bnt  the  trotfi 
oooM  not  be  qnnontlod  ftx»i-  thom 
most  concsBiiedv.  and  ■mnMrs-  of  ftis- 
maj  ran  akng  the-ttqMsadiline'finiig^ 
mg  the  MnaciMnteraiMi  GveaBuaa  tw* 
riloriesw 

The  Boaaan  anagrof  tlie  Camaauft 
reckanad,  ia  I846>  iteat  ei^ity  thoa- 
sand  man^  exdnaiTe  o£  tbict^F-five 
thofuand  wha  had  littla  W  do  with 
the  war,  bat  wepe  mena-  aapeoially 
employed  la  watohlny  the-  extenrnvo 
line  of  Tndush  and  Panwn  fronftier, 
aad  in  endaam)iiriBg:  to  exdnde  eouK 
tnband  goods  andAaiaUo  epSikmica. 
Bot  the  aevere  fig^itiag  that  oeawred 
in  1842  and  1843)  showed  the  nea8a«> 
aty  of  an  iuGraase  of  foroa.  Sobae- 
qoeai  events  hai^  not  admitted  o£  % 
reduction  lathe  Gancaaian  aatabiSsh- 
meat ;  and  we  are  psobably  very  near 
tlie  mark,  in  eaiimattng  tiia  troepa 
oocnpying  the  variona  forts  and  campa 
on  the  Black  Sea,  and  the  lines  of  the 
rivers^  (Tarak,  Knbant  Koisnv  &c.,) 
ai  aboni  one  hnndfid  ^onaand  men. 
— notataUtoomaaytognaid80>eXf-< 
tensive  a  line,  agaktat  so  aottve  and 
enterpriainf  afoe.  The  Bttsai«k  ranks 
are  conataatfy  thinned  by  destniotiJFe 
fevers,  whidi,  iabadyeais,  httfe  bean 
known  to  cany  off  as  mndi  aa  a  sixth 
of  the  Caflcaaian  awnnft.  AttLnview 
at  yiadikawkaa.1.  Db  Wagner  was 
stRifik  by  the*  pawoEfol  bniid  q€  the 
Bnaaian  foat-aoidiers — broadi-du»l*- 
deredt  broad-fiMad  ^awonianat  witit 
enonnoia  nmataehaa»  drflled  to  ante«> 
matical  perfection,  in  point  of  bona 
and  limbf.  every  man  of  them  waa  a 
grenadier  In  a  bayonet  diargaf  snch 
in£uitry  are  formidBhle>  opponents^ 
S^gor  mendoBft  that,,  on  the  battle- 
field of  Bon^ftae^  the  nation  of  the 
stripped  bodiea  was  eadly  knownf— 
the  maade  and  siaat  of  tiie  Btuaiana 
oontnating  with  tiie  slighter  framea  of 
Franeh  and  Gennaoa^  '^Ton  mi^ 
kill  the  Bosianai  but  yon  will  hardly 
make  them  non^"  was  a  storing  of 
VndBBtk  the  Gnat;  and  oertiMidy 
SeidlitE,  Ytha  soattttiad  the  French  so 
briskly  at  Tftoasbaeht  had  to  sweat 
Idoed  bafinre  he  overcame  theRnasianfr 
atZonutof.  Those  anrvlvgara  of  Na*- 
poleon's  fitnumsGnard  who  fosght  in 
the  drawn  battle  of  E^lao,  will  bear 
witneeato  the  atabbam^reaatanflD  and 
ball-dog  qnalitiea  of  tiie  Mosoovite. 


aadO^Ct 


143 

Bbt^  the  grenadier  statnxe^  and  the  im- 
mobility utder  fire — admhnble  ^pmli- 
tiaa  on^  at  plain^  and  against  regular 
k«opB— a^rail  little  in.  the  Caocasas. 
The  bnily  Bnssian  pants  and  perspires 
np  Aehiiis,  which  the  ligfat-foetedchifr' 
mois-like  Circassians  and  Tahetshena 
aacandat  a  ran.  The  momitaineera 
miderstand  their  advantages,  and  de<- 
dine  standing  still  in  the  plain  to  be 
diarged  by  a  line  of  bayonets.  They 
dance  ronnd  the  heavy  Bnssian,  whoy 
with  his  well-stnfifed  knapsack  ani 
long  greatcoat,  can  baoety  tnni  on 
his  heel  fiist  enough  to  fiu»  titem. 
They  catch  him  ont  skirmishing,  and 
daughter  him  in  detail.  '*  One  mi^ 
suppose,"  said  a  foreigner  in  the  Bia- 
sian  service  to  Dr  Wagner,  "  that  the 
musket  and  bayonet  of  tiie  Bussiaa 
soldier  would  be  too  much,  in  single 
combat,  for  the  sabre  and  dagger  of 
the  Tshetshen.  The  contraiy  is  the 
caae;  AmongBt  the  dead,^  slain  in 
hand-to-hand  encounter,  there  ana 
usually  a  third  more  Rnsaians  than 
Caucasiana.  Strange  to  say,  toa,  the 
Ruauan  soldier^  who  in  the  seined 
ranks^  of  his  battalion  meets  dbatii 
witii  wondidrftd  firmness^  and  who  haa 
shown  the  utmost  valour  in  contests 
with  European,  Turkish,  and  Persiaa 
armiisa,  of&n  betrava  timidity  in  the 
Caucasian  war,  and  retreata  from  the 
outposts  to  the  column^  m  spite  of  the 
he»7y  punishment  he  thereby  incurs. 
I  m^Mlf  waa  exposed,  during  the  mur^ 
derous  fight  nearlBchtoi(I>argo,)  in 
184^,  to  o(msiderab]e  dangw,  because, 
having  gone  to  the  assistance  of  a 
skirmisher,  who  was  sharply  engaged 
with  a  Tshetahen,  the  skirmish^  ranv 
leainng  me  to  fi(i^  it  ont  akme." 
This  diynesB  of  Russian  soldiers  in 
sin^e  fight  and  uregular  warfore,  is 
not  inexplicable.  They  have  no 
chance  of  promotion,  no  honourable 
stimulus :  rood  and  brandy,  disdpline 
and  dread  of  the  lash,  convat  tiiem 
finom  serfo  into  soldiers.  As  bits  of  a 
machine,  they  are  admirable  when 
united,  but  asunder  they^  are  mere 
screws  and  bolts.  Fanatic  zeal,  bit- 
ter haired,  and  thirst  of  bloody  ani- 
mate the  Cancaaian,  who,  trained  to 
arms  from  his  boyhood,  and  ignorant 
of  diiUf  relies  only  upon  his  keen 
shaska,  and  upon  the  Prophet's  pro- 
tection. 
Freanmhig  Dr  Wagner^  statement 


*  Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


144 


Caucasus  and  iJte  Cossacks, 


[Feb. 


of  Russian  rations  to  be  correct,  it  is 
a  puzzle  how  the  soldier  preserves  the 
condition  of  his  thews  and  sinews. 
The  dailj  allowance  consists  of  three 
pounds  of  bread,  black  as  a  coal ;  a 
water-soup,  in  which  three  pounds  of 
bacon  are  cut  up  for  every  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  men ;  a  ration  of  wodka^ 
or  bad  brandy,  and  once  a- week  a 
small  piece  of  meat.    The  pay  is  nine 
rubles  a-year,  (about  one-third  of  a 
penny  per  diem,)  out  of  which  the  un- 
fortunate private  has  to  purchase  his 
stock,  cap,  soap,  blacking,  salt,  <&c. ,  &c. 
Any  surplus  he  is  allowed  to  expend 
upon  his  Amusement.    ^'Our  soldiers 
are  obliged  to  steal  a  little,"  said  a 
German  officer  in  the  Bussian  service 
to  Dr  Wagner ;  "  theu-  pay  will  not 
purchase  soap  and  blacking ;  and  if 
their  shirts  are  not  clean,  and  their 
shoes  polished,  the  stick  is  their  por- 
tion."    ^^  Stealing  a  little,"  in  one 
way  or  other,  is  no  uncommon  practice 
in  Russia,  even  amongst  more  highly 
placed  personages  than  the  soldiers. 
Officials  of  all  kinds,  both  civil  and  mili- 
tary, particularly  those  of  the  middle 
and  lower  ranks,  are  prone  to  pecula- 
tion.   Dr  Wagner  was  deafened  with 
the  complaints  that  from  aU  sides  met 
his  ear.    ^^  Ah !  if  the  emperor  knew 
it!"  was  the  usual  cry.    The  subjects 
of  Nicholas  have  strong  faith  in  his 
justice.    It  is  well  remembered  in  the 
Caucasus,  especially  by  the   army, 
how  one  day,  at  Teflis,  the  emperor, 
upon  parade,  in  full  view  of  mob  and 
soldiers,  tore,  with  his  own  hand,  the 
golden  insignia  of  a  general's  rank 
u-om  the  coat  of  Prince  Dadian,  de- 
nounced to  him  as  enriching  himself 
at  his  men's  expense.    For  sevconEd 
years  afterwards,  the  prince  carried  the 
musket,  and  wore  the  coarse  gray  coat 
of  a  private  sentinel.     The  officers 
j>itied  him,  although  his  condemna- 
tion was  just.    "  Ilfaut  prqfiter  dune 
bonne  place,^^  is  their  current  maxim. 
The  soldiers  rejoiced ;  but  in  secret ; 
for  such  rejoicings  are  not  always  safe. 
A  sentence  often  recoils  unpleasantly 
upon  the  accuser.    Dr  Warner  gives 
sundry  examples.  A  major  m  Sewas- 
topol  fell  in  love  with  a  seraeanfs 
wife ;  and  as  she  disregarded  his  ad- 
dresses, he  persecuted  her  and  her 
husband  at  every  opportunity.     In 
despair,  the  sergeant  at  last  com- 
plamed  to  the  general  commanding. 


lie  was  listened  to ;  an  investigation 
ensued ;  the  major  was  superseded ; 
and  from  his  successor  the  sergeant 
received  five  hundred  lashes,  under 
pretence  of  his  having  left  his  regi- 
ment without  permission  when  he 
went  to  lodge  his  charge.  Corporal 
punishment,  of  frequent  application, 
at  the  mere  caprice  of  their  superiors, 
to  Russian  serfs  and  soldiers,  is  in- 
flicted with  sticks  or  rods,  the  knout 
being  reserved  for  very  grave  offences, 
such  as  murder,  rebellion,  &c.,  and 
preceding  banishment  to  Siberia, 
should  the  sufferer  survive.  Dr 
Wafer's  description  of  this  dreadful 
punishment  is  horribly  vivid.  Few 
criminals  are  sentenced  to  more  than 
twenty-five  lashes,  and  less  than 
twenty  often  kill.  Running  the  gaunt- 
let through  three  thousand  men  is  the 
usual  punishment  of  deserters ;  and 
this  would  usually  be  a  sentence  of 
death  but  for  the  compassion  of  the 
officers,  who  hmt  to  their  companies 
to  strike  lightly.  If  the  sufferer 
faints,  and  is  declared  by  the  surgeon 
unable  to  receive  all  his  punishment, 
he  gets  the  remainder  at  some  future 
time.  ^'  Take  him  down"  is  a  phrase 
unknown  in  the  Russian  service,  until 
the  offender  has  received  the  last  lash 
of  his  sentence. 

Severity  is  doubtless  necessary  in 
an  army  composed  like  that  of  Russia. 
Two-thirds  of  the  soldiers  are  serfs, 
whose  masters,  being  allowed  to  send 
what  men  they  please — so  long  as 
they  make  up  their  quota— naturally 
contribute  the  greatest  scamps  and 
idlers  upon  then:  estates.  The  army 
in  Russia  is  what  the  galleys  are  in 
France,  and  the  hulks  in  England—a 
punishment  for  an  infinity  of  offences. 
An  official  embezzles  funds— to  the 
army  with  him;  a  Jew  is  caught 
smuggling — off  with  him  to  the  ranks ; 
a  Tartar  cattle-stealer,  a  vagrant 
gipsy,  an  Armenian  trader  convicted 
of  fraud,  a  Petersburg  coachman  who 
has  run  over  a  pedestrian — all  food 
for  powder— gray  coats  and  bayonets 
for  them  all.  Jews  abound  in  the 
Russian  arm3r,  being  subjected  to  a 
severe  conscription  in  Pohind  and 
southern  Russia.  They  submit  with 
exemplary  patience  to  the  hardships 
of  the  service,  and  to  the  taunts  of 
then:  Russian  comrades.  Poles  ai^  of 
course  numerous  in  Uie  ranks,  but 


Digitized  by 


GooqIc 


1849.] 


Caucasui  and  the  Casaeks. 


145 


they  are  less  endniiog  than  the  Israel- 
ite, and  often  desert  to  the  Circassians, 
who  make  them  work  as  servants,  or 
sell  them  as  slaves  to  the  Turks.  No 
race  are  too  nnmUitary  in  their  natnre 
to  be  ground  into  soldiers  by  the  mUl 
of  Russian  discipline.  Besides  Jews, 
gipsies  and  Armenians  iigare  on  the 
muster-roll.  It  must  have  been  a 
queer  day  for  the  ragged  Zingaro, 
when  the  Russian  sergeant  first  step- 
ped into  his  smoky  tent,  bade  him 
dip  his  elf  locks,  wash  his  grimy 
countenance,  and  follow  to  the  field. 
For  him  the  pomp  of  war  had  no 
seductions;  he  would  far  rather  have 
stuck  to  his  den  and  vermin,  and  to 
his  meal  of  roast  rats  and  hedgehogs. 
But  military  discipline  works  miracles. 
The  slouching  filthy  vagabond  of  yes- 
terday now  stands  erect  as  if  he  had 
swallowed  his  ramrod,  his  shoes  a 
brilliant  jet,  his  buttons  sparkling  in 
the  sun— a  soldier  from  toe  to  top- 
knot.    " 

The  right  bank  of  the  Kuban,  firom 
the  Sea  of  Azov  to  the  month  of  the 
Laba,  (a  tributary  of  the  former 
stream,)  is  peopled  with  Tchema- 
mortsy  Cossacks,  who  furnish  ten 
regiments,  each  of  a  thousand  horse- 
men, for  the  defence  of  their  lands 
and  fomiUes.  These  cavalry  carry  a 
musket,  slung  on  the  back,  and  a  long 
red  lance :  thehr  dress  is  a  sheepskin 
jacket,  except  on  state  occasions,  when 
they  sport  uniform.  They  are  much 
less  fewed  by  the  Circassians  than 
are  the  Cossacks  of  the  Line,  who 
wear  the  Circassian  dress,  carr}'  sabres 
instead  of  lances,  and  are  more  va- 
liant, active  and  skilful,  than  their 
Tchemamortsy  neighbours.  The  Cos- 
sacks of  the  Caucasian  Line  dwell  on 
the  banks  of  the  Kuban  and  Terek, 
form  a  military  colony  of  about  fifty 
thousand  souls,  and  keep  six  thousand 
horsemen  ready  for  the  field.  There 
is  a  mixture  of  Circassian  blood  in 
their  veins,  and  they  are  first-rate 
fighting  men.  Their  villages  are  ex- 
posed to  fiiBquent  attacks  fVom  the 
mountaineers;  but  when  these  are  not 
exceedingly  rapid  in  collecting  their 
booty,  and  effecting  their  retreat,  the 
Ck)ssacks  assemble,  and  a  desperate 
fight  ensues.  When  the  combatants 
are  numerically  matched,  the  equality 
of  arms,  horses,  and  skill  renders  the 
issue  very  doubtfW.     The  Tchema- 

VOL.  LXV. — NO.  COCC. 


mortsies  and  Don  Cossacks  are  less 
able  to  cope  with  the  Circassians.  In 
a  tnel^  their  lances  are  inferior  to  the 
shaska.  The  rival  daims  of  lance 
and  sabre  have  often  been  discussed ; 
many  trials  of  their  respective  merits 
have  been  made  in  English,  French, 
and  German  riding-schools ;  and  much 
ink  has  been  shed  on  the  subject. 
Unouestionably  the  lance  has  done 
good  service,  and  in  certain  circum- 
stances is  a  terrible  arm.  *'  At  the 
battle  of  Dresden,"  Marshal  Marmont 
tells  us,  '^  the  Austrian  infantir  were 
repeatedly  assailed  by  the  French 
cuirassiers,  whom  they  as  often  beat 
back,  although  the  rain  prevented 
their  firing,  and  the  bayonet  was  their 
sole  defence.  But  fifty  lancers  of 
Latonr-Manbourg*s  escort  at  once 
broke  their  ranks."  Had  the  cuiras- 
siers had  lances,  their  first  charge, 
Marmont  plausibly  enough  asserts, 
would  have  sufficed.  This  leads  Uy 
another  question,  often  mooted — 
whether  the  lance  be  properly  a  light 
or  a  heavy  cavalry  weapon.  When 
used  to  break  infantry,  weight  of  man 
and  horse  might  be  an  {^vantage ; 
but  in  pursuit,  where — espedally  in 
rugged  and  mountainous  countries — 
the  lance  is  found  particularly  useful, 
the  preference  is  obviously  for  the 
swift  steed  and  light  cavalier.  In  the 
irregular  cavalry  combats  on  the  Cau- 
casian line,  the  sabre  carries  the  day. 
Unless  the  Don  Cossack's  first  lance- 
thrust  setties  his  adversary,  (which  is 
rarely  the  case,)  the  next  instant  the 
adroit  Circassian  is  within  his  guard, 
and  then  the  betting  is  ten  to  one  on 
Caucasus.  Moreover,  the  Don  Cos- 
sacks, brought  from  afar  to  wage  a 
perilous  and  profitless  war,  are  unwil- 
ling combatants.  They  find  blows 
more  plentiful  than  booty,  and  approve 
themsdves  arrant  thieves  and  shy 
fighters.  Relieved  eveir  two  or  three 
years,  they  have  scarcely  time  to  get 
broken  in  to  the  peculiar  mode  of 
warfare.  The  Cossacks  of  the  Line 
are  the  fiower  of  the  hundred  thou- 
sand wild  warriors  scattered  over 
the  steppes  of  Southern  Russia,  and 
ready,  at  one  man's  word,  to  vault 
into  the  saddle.  Thehr  gallant  feats 
are  numerous.  In  1843,  during  Dr 
Wagner's  visit,  three  thousand  Cir- 
cassians dashed  across  the  Kuban, 
near  the  fortified  village  of  Ustlaba. 

K 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


146 


Caucasus  and  the  Cossacks, 


[Feb. 


A  dense  fog  hid  them  from  the  Bus- 
sian  vedettes.  Suddenlj  fifhr  Cos- 
sacks of  the  Line,  the  escort  of  a  guii 
foond  tiiemselvQs  fiace  to  fiice  with  the 
moontalneers.  The  mist  was  so  thick 
that  the  hocses'  heads  almost  touched 
beforeeitherpartyperceived  the  other. 
Flight  was  impossible,  bat  the  Cos- 
sadb  fought  like  fiends.  Fortj-seven 
met  a  soldier's  death ;  only  three  were 
captured,  and  accompanied  the  can- 
non across  the  river,  by  which  road 
the  Circassians  at  once  retreated, 
having  taken  the  brave  detachment 
fbr  the  advanced  guard  of  a  strong 
force. 

The  word  Kasak,  Kosak,  or  Kossack, 
variously  interpreted  by  Klaproth  and 
other  etymologists  as  robber,  volun- 
teer, daredevil,  &c.,  conveys  to  civi- 
lised ears  rude  and  inelegant  associa- 
tions. Paris  has  not  yet  forgotten 
the  uncouth  hordes,  wrapped  in  sheep- 
skins and  overrun  with  vermin,  who, 
in  the  hour  of  her  humiliation,  startled 
her  streets,  and  made  her  dandies 
shriek  for  their  smelling-bottleB.  Not 
that  Paris  saw  the  worst  of  them. 
Some  of  the  Uralian  bears,  centaurs  of 
the  steppes,  Calibans  on  horseback, 
were  never  allowed  to  pass  the  Russian 
frontier.  Their  emperor  appreciated 
their  good  qualities,  but  left  them  at 
home.  Since  then,  a  change  has  occur- 
ed.  Civilisation  has  made  huge  strides 
north-eastward.  Near  Fanagoria,  Dr 
Wagner  passed  a  pleasant  evening 
with  a  Cossack  officer,  a  prime  fellow, 
with  an  unquaichable  thirst  for  toddy, 
and  an  inexhaustible  store  of  informa- 
tion. He  had  made  the  campaigns 
against  the  French;  had  evidently 
been  bred  a  savajie,  or  little  better; 
but  had  acquired,  onring  his  long  mili- 
tary career,  knowledge  of  the  worid  and 
a  certain  degree  of  polish.    Amongst 


other  interesting  matters,  he  gave  a 
sketch  of  his  grandfather,  a  blood- 
thirsty old  warrior  and  image-wor- 
shipper, the  scourge  of  his  Nogay 
neighbours,  and  a  great  slayer  of  the 
Turk;  who  in  1812,  at  the  mature  age 
of  ninety,  had  responded  to  Czar 
Alexander's  summons  to  fight  ibr 
''  faith  and  fatherland,"  and  had 
taken  the  field  under  Platofi^  at 
the  head  of  thirteen  sons  and  three- 
score grandsons.  Whilst  the  Cossack 
mi^or  told  the  history  of  the  "  Demon 
of  the  Steppes,"  as  his  ferodons 
ancestor  was  called,  his  son,  a  gay 
lieutenantintheCossacksof  the  Guttd, 
entered  the  apartment.  This  young 
gentleman,  slender,  handsome,  with 
well-cut  uniform,  graceful  manners, 
and  well-waxed  mustaches,  declined 
the  punch,  *^  havjng  sot  used  at  St 
Petersburg  to  tea  and  chan^>agne.V 
He  brought  intelligence  of  promotions 
and  decorations,  of hifh  play  at  Tcher- 
kask,  (the  capital  of  the  Don-Cos- 
sacks* country,)  and  of  the  establish- 
ment at  Toganrog  of  a  French  res- 
tauraietir,  who  retuled  Veuve  CUcquofs 
genuine  champagne  at  four  silver 
rubles  a  bottle.  He  was  fascinated 
by  the  French  actresses  at  St  Peters- 
burg, and  enthusiastic  in  praise  of 
Ta^ni,  then  displaying  her  legs  and 
naces  hi  the  Russian  metropolis.  Dr 
Wagner  left  the  ^mposium  with  a 
vivid  impression  of  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  bearded  barbarian  of  1812 
and  the  dapper  guardsman  of  thirty 
years  later ;  and  with  the  ftdl  convic- 
tion that  the  next  Russian  emperor 
who  makes  an  inroad  into  civilised 
Europe,  will  have  no  occasion  to  be 
ashamed  of  his  Cossacks,  even  though 
his  route  should  lead  him  to  the  polita 
capital  of  the  French  republic 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


IM9.] 


The  Cartom    Pi»rt  X. 


147 


TflUB  CAXTONS» — PASX  X« 


obaher  xlyi. 


Mt  uadfi'a  oonjeotore  as  to  tte 
pwemlagft  <^  Frandfi  Viviaa  aeanedr 
Id  ae  a  pMkive  discovery,  liotiiiiig 
Boro  liiuQly  tiuuL  that  tMs  wilful  bc^ 
hadfiBrmed  some  l&eadatroBg  atlaak- 
neni  wbieh  no  father  would  saactkni, 
and  Mt  thwaorted  and  irritated^  thrown 
hiMMlf  Oft  the  world.  Soeh  an  expla- 
aatioa  was  the  more  agreeable  to  ne^ 
aa  U  cleared  np  all  that  had  appearel 
Bore  discreditable  in  the  mystery  that 
fiorroanded  Vivian.  I  oonld  lever 
bear  to  think  that  he  had  done  any- 
Ibiag  mean  and  criminal,  however  I 
miAi  bdieve  he  had  been  raah  and 
iuks.  It  was  Btttural  that  the  no- 
frJMiand.  wandarer  should  haxre  bees 
ttrowftittto  asodetyt  the  eqnivocal 
cbaaactar  of  whidi  had  Med  to  revolt 
thfl  afldaoity  o£  an  in^iisitive  mind 
and  adventnaoBa  ten^^;  but  U 
waa  natn^lt  aiaot  that  the  haluita 
of  geoda  buth^  and  that  silent  edao^ 
tkft  which  EiMjtfsh  geatlem^  eomr 
monly  recaiya  from  thmr  very  ciadle, 
fihonld h«ra pseserved  hiahwoor,  at 
least,  intact  throBgh  aU.  Gtftakily 
tha  pida»  the  nolions>  tiue  verv  imXia 
of  thaw^lbom  had  remainaaia  fall 
fnwa  why  not  tha  belter  qaaUtias, 
hawever  smothered  to  the  tima?  lielt 
thaakfid  to  tiM&  thoagbA  that  Viviaa 
waa  letaBiag  to  aftekraMayt  inwhichha 
midii  raping  hia  miad«— refit  him« 
aalF to  that  q^iare  to  whiah  ha  bd<mg- 
ed^-thaakM  that  ;we  mi|^i  yet 
■Mit  and  enr  piasaat  half  iatknaqr 
maioret  perimpc,  into  haaithM  fidaad- 

tt  was  with  siMii  tho«|^  that  I 
taak  im  my  hat  the  next  mominf  to 
aaek  Vivian^  aad  jodge  if  wa  had 
faiMd  tha  ngbt  dm^  whan  wa  ware 
ataitlad  bj  what  was  a  rare  aoood  at 
aaa  doer-iha  jpaaftmaa'B  k»ock.  My 
fiahea  waa  at  tfie  linaeam ;  my  mothat 
imUgh  flifmfeinnf  <i»og  ctoeaprepaeation 
teaarappcaachiagd^MurtmMYWitbMni 
FiimmiBa;  Bcteod,  I,  and  Bhmcha 
had  tha  roam  to  onrsdvea. 

^  Tha  kttar  ia  aat  to  ma,''  said 


""  Ite  toHMy  I  am  mc^i'  said  the 
Gantala,  wha  tha  servant  eateaal 
ami  caaMad  Uok-^-to  thakMr  waa 


to  him.  He  took  it  ap  wonderinglv 
and  soopicionsly,  as  Glnmdalclitca 
took  up  Grolli ver,  or  as  (if  natnralists) 
we  take  iq^  an  unknown  creature,  that 
waaca  not  quite  sure  will  not  bite  and 
sthig  usL  Ah  I  it  has  stung  or  bit  you^ 
CiqSain  Bolandl  for  yon  start  ana 
ehimg&coh>ar— yon  suppress  a  cnr  as 
yon  biaak  tha  seal— you  breatiie  hard 
as  yoa  read— and  tha  latter  seema 
shartH-but  it  takes  tone  in  die  read- 
ing, to  yon  |0  over  it  again  and  again. 
Then  yon  mhi  it  up— crumple  it— 
thraat  it  into  your  breast  pocket— and 
h>ak  round  like  a  man  waking  from 
adreaoL  Is  it  a  dream  of  pain^  or  of 
pleasure  ?  Venly ,  I  cannot  guess,  to 
lothing  is  on  that  eag^  iace  either  of 
pain  or  pleaanre,  but  rather  of  fear, 
agitati(m,  bewilderment.  Yettheeorea 
aie  M^t,  too,  and  there  is  a  smile  on 
that  iaea  Uph. 

My  uade  locoed  round,  I  say,  and 
called  hastily  to  his  cane  and  hia 
hat,  aod  then  boffan  buttoning  his  coat 
acrau  his  bread  breast,  though  the 
d^waahaiaaongh  tohave  unbuttoned 
every  laeast  in  the  tropics. 

^^  xQu  are  not  g<^g  oat,  uncle?'' 

*^Y^yesJ' 

^  Bat  are  yau  stooag  enough  yet? 
Let  ma  go  wuh  yon?" 

^^Novttffno-  Blanehs,  come  here." 
He  took  the  diUd  hi  his  arms,  snr- 
vej^  her  wiatfhlly,  and  kissed  her. 
'^  Xon  have  naver  dven  ma  pain, 
Blanche:  say,  ^  Gad  bless  and  pro^;>er 
you,  father  1^** 

^*  God  bleas  and  prosper  my  dear, 
dear  papal"  aald  &am^  putting 
her  littte  hands  toiethar»aB  if  hi  prayer. 

^^Thera  that  should  briagme  luck, 
Bla^«h^"  said  tha  Captain,  gaily,  ana 
sata&M^  bar  down.  AflR  seising  hia 
caaa  from  tlM  servant,  and  pattinig  on 
hia  hat  with  a  detarmiaed  air.  ha 
walked  stoutly  teth;  and  I  saw  him, 
fram  tha  radow,  march  along  tha 
atraals  as  ehaerfhlly  aa  if  iM  had  been 
beelMdM  Badi^oz. 

''8aCp«»p6r  thee,  tool"  aald  I, 
lavalwitanljr. 

Aad  BlMcha  teak  hdU  «f  aiy  hand, 
aadaa&dki  hirpietttiatway,  u»dhar 
priHywafBwegemaa(y),**Iwiahyot 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


148 


The  Caxtons.-'Part  X. 


[Feb. 


i^onld  come  with  ns,  consin  Sisty,  and 
help  me  to  love  papa.  Poor  papa !  he 
wants  as  both — he  wants  all  the  love 
wecan^ve  him!" 

^^  That  he  does,  my  dear  Blanche ; 
and  I  think  it  a  great  mistake  that  we 
don^t  all  live  together.  Tonr  papa 
ought  not  to  go  to  that  tower  of  his,  at 
the  world^s  end,  but  come  to  onr 
snug,  prettj  house,  with  a  garden  full 
of  flowers,  for  jou  to  be  Queen  of  the 
May — fipom  May  to  November; — to 
say  nothing  of  a  duck  that  is  more 
sagacious  than  any  creature  in  the 
Fables  I  gave  you  the  other  day." 

Blanche  laughed  and  clapped  her 
hands— *^  Oh,  that  would  be  so  nice  I 
but," — and  she  stopped  gravely,  and 
added, "  but  then,  yon  see,  there  would 
not  be  the  tower  to  love  papa ;  and  I 
am  sure  that  the  tower  must  love  him 
very  much,  for  he  loves  it  dearly." 

It  was  my  turn  to  laugh  now.  "  I 
see  how  it  is,  you  little  witch,"  said  I : 
"  you  would  coax  us  to  come  and 
live  with  you  and  the  owls !  With  all 
my  heart,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

'^Sisty,"  said  Blanche,  with  an 
appalling  solemnity  on  her  fiice,  ^^  do 
you  know  what  I've  been  thinking?" 

"  Not  I,  miss— what?— something 
very  deep,  I  can  see — ^very  horrible, 
indeed,  I  fear,  you  look  so  serious." 

"Why,  Tve  been  thinking,"  con- 
iinued  Blanche,  not  relaxing  a  muscle, 
and  without  the  least  bit  of  a  blush — 
"  Fve  been  thinking  that  HI  be  your 
little  wife ;  and  then,  of  course,  we 
shall  all  live  together." 

Blanche  did  not  blush,  but  I  did. 
"  Ask  me  that  ten  years  hence,  if  you 
dare,  you  impudent  little  thing ;  and 
now,  run  away  to  Mrs  Primmins,  and 
tell  her  to  keep  you  out  of  mischief,  for 
I  must  say  good-morning." 

But  Blanche  did  not  run  away,  and 
her  dignity  seemed  exceedingly  hurt 
at  my  mode  of  taking  her  alarming 
proposition,  fbr  she  retired  into  a  cor- 
ner pouting,  and  sate  down  with  great 
majesty.  So  there  I  left  her,  and 
went  my  way  to  Vivian.  He  was  out : 
but,  seeing  books  on  his  table,  and 
having  nothing  to  do,  I  resolved  to 
wait  tor  his  return.  I  had  enough  of 
my  father  in  me  to  turn  at  once  to  the 
books  for  company ;  and,  by  the  aide  of 
some  graver  works  which  I  had  recom- 
mended, I  ibmid  certain  novels  in 
French,  that  Vivian  had  got  firom  a 


circulating  library.    I  had  a  curiosity 
to  read  these— for,  except  the  old  classic 
novels  of  France,  this  mighty  branch 
of  its  popular  literature  was  then 
new  to  me.   I  soon  got  interested,  but 
what  an  interest ! — the  interest  Uiat  a 
nightmare  might  excite,  if  one  caught 
it  out  of  one's  sleep,  and  set  to  work 
to  examine  it.     By  the  side  of  what 
dazEling  shrewdness,  what  deep  know- 
ledge of  those  holes  and  comers  in 
the  human  system,  of  which  Goethe 
must  have  spoken  when  he  said  some- 
where— (if  I  recollect  right,  and  don't 
misquote  him,  which  I'll  not  answer 
for)—"  There  is  something  in  every 
man's  heart  which,  if  we  could  know, 
would  make  us  hate  him," — ^by  the 
side  of  all  this,  and  of  much  more  that 
showed  prodigious  boldnessand energy 
of  intellect,  what  strange  exaggera- 
tion— ^what  mock  nobility  of  sentiment 
— ^what  inconceivable  perversion  of 
reasomng — ^what  damnable  demoral- 
isation 1   I  hate  the  cant  of  charging 
worioB  of  fiction  with  the  accusation — 
often  unjust  and  shallow — that  they 
interest  us  in  vice,  or  palliate  crime, 
because  the  author  truly  shows  what 
virtues  may  entangle  themselves  with 
vices ;  or  commands  our  compassion, 
and  awes  our  pride,  by  teaching  us 
how  men  deceive  and  bewitch  them- 
selves into  guilt    Such  painting  be- 
longs to  the  dark  truth  of  all  tragedy, 
from  Sophocles  to  Shakspeare.    No ; 
this  is  not  what  shocked  me  in  those 
books — ^it  was  not  the  interesting  me  in 
vice,  for  I  felt  no  interest  in  it  at  all ;  it 
was  the  insistingthat vice  is  something 
uncommonly  noble — ^it  was  theportrait 
of  some  coldblooded  adultress,  whom 
the  author  or  authoress  chooses  to  call 
pauvre  Angel  Q>oor  angel !);  — it  was 
some  scoundrcuf  who  dupes,  cheats, 
and  murders  under  cover  of  a  duel, 
in  which  he  is  a  second  St  George ;  who 
does  not  instruct  usbyshowingthrough 
what  metaphysical  process  he  became 
a  scoundrel,  but   who  is  continually 
forced  upon  us  as  a  very  favourable 
spechnen  of  mankind;— itwas  the  view 
of  society  altogether,  painted  in  cdours 
so  hideous  that,  if  true,  instead  of 
a  revolution,  it  would  draw  down 
a  deluge  ;-^t  was  the  hatred,  care- 
fully instilled,  of  the  poor  amhist  the 
rich— it  was  the  war  breathed  between 
ciass  and  class— it  was  that  envy  of  all 
superiorities,  which  loves  to  show  itself 


Digitized  by 


G( 


1819.] 

by  allowing  yirtne  only  to  a  blouse,  and 
asserting  tnat  a  man  must  be  a  rogne  if 
he  belong  to  that  rank  of  society  in 
which,  from  the  very  gifts  of  eda- 
cation,  from  the  necessary  associa- 
tions of  drcomstances,  rogaenr  is 
the  last  thing  probable  or  naturaL  It 
was  all  Uiis,  and  things  a  thousand 
times  worse,  that  set  my  head  in  a  whirl, 
as  hour  after  hour  slipped  on,  and  I 
still  gased,  spell-boand,  on  these  Chi- 
meras and  TTphons— these  symbols 
of  the  Destroying  Principle.  ^^  Poor 
Viyian!"  said  I,  as  I  rose  at  last, 
*^  if  thon  readest  these  books  with 
pleasure,  or  frt>m  habit,  no  wonder  that 
thon  seemest  to  me  so  obtnse  about 
right  and  wrong,  and  to  have  a  great 
cavity  where  thy  bndn  should  have 
the  bump  of  ^  conscientiousness'  in 
fUl  salience  1" 

Nevertheless,  to  do  those  demoniacs 
justice,  I  had  got  through  time  im- 
perceptibly by  their  pestilent  help ; 
and  I  was  startled  to  see,  by  my  watdi, 
how  late  it  was.  I  had  just  resolved  to 
leave  a  line,  fixing  an  appointment  for 
the  morrow,  and  so  depart,  when  I 
heard  Vivian's  knock — a  knock  that 
had  great  character  in  it-^ianghty, 
impatient,  irregular ;  not  a  neat,  sym- 
metrical, harmonious,  unpretending 
knock,  but  a  knock  that  seemed  to 
set  the  whole  house  and  9treet  at  de- 
fiance: it  was  a  knock  bullying— a 
knock  ostentatious — a  knock  imtat- 
ing  and  offensive  —  ^^impiger"  and 
*^  iracnndus." 

But  the  step  that  came  up  the  stairs 
did  not  suit  the  knock :  it  was  a  step 
light,  yet  firm— slow,  yet  elastic. 

The  maid-servant  who  had  opened 
the  door  had,  no  doubt,  informed 
Vivian  of  4ny  visit,  for  he  did  not  seem 
surprised  to  see  me ;  but  he  cast  that 
hurried,  suspicious  look  round  the 
room  which  a  man  is  apt  to  cast 
when  he  has  left  his  papers  about,  and 
finds  some  idler,  on  whose  trustwor- 
thiness he  by  no  means  depends,  seated 
in  the  midst  of  the  nngniurded  secrets. 
The  look  was  not  flaUering ;  but  my 
^nsdence  was  so  unreproachM  that 
I  laid  all  the  blame  upon  the  ge- 
neral suspiciousness  of  Vivian's  cha- 
racter. 

*'  Three  hours,  at  least,  have  I  been 
here  I''  said  I,  maliciously. 

'*  Three  hours  1"— again  the  look. 

«» And  this  is  the  worst  secret  I  have 


The  Caxtans.—Part  X. 


U9 


discovered," — and  I  pointed  to  those 
literarv  Manicheans. 

^^  Oh!"  said  he  carelessly,  ^*  French 
novels !— Idon't  wonder  you  stayed  so 
long.  I  can't  read  your  English 
novels— flat  and  insipid:  there  are 
truth  and  life  here." 

"Truth  and  Ufe!"  cried  I,  every 
hair  on  my  head  erect  with  astonish- 
ment—" then  hurrah  for  falsehood  and 
deatiil" 

"They  don't  please  you;  no  ac- 
counting for  tastes." 

"  I  b^  your  pardon — ^I  account  for 
yours,  if  you  really  take  for  truth  and 
life  monsters  so  nefast  and  flagitious. 
For  heaven's  sake,  my  dear  fdlow, 
don't  suppose  that  any  man  could  get 
on  in  England— get  anywhere  but  to 
the  Old  Bailey  or  Norfolk  Island,  if 
he  squared  his  conduct  to  such  topsy- 
turvy notions  of  the  world  as  I  find 
here." 

"How  manv  years  are  you  my 
senior,"  asked  Vivian  sneeringly, 
"  that  you  should  play  the  mentor, 
and  correct  my  ignorance  of  the 
world?" 

"  Vivian,  it  is  not  affe  and  experi- 
ence that  speak  here,  it  is  sometning 
far  wiser  than  they — the  instinct  of 
a  man's  heart,  and  a  gentieman's 
honour." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Vivian,  rather 
discomposed,  "let  the  poor  books 
alone ;  you  know  my  creed— that  books 
infiuence  us  littie  one  way  or  the 
other." 

"By  the  great  Egyptian  library, 
and  the  soul  of  Diodorus,  I  wish  vou 
could  hear  my  father  upon  that  point! 
Come,"  added  I,  with  sublime  com- 

Sassion — "  come,  it  is  not  too  late — 
0  let  me  introduce  you  to  my  fa- 
ther. I  will  consent  to  read  French 
novels  all  my  life,  if  a  single  chat  with 
Austin  Caxton  does  not  send  yon 
home  with  a  happier  face  and  a  lighter 
heart.  Come,  let  me  take  you  back 
to  dine  with  us  to-day." 

"I  cannot,"  said  Vivian  with  some 
confusion — "  I  cannot,  for  this  day  I 
leave  London.  Some  other  time  per- 
haps—for," he  added,  but  not  hearti- 
ly, "  we  may  meet  iwBkin." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  I,  wringmg  his 

hand,  "  and  that  is  likely, — since,  in 

spite  of  yourself,  I  have  guessed  your 

secret— your  birth  and  parentage." 

"  How !"  cried  Vivian,  turning  pale. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1£0 


7ie<hM4omt4    i\utX. 


TEA. 


aod  gnawteg  ks  lip— ^wlnt  do  yon 
mean? — speak." 

*^  Well,  tkoi,  «pe  jpcm  Bot  ibe  lost, 
nmawaj  son  «if  Colonel  Vmaa? 
OoBie,  saj  lihe  tmth ;  let  is  be  oob- 
fidantB.** 

Yivian  threw  off  a  Bnoeesmm  of  faiB 
abniptBigiis;  andihes,  seating  him- 
sdf,  leant  bmi  fiwe  on  tire  tiArfe,  em- 
fbsed,  no  deobt,  to  ^nd  himsdf  dis- 
covered. 

^^  Yon  are  near  tiie  nMHrk,**  said  he 
at  last,  **  but  do  not  ask  me  lurther 
yet.  Some  day,"  he  cried  impetn- 
OBslj,  and  springing  suddenly  to  kis 
leet— "  soflw  day  y^Mi  shall  know  all : 
yes ;  sone  di^,  if  I  live,  when  tiiat 
nameshaUbeldghintbewnild;  y«s, 
when  tiie  world  is  at  my  Iset !"  He 
stretched  hiBiii^handaB  If  to  graspl^ 
spaee,  and  his  wMe  faee  was  lighted 
with  a  fierce  enthusiasm.  The  0ow 
died  away,  and  with  a  slight  retom  of 
bis  sGomftd  sn^,  he  said— '^  Dreams 
yet ;  dreamsl  And  now,  look  at  this 
paper."  And  he  drew  ont  a  memo- 
randmn,  scrawled  over  wlt^  fignres. 

"This,  I  think,  is  my  pecvniuy 
debt  to  yon^  in  «  few  days,  I  sh^ 
disobavge  it.  Give  me  yov  ad- 
dress.^ 

"Ohr  said  I,  pained,  "can  yo» 
speak  to  me  of  money,  Vivian  ?" 

"It  is  Mie  of  those  instincts  of 
bononr  ye«  dte  so  often/,  answered 
be,  coloQring.    "  Pardon  me." 

"Jhat  Is  my  address,"  said  I, 
stooping  to  write,  to  conceal  mv 
womded  feeliii«s.  "Yo«  wHl  avail 
yonrs^f  of  k,  I  hope,  often,  and  tell 
me  that  yoa  are  well  and  hmppyJ 

"When  I  am  happy,  you 
know," 


*^  Ycm  do  net  roqiibo  vny  fartrodoD- 
tion  to  Trevimion?*' 

Vivlaa  hesitated:  «'No,  imak  not 
If  evo- 1  do,  I  wiH  write  for  it." 

I  took  iq»niy  hat,  and  was  abotttto 
K0'-4(x  I  was  still  dulled  and  morti- 
fied—when,  as  if  by  an  izresistible  im- 
mdse,  Vivian  came  to  me  bastOyt 
mag  his  «ms  remand  my  neck,  and 
kined  me  as  a  boy  kisses  his  bro^KT. 

"Bear  with  me!"  he  cried  la  a 
iaitering  voice:  "  I  didnotth^L  to 
love  any  one  as  yoa  havv  made  me 
love  yon,  though  sadly  agdast  the 
grain.  Ji  yon  are  not  my  good  an- 
gel, itistiiatnatvreandbabitaretoo 
strong  for  yon.  Certainly,  someday 
we  sbaH  meet  again.  I  sbaM  have 
time,  in  the  meanwhile,  to  see  if  the 
world  can  be  indeed  *  mine  oysler, 
which  I  with  sword  can  fSfpenJ*  I 
would  be  ma  Ctssmr  amt  fimttmf  Very 
little  other  Latin  know  I  to  qnote 
fit>ml  IfC«Bsar,  men  wiUforgmme 
all  the  means  to  the  «nd ;  if  nuUmSy 
Limdon  has  a  river,  and  in  every 
street  one  nay  bay  a  cord  t" 

"Vivian!  Vivian l" 

"Now  go,  my  dear  liiend,  while 
my  beart  is  softened — go,  biofore  I 
flAkOdL  yoa  with  some  retmrn  of  the 
native  Adam.    Go— go!" 

And  takotf  me  gently  by  the  arm, 
Francis  Vivian  drew  me  from  ^e 
room,  and,  re-entering,  locked  his 
door. 

Ahl  if  leonld  have  left  him  Robot 
Hall,  instead  of  those  execrable  Ty- 
piions!  Bat  would  that  medicine  luive 
smted  his  case,  or  must  grfan  fiaperi- 
ence  write  stemer  recipes  with  her 
iron  hand? 


CHAPTER  KXrVII. 


When  I  got  bade,  jnst  in  time  for 
dinner,  Bofimd  had  not  returned,  nor 
did  he  return  till  late  in  tiie  evoniDg. 
All  our  eyes  were  directed  towards 
bim,  as  we  rose  with  one  accord  to 
ffive  him  wdcome;  but  hisfiieewas 
like  a  mask— It  was  locked,  and  rigid, 
and  unreadable. 

Shutting  the  door  carefully  idler  him, 
be  came  to  the  hearth,  stood  on  it, 
i^)right  and  calm,  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  asked— 

"  Has  Bianche  gone  to  bed?" 

»  Yes,"  said  my  motiier,  ''  but  not 


to  sleep,  I  am  sure;  she  made  me 
promise  to  tell  her  when  yen  came 

fidaad's  brow  relaxed. 

"To-morrow,8iseer,"saidhedowly, 
"  will  you  see  that  she  has  the  proper 
mourning  made  for  her?  My  son  is 
dead." 

"  Dead  I"  we  orkd  with  one  voieCf 
and  surrounding  him  with  one  im- 
pulse. 

"  Dead  !  impossible— yon  coidd  not 
say  it  so  calmly.  Dead  f— how  do 
yon  know?   Yon  may  be  deodved. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1M90 

Who  told  yon  ?— wliy  do  yon  think 

BO?" 

**I  haye  seen  his  remains,**  said 
my  nnde,  with  the  same  i^oomy 
calm.  *^  We  will  all  monrn  for  fahn. 
Plostratas,  ycm  are  heir  to  my  name 
BOW,  aa  to  your  father'a.  Good- 
night ;  exoaae  me,  aU— all  yon  dear 
and  kind  ones;  lam  worn  ont." 

BolaDd  lighted  his  candle  and  went 
sway,  learing  as  thnnderstnu^;  bnt 
he  came  back  again— looked  xonnd— 
took  np  his  boc^  open  in  the  &- 
Tonrite  passaoe— nodded  andn,  and 
again  Tanished.  We  looked  at  each 
other,  as  if  we  had  seen  a  fi^ost  Thra 
my  father  rose  and  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  remained  in  Boland's  till 
the  night  was  welfadgfa  gone.  We 
aat  op— 1^ mother  and  I— tiU  here- 
tamed,  ms  benign  face  hx^Led  pro- 
loan^  sad. 

*^  How  is  it,  sir  ?  Can  yon  tell  as 
more?" 

My  fliither  shook  his  head. 


ne  CaxUm8.^Part  X. 


151 


**Boland  prays  that  yon  may  pre- 
serve the  same  forbearance  yon  haye 
shown  hitherto,  and  never  mention  his 
son's  name  to  him.  Peace  be  to  the 
liyhig,  as  to  the  dead.  Kitty,  this 
changes  onr  plans ;  we  mast  all  go 
to  Comberland— we  cannot  leave  Bo- 
land  thns!" 

^^Poor,  poor  Bdandt"  s<dd  my 
mother,  through  her  tears.  ^*  And  to 
thhuk  that  fother  and  son  were  not 
reconciled.  Bnt  Roland  for^^ves  him 
now — crfi,  yes !  now ! " 

*^  It  is  not  Roland  we  can  censare," 
said  myfkther,  ahnost  fiercely;  *Mt 
is— bnt  enongfa.  We  most  hnrry  ont 
of  town  as  soon  as  we  can :  Roland 
will  recover  in  the  native  air  of  his 
old  mins." 

We  went  up  to  bed  monmfolly. 
"And  so,"  thonght  I,  "ends  one 
grand  object  of  my  life  1— I  had  hoped 
to  have  Dron^ht  those  two  together. 
Bnt,  alas!  what  peacemaker  like  the 
grave !" 


CHAPTEB  XLTllI. 


My  imde  did  not  leave  his  room  for 
tiunee  days,  bnt  he  was  much  closeted 
with  alawyer ;  and  my  fiither  dropped 
acme  words  whidi  seemed  toimply  that 
the  deceased  had  incnrred  debts,  and 
that  the  poor  Captain  was  making 
some  charge  on  his  small  property. 
As  Roland  had  said  that  he  had  sera 
the  remains  of  his  son,  I  took  it  at 
first  for  eranted  thatwe  should  attend 
a  ftinenu,  but  no  word  of  this  was 
aaid.  On  the  Iburth  day,  R<^and,  in 
deq>  monminff,  entered  a  hackney 
ooach  with  the  lawyer,  and  was  absent 
about  two  hours.  I  did  not  doubt 
that  be  had  thus  quietlv  fulfilled  the 
last  mournful  offices.  On  his  return, 
he  shut  Mmself  up  affain  for  the  rest 
of  the  day,  and  womd  not  see  even 
my  fiither.  But  the  next  morahig  he 
made  his  appearance  as  usual,  and  I 
even  thougiu  that  he  seemed  more 
dieerfhlthan  I  had  yet  known  him — 
vHietiier  he  played  a  part,  or  whether 
the  worst  was  now  over,  and  the 
grave  was  less  crael  than  uncertainty. 
On  the  following  day,  we  all  set  out 
for  Cumberland. 

In  the  interval.  Uncle  Jack  had 
been  almost  constantly  at  the  house, 
and,  to  do  him  justice,  he  had  seemed 


unaffectedly  shocked  at  the  calamity 
that  had  bdaUen  Roland.  There  was, 
Indeed,  no  want  of  heart  in  Unde 
JadE,  whenever  you  went  straight  at 
it ;  but  it  was  hard  to  find  if  you  took 
a  circuitous  route  towards  it  through 
the  podcets.  The  worthy  speculator 
had  Indeed  mndi  business  to  transact 
with  my  father  before  we  left  town* 
The  Anti'PttbUsher  Society  had  been 
set  up,  and  it  was  through  the  obste- 
tric 9k&  of  that  firstenmy  that  the 
Great  Book  was  to  be  ushered  into 
tiie  worid.  The  new  Journal,  the  Xt- 
terary  Times,  was  also  fiir  advanced — 
not  yet  out,  but  my  fkther  was  fairly 
in  for  it.  There  were  preparations 
for  its  debut  on  a  vast  scale,  and 
two  or  three  gentlemen  in  blade- 
one  of  whom  looked  like  a  lawyer,  and 
another  like  a  printer,  and  a  third 
uncommonly  like  a  Jew— called  twice, 
with  papers  of  a  very  formidable 
aspect.  All  these  iHTdiminaries  settled, 
the  last  thing  I  heard  Uncle  Jack  say, 
with  a  slap  on  my  father's  back,  was, 
"  Fame  and  fortune  both  made  now  1 
—yon  may  go  to  sleep  in  safety,  fbr 
you  leave  me  wide  awake.  Jack  Tib- 
bets  never  sleeps!" 
I  had  thought  it  strange  that,  since 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


152 


The  CaxUm.^Part  X, 


[Feb. 


xnj  abrupt  exodoB  from  Trevanion's 
hoQBe,  no  notice  had  been  taken  of 
any  of  ns  by  himself  or  Ladr  EUinor. 
But  on  the  very  eve  of  onr  departure, 
came  a  kind  note  from  Trevanion  to 
me,  dated  finom  his  favourite  country 
seat,  (accompanied  by  a  present  m 
some  rare  books  to  my  mther,)  in 
wliich  he  said  briefly  that  there  had 
been  illness  in  his  family,  which  had 
obliged  him  to  leave  town  for  a  change 
of  air,  but  that  Lady  EUinor  expected 
to  call  on  my  mother  the  next  week. 
He  had  found  amongst  his  books  some 
curious  works  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
amongst  others  a  complete  set  of 
Cardan,  whidi  he  knew  my  fother 
would  like  to  have,  and  so  sent  them. 
There  was  no  allusion  to  what  had 
passed  between  ns. 

In  reply  to  this  note,  after  due 
thanks  on  my  father's  part,  who  seized 
upon  the  Cardan  (Lyons  edition, 
1663,  ten  volumes  folio)  as  a  silk- 
worm does  upjon  a  mulbeny  leaf,  I  ex- 
pressed our  joint  regrets  that  there  was 
no  hope  of  our  seeing  Lady  EUinor, 
as  we  were  just  leaving  town.  I 
should  have  added  something  on  the 
loss  my  uncle  had  sustained,  but  my 
father  thought  that,  since  Roland 
shrank  from  any  mention  of  his 
son,  even  by  his  nearest  kindred,  it 
would  be  his  obvious  wish  not  to 
parade  his  affliction  beyond  that  circle. 

And  there  had  been  illness  in  Tre- 
vanion's  famUy!  On  whom  had  it 
faUen  V  I  could  not  rest  satisfied  with 
that  general  expression,  and  I  took  my 
answer  myself  to  Trevanion's  house, 
instead  of  sending  it  by  the  post,  la 
reply  to  my  inqmries,  the  porter  said 
that  aU  the  famUy  were  expected  at 
the  end  of  the  week;  that  he  had 
^eard  both  Lady  EUinor  and  Miss 
Trevanion  had  been  rather  poorly,  but 
that  they  were  now  better.  I  left  my 
note,  with  orders  to  forward  it ;  and 
my  wounds  bled  afresh  as  I  came 
away. 

We  had  the  whole  coach  to  ourselves 
in  our  journey,  and  a  sUent  journey 
it  was,  tUl  we  arrived  at  a  Uttle  town 
about  eight  miles  from  my  uncle's  re- 
sidence, to  which  we  coiidd  only  get 
through  a  cross-road.  My  uncle  m- 
sisted  on  preceding  ns  that  night,  and, 
though  henad  written,before  we  started, 
to  announce  our  coming,  he  was  fidgety 
Jest  the  poor  tower  should  not  make 


the  best  figure  it  could ;— so  he  went 
alone,  and  we  took  onr  ease  at  onr 
inn. 

Betimes  the  next  day  we  hired  a 
fiy- coach — for  a  chaise  could  never 
have  held  us  and  my  father's  books — 
and  jogged  through  a  Ubvrinth  of  vil- 
lanous  lanes,  which  no  Marshal  Wade 
had  ever  reformed  from  their  primal 
chaos.  But  poor  Mrs  Primmins  and 
the  canary-bird  alone  seemed  sensible 
of  the  jolts ;  the  former,  who  sate  op- 
posite to  ns,  wedged  amidst  a  medley 
of  packages,  aU  marked  *'  care,  to  be 
kept  top  uppermost,"  (why  I  know 
not,  for  they  were  but  books,  and 
whether  they  lay  top  or  bottom  it 
could  not  materiaUy  affect  their  valne,) 
— the^ormer,Isay,  contrived  to  extend 
her  arms  over  those  digfeOa  membra^ 
and,  griping  a  window-siU  with  the 
right  hand,  and  a  window-siU  with  the 
Im,  kept  her  seat  rampant,  like  the 
spUt  ea^le  of  the  Austrian  Empire — 
in  fact  It  would  be  well,  now-a-days, 
if  the  split  eagle  were  as  firm  as  Mrs 
Primmins!  As  for  the  canary,  it  never 
faUed  to  respond,  by  an  astonished 
chirp,  to  every  "Gracious  me!"  and 
"  Lord  save  us ! "  which  the  delve 
into  a  rut,  or  the  bump  out  of  it,  sent 
forth  from  Mrs  Primmins's  lips,  with 
all  the  emphatic  dolor  of  the  "At, 
ot/ "  in  a  Greek  chorus. 

But  my  father,  with  his  broad  bat 
over  his  brows,  was  in  deep  thought. 
The  scenes  of  his  yonth  were  rising 
before  him,  and  his  memory  went, 
smooth  as  a  spirit's  wing,  over  delve 
and  bump.  And  my  mother,  who 
sat  next  him,  had  her  arm  on  his 
shoulder,  and  was  watching  his  face 
jealously.  Did  she  think  that,  in  that 
thoughtful  face,  there  was  regret  for 
the  old  love  ?  Blanche,  who  had  been 
very  sad,  and  had  wept  mnch  and 
quietly  since  they  put  on  her  the 
mourning,  and  told  her  that  she  had 
no  brother,  rthough  she  had  no  re- 
membrance of  the  lost),  began  now  to 
evince  infantine  curiosity  and  eager- 
ness to  catch  the  first  peep  of  her 
father's  beloved  tower.  And  Blanche 
sat  on  my  knee,  and  I  shared  her  im- 
patience. At  last  there  came  in  view 
a  church  spfre — a  church — a  plain 
square  buUaing  near  it,  the  parson- 
age, (my  father's  old  home) — a  long 
straggling  street  of  cottages  and  m& 
shops,  with  a  better  kind  of  house  here 


1849.] 


The  CaxUms.'-Part  X, 


153 


aad  there— and  in  the  hinder  gronnd, 
a  gray  deformed  mass  of  wall  and 
ruin,  placed  on  one  of  those  eminences 
on  which  the  Danes  loved  to  pitch 
camp  or  build  fort,  with  one  high, 
rode,  Anglo-Nonnan  tower  rismg 
from  the  midst.  Few  trees  were 
ronnd  it,  and  those  either  poplars  or 
firs,  save,  as  we  approached,  one 
mi|^7  oak— integral  uid  unscathed. 
The  road  now  wound  behind  the  par- 
sonage, and  up  a  steep  ascent.  Such  a 
roadT— the  whole  parish  ought  to  have 
beenfloffgedforitl  If  I  haid  sent  up 
a  road  lue  that>  even  on  a  map,  to  Dr 
Herman,  I  should  not  have  sat  down 
in  comfort  for  a  week  to  come ! 

The  flj-coach  came  to  a  full  stop. 

"  Let  us  get  out,*'  cried  I,  opemng 
the  door  and  springing  to  the  ground 
to  set  the  example. 

Blanche  followed,  and  my  respected 
parents  came  next.  But  when  Mrs 
jPrimmins  was  about  to  heave  herself 
into  movement, 

"Pi9i«/"  said  my  father.  "I  think, 
Mrs  Primmins,  you  must  remain  in,  to 
keep  the  books  steady." 

"  Lord  love  you  1"  cried  Mrs  Prim- 
mins, aghast. 

^^  The  Subtraction  of  such  a  mass,  or 
ino^Sm— supple  and  elastic  as  all  flesh 
is,  and  fitting  into  the  hard  comers  of 
the  inert  matter— such  a  subtraction, 
Mrs  Primmins,  would  leave  a  vacuum 
which  no  natural  system,  certainly  no 
artificial  organisation,  could  sustain. 
There  would  be  a  regular  dance  of 
atoms,  Mrs  Primmins ;  my  books 
would  fiy  here,  there,  on  the  floor,  out 
of  the  window  I 

**  Ccfjwrii  qffiemm  ett  qwmiam  omnia 

The  business  of  a  body  like  yours,  Mrs 
Primmins,  is  to  press  all  things  down — 
to  keep  them  tight,  as  you  will  know 
one  of  these  days — tibat  is,  if  you  will 
do  me  the  favour  to  read  Lucretius, 
and  master  that  material  philosophy, 
of  which  I  may  say,  without  flattery, 
my  dear  Mrs  Primmins,  that  you  are 
a  living  illustration.'* 

These,  the  first  words  mv  father 
had  spoken  since  we  set  out  nrom  the 
inn,  seemed  to  assure  mv  mother  that 
she  need  have  no  apprehension  as  to 


the  character  of  his  thoughts,  for  her 
brow  cleared,  and  she  said,  laughing, 

**  Only  look  at  poor  Primmins,  and 
then  at  that  hiU  1" 

^^You  may  subtract  Primmins,  if 
you  will  be  answerable  for  the  rem- 
nant,  Kitty.  Only,  I  warn  you  that 
it  is  against  all  the  laws  of  physics." 

So  sayiog,  he  sprang  lightly  for- 
ward, and,  taking  hold  of  my  arm, 
paused  and  looked  round,  and  drew 
the  loud  firee  breath  with  which  we 
draw  native  air. 

*^And  yet,"  said  my  father,  after 
that  grat€M  and  affectionate  inspira- 
tion— *^and  yet,  it  must  be  owned, 
that  a  more  ugly  country  one  cannot 
see  out  of  Cambridgeshire."* 

"  Nay,"  said  I, "  it  is  bold  and  large, 
it  has^a  beauty  of  its  own.  Those  im- 
mense, undulating,  uncultivated,  tree- 
less trades  have  surely  their  charm  of 
wildness  and  solitude !  And  how  they 
suit  the  character  of  the  ruin !  All 
is  feudal  there :  I  understand  Roland 
better  now," 

^*  I  hope  in  heaven  Cardan  will 
come  to  no  harm ! "  cried  my  father ; 
*'  he  is  very  handsomely  bound; 
and  he  fitted  beautifully  just  into  the 
fleshiest  part  of  that  fldgety  Primmins." 

Blanche,  meanwhile,  had  run  far 
before  us,  and  I  followed  fast.  There 
were  still  the  remains  of  that  deep 
trench  (surrounding  the  nuns  on  three 
sides,  leaving  a  ra^^  hill-top  at  the 
fourth)  which  made  the  favourite  forti- 
fication of  all  the  Teutonic  tribes.  A 
causeway,  raised  on  brick  arches,  now, 
however,  supplied  the  place  of  the 
drawbridge,  and  the  outer  gate  was 
but  a  mass  of  picturesque  ruin.  Enter- 
inginto  the  courtyard  or  bailey,  theold 
castle  mound,  from  which  justice  had 
been  dispensed,  was  in  full  view,  ris- 
ing higher  than  the  broken  walls 
around  it,  and  partially  overgrown 
with  brambles.  And  there  stood, 
comparatively  whole,  the  tower  or 
keep,  and  from  its  portals  emerged 
the  veteran  owner. 

Hisancestorsmighthave received  us 
in  more  state,  but  certahily  they  could 
not  have  given  us  a  warmer  greeting. 
Li  fact,  in  his  own  domain,  Roland 
appeared  another  man.  His  stiffness, 
which  was  a  little  repulsive  to  those 


*  This  certainly  cannot  be  said  of  Cumberland  generaUy,  one  of  the  most  beautify 
eonnties  in  Great  Britain.  Bat  the  immediate  district  to  which  Mr  Cazton's  exda- 
mation  refen,  if  not  ugly,  ia  at  least  saTage,  bare,  and  rode. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


154 


7^  CaxtonB-^P^art  X. 


[Feb. 


I 


wbo  £d  not  nndonBtand  H,  was  all 
gone.  He  seemed  less  {Hroad,  pre- 
dselj  because  be  aad  his  pride,  on 
that  ground,  were  on  good  terms  with 
each  other.  How  gallantly  he  ex- 
t^cled— not  his  arm,  in  onr  modem 
Jack-and-jni  sort  of  fashicm— but 
his  right  hand,  to  my  mother;  how 
carefuly  he  led  her  ovot  "  brake, 
bnsh,  and  scaur,"  through  the  low 
yanlted  door,  where  a  tall  serrant, 
who,  it  was  easy  to  see,  had  been  a 
soldier — in  the  precise  livery,  no  doubt, 
warranted  by  the  heraldic  colours, 
(his  stockings  were  red  I) — stood  up- 
right as  a  sentry.  And,  coming  into 
the  haU,  it  loi^ed  absolutely  cheerful 
— ^it  took  us  by  suiprise.  There  was 
a  great  fire-place,  and,  though  it  was 
stUl  summer,  a  great  fire  I  It  did  not 
seem  a  bit  too  much,  for  Hie  walls 
were  stone,  tiie  lofkjr  roof  op«i  to  the 
rafters,  while  the  wmdows  wwe  small 
and  narrow,  and  so  high  and  so  deep 
sunk  that  one  seemed  in  a  yault. 
Nevertheless,  I  say  the  room  looked 
sodable  and  cheerM— thanks  prin- 
dpallr  to  the  fire,  and  partly  to  a 
very  mgenious  medley  of  old  tapestiy 
at  one  end,  and  mattmg  at  the  other, 
fastened  to  the  lower  put  of  the  walls, 
seconded  by  an  arrangement  of  furni- 
ture which  did  credit  to  my  unde^s 
taste  for  the  Picturesque.  After  we 
had  looked  about  and  admired  to  onr 
hearts*  content,  Roland  took  us — not 
np  one  of  those  noble  stidrcases  yon 
see  in  the  later  manorial  residences — 
but  a  little  winding  stone  stair,  into 
the  rooms  he  had  apprqfnriated  to  his 
guests.  Hiere  was  first  a  smaU  cham- 
ber, which  he  called  my  father's  study 
— in  truth,  it  would  have  done  for  any 
philosopher  or  saint  who  wished  to 
shut  out  the  world— and  might  have 

Ced  for  the  interior  of  such  a  oo- 
[i  as  Stylites  inhabited;  for  you 
must  have  climbed  a  ladder  to  have 
looked  out  of  the  window,  and  then 
the  vision  of  no  short-sighted  man 
could  have  got  over  the  interval  in  the 
wan  made  by  the  narrow  easement, 
which,  after  all,  gave  no  other  prospect 
than  a  Cnmberiand  sky,  with  an  occa- 
sional rook  in  it.  But  my  father,  I 
think  I  have  said  before,  did  not  much 
care  for  scenery,  and  he  looked  round 
with  great  satidaction  up(m  the  retreat 
assigned  him. 
"  '^e  can  knock  up  shelves  for  your 


books  in  no  time,**  said  my  m^le, 
nibbuig  his  hands. 

**  It  wonM  be  a  diarify,^  qaoCh  my 
fJAtJier,  **  foe  they  have  been  veiy  long 
in  a  recumbent  podtion,  and  would 
like  to  stretdi  themselves,  poor  thhigs. 
My  dear  Rohmd,  this  room  is  made 
finr  books— so  round  and  so  deep.  1 
shall  sit  here  like  Truth  in  a  well.** 

^  And  there  is  a  room  fin*  you,  sis* 
ter,  just  outof  it,"  said  my  uncle,  open- 
ing a  little  low  prbon-like  door  into  a 
channing  room,  for  its  window  was 
low,  and  it  had  an  htm  balcony ;  ^^  and 
out  of  that  is  the  bed-room.  For  you, 
Pisistratus,  my  boy,  I  am  afiraid  that 
it  is  soldtor*s  quarters,  indeed,  with 
whidi  yon  will  have  to  put  up.  But 
nevermind ;  in  a  day  or  two  we  shall 
make  all  worthy  a  general  of  your 
illustrious  name — ^for  he  was  a  great 
general,  PLnstratns  the  First— was  he 
not,  brother?" 

*^  All  tyrants  are,"  said  my  hJ&i&t : 
'*  the  knack  of  soldiering  is  indispen- 
sable to  them." 

^^  Oh,  you  may  say  what  you  please 
here  I"  said  Rohmd,  in  high  good 
humour,  as  he  drew  me  down  stairs, 
still  apologisiog  for  my  quarters,  and 
190  earnestly  that  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  I  was  to  be  put  into  an  cnbHette, 
N(H'  were  my  suspicions  mu<^  dis- 
pelled on  seemg  that  we  had  to  leave 
the  keep,  and  pick  our  way  into  what 
seemed  to  me  a  mere  heap  of  rubbishy 
on  1^  dexter  side  of  the  court  But 
I  was  agreeably  smprised  to  find^ 
amidst  these  wrecks,  a  room  with  a 
noble  casement  commanding  tiie  iHK>le 
country,  and  placed  immediately  over 
a  plot  of  ground  cultivated  as  a  garden. 
The  furniture  was  ample,  though 
homely;  the  floors  and  walls  well 
matted ;  and,  altog^th^,  desi^te  tiie 
inconvenience  of  having  to  cross  the 
courtyard  to  get  to  the  rest  of  the 
house,  and  being  wholly  without  the 
modem  luxury  of  a  bell,  I  thought 
that  I  could  not  be  better  lodged. 

*^  But  this  is  a  perfect  bower,  my 
dear  unde  f  Depend  on  it,  it  was  the 
bower-chamber  of  the  Dames  de  Cax- 
ton — ^heaven  rest  them ! " 

"  No,"  said  my  unde,  gravely ;  "  I 
suspect  it  must  have  been  the  chap- 
lain's room^  for  the  chapel  was  to  the 
right  of  you.  An  earlier  du^l^  in- 
deed, formerly  existed  in  the  keep 
tower— ^or,  indeed,  it  is  scarcely  a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ISM.] 


T!m€\uekm    DitrtX. 


155 


iim  kvep  wMKnt  dkMptiLy  mM,  mad 
halL  I  can  show  70tt  part  oftto  roof 
«ftfae  first,  «Ml  the  tw»ku8l  an  eolire ; 
tiie  wdl  if  ¥07  «iiiio«i,  fonned  IB  tbe 
BobstaBM  of  tttt  wallet oieaBglB«r 
tiielttU.  iMCfaflrieiAellntNitiM, 
ear  anoestor  lowo^  U^Joidjflcmdiyfni 
in  a  bncket,  and  k^  iim  tfaec«  six 
hours,  while  a  Malignant  mob  was 
stonning  the  tower.  I  need  not  say 
that  onr  ancestor  himself  scorned  to 
hide  from  snch  a  rabble,  for  he  was  a 
grown  man.  The  boy  lived  to  be  a 
Bad  speadthrUt,  and  wmd  the  «ett  lor 
cooliog  his  wine.  He  drank  iq>  a 
great  waay  good  acrak" 

'« I  shaoM  scraAdi  him  ont  of  the 
pedigree,  if  I  were  yoa.  Bat,  pray, 
liaTe  yen  not  diBoevaiied  the  proper 
dian^MT  0[  tiiat  gnat  Shr  WiUifna, 
aboai  wboas  aiy  h,th&r  is  so  akaoie- 
Mlyeoeplicair^ 

**Td  teU  yea  a  secret,*'  aaawend 
the  Captaia,  giviag  me  a  sly  poke  in 
tiieiibs,  **  I  hav«  pat  yoar  father  IntQ 
it!  There  are  tbe initial  letleiaWX. 
lof  hito  ^le  Gospof  the  Yoik  roee,  aad 
<«lw  date,  three  years  betee  tiie  batOe 
of  Boeworth,  «vier  ^m  ihiuiHtijjjieoeL" 

I  couM  not  help  jeiniag  aiy  aaele^s 
grmi  low  tangfa  at  this  eharacteristfe 
pjoacaatry ;  Mid  after  I  had  eoaipli- 
siented  him  on  ao  jacBciOQS  a  aeode  of 
pnmsg  hie  point,  I  asked  him  bow  he 
oonld  possibly  have  ooatrived  to  fit  ap 
the  ndn  so  weD,  e^eoiaUy  as  he  had 
ecaroeiy  -visited  it  emoe  hie  poroliaae. 

''  Why,''  said  be,  ''  aboot  twehFo 
years  ago,  that  poor  ^bOow  yon  new 
eee  as  my  serraiit,  and  who  is  gar- 
dener, bailiff;  seneaohal,  batler,  a»d 
anytUng^lae  yoneaa  pat  him  to,  was 
Beat  oat  of  the  amy  on  the  faivalid 
list.  6oI  placed  him  here;  aad  as  in 
ie  a  oapital  carpeater,  aad  has  had  a 
Tory  fair  edacatioa,  I  told  Imn  what  I 
wanted ,  aad  pat  by  a  small  aaai  every 
year  for  repaka  and  tenishiag.  It  is 
astonishing  hew  little  it  eost  me,  for 
BoH,  poor  fellow,  (that  is  his  aane,) 
eaaght  the  right  spirit  of  ^e  tfamg, 
and  most  of  the  fandtore,  (which 
yoQ  see  is  OMlent  and  snitable,)  he 
picked  up  at  dUTereat  cottages  and 
rarmbousee  in  tiie  neighbonihood.  As 
it  is,  however,  we  have  plenty  awie 
rooms  here  and  there— oaly,  of  late,'* 
coatinaed  my  aade,  ili^iitiy  ehaag- 
Sag  coloar,  "  I  had  no  aiMiey  to 
Bpare.     Bat  oone,"  he  reeamed,  with 


an  evident  effort— ^'  come  and  see  my 
barrack:  itisontheotiier  sideof  ^e 
ball,  and  made  oat  of  what  so  donbt 
ware  tlie  butteries." 

We  reached  the  yard,  and  firani 
the  fly-ooach  had  jnet  crawled  to  the 
door.  Myfitther^s  head  waabwied  deep 
in  tiie  vwde, — ^t^aras  gathering  upl& 
packages,  and  seodiBg  ont,  orade-like,. 
various  mattered  objargations  and 
anathemas  upon  Mrs  Primmins  and 
her  vacaam;  which  Mrs  Primmins, 
standing  by,  and  making  a  lap  with 
her  apron  to  reoeiv«  the  pacfaigeB  and 
anathemas  aknoltaneoauv,  bore  with 
tiie  mildneea  of  an  angel,  tifiang  op 
her  eyea  to  heaven  and  marmaring 
soneUiittg  about  ^*  poor  old  bones." 
Thoarii,  as  &r  Mrs  Primmins^  bones, 
they  nad  been  myths  tiieee  twenty 
years,  and  yon  might  as  soon  have 
lo«md  a  Plesiosannis  in  the  fat  laads 
of  BiQaui^  Marrii  as  a  bcme  aauntet 
thnse  layers  of  flesh  in  which  my  poor 
iatiter  thoaglrt  he  had  so  car^iily 
cottoned  op  his  Cardan. 

Leaviag  these  partieB  to  tOjfmt 
aMtters  hetwaen  than,  we  atepped 
nnder  the  hiw  doorway,  aad  catend 
Rowland's  room.  Oh,  certainly  BoH 
Jbocf  caught  the  spirit  of  tiie  tMagl-- 
certainly  he  had  penetrated  dowa  «ven 
to  tiie  very  patiuw  that  lay  within  tiie 
deeps  of  Bdand^  character.  Bnfficm 
says  ^  the  atyle  is  the  man;"  there^ 
the  roem  was  the  man.  That  name- 
less, neacpvoBfliUe,  soldier-like,  me- 
thodical aeataess  which  belonged  to 
Roland— that  was  the  first  thmc  that 
Btrack  0BO-4hat  was  the  geaeru  cha- 
racter of  the  whole.  Thea,  in  details, 
there,  in  stent  oak  shelves,  were  the 
books  oa  whidi  mr  father  loved  to 
jeat  his  more  haagmative  brother,— 
tiiere  tiMy  wve,  Froissart,  Baraate, 
Jomville,  the  Mori  d^Arikwr^  Amadis 
of  OcmUy  Spenser's  Fauj  Quemj  a 
a<Me  00]^  of  8tratfs  Hcrtk,  Mallet's 
Nm^mm  Amtiqmiimy  Percy's  ReUgrngj 
Pope^  Horner^  books  oa  gunaeiT, 
archery,  hawkbg,  ibrtifioation— <^ 
chivalry  and  modem  war  together 
cheek  by  jowl. 

Old  chivahy  aad  modem  warl— 
look  to  that  lilting  helmet  with  the 
taU  Oaxton  erest,  aad  look  to  that 
trophy  near  it,  a  Frendi  cairass— aad 
that  old  isaaar  (a  knightNi  pennon) 
Bormoanting  those  crossed  bayonete. 
And   o>ver  tiie  chiameypieoe   there 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


156 


The  CaxUms.'-Part  X. 


— briffht,  clean,  and,  I  warrant  yon, 
dusted  daily. —  are  Roland^s  own 
sword,  his  holsters  and  pistols,  yea, 
the  saddle,  pierced  and  lacerated, 
from  which  he  had  reeled  when  that 

leg 1  gasped  —  I  felt  it  all  at 

■a  glance,  and  I  stole  softly  to  the 
spot,  and,  had  Roland  not  been  there, 
I  could  have  kissed  that  sword  as 


[Feb. 

reverently  as  if  it  had  been  a  Bayard^s 
or  a  Sidney's. 

My  unde  was  too  modest  to  guess 
my  emotion ;  he  rather  thought  I  had 
turned  my  face  to  conceal  a  smile  at 
his  vanity,  and  said,  in  a  deprecating 
tone  of  apology—^*  It  was  all  Bolt's 
doing,  foolish  fellow/' 


CHAPTBA  XUX. 


Our  host  regaled  us  with  a  hospi- 
tality that  notably  contrasted  his 
economical  thrifty  habits  in  Lon- 
don. To  be  sure,  Bolt  had  caught 
the  great  pike  which  headed  the  feast ; 
and  Bolt,  no  doubt,  had  helped  to 
rear  those  fine  chickens  ab  avo;  Bolt, 
I  have  no  doubt,  made  that  excellent 
Spanish  omelette ;  and  for  the  rest, 
the  products  of  the  sheepwalk  and  the 
garden  came  in  as  volunteer  auxilia- 
ries—very dififerent  from  the  merce- 
naiy  recruits  by  which  those  metro- 
politan CandoUieri^  the  butcher  and 
green-grocer,  hasten  the  ruin  of  that 
melancholy  commonwealth  called 
•*  genteel  poverty." 

Our  evening  passed  cheerfully ;  and 
Roland,  contrary  to  his  custom,  was 
talker  in  chief.  It  was  eleven  o'clock 
before  Bolt  appeared  with  a  lantern 
to  conduct  me  through  the  court-yard 
to  my  dormitory,  among  the  ruins — a 
ceremony  which,  every  night,  shine  or 
dark,  he  insisted  upon  punctiliously 
performing. 

It  was  long  before  I  could  sleep- 
before  I  could  believe  that  but  so  few 
4ays  had  elapsed  since  Roland  heard 
^f  his  son's  death— that  son  whose 
fate  had  so  long  tortured  him ;  and 
yet,  never  had  .Roland  appeared  so 
free  from  sorrow  I  Was  it  natural- 
was  it  eflfort?  Several  days  passed 
before  I  could  answer  that  question, 
and  then  not  wholly  to  my  satisfac- 
tion. Effort  there  was,  or  rather  re- 
solute systematic  determination.  At 
inoments  Roland's  head  drooped,  his 
brows  met,  and  the  whole  man  seemed 
to  sink.  Tet  these  were  only  mo- 
ments; he  would  rouse  himself  up 
like  a  dojshig  charger  at  the  sound  of 
a  trumpet,  and  shake  off  the  creep- 
ing weight.  But,  whether  from  the 
vigour  of  his  determination,  or  from 
4Bome  aid  in  other  trains  of  reflection, 


I  could  not  but  perceive  that  Roland's 
sadness  really  was  less  grave  and 
bitter  than  it  had  been,  or  than  it  was 
natural  to  suppose.  He  seemed  to 
transfer,  daily  more  and  more,  his 
affections  from  the  dead  to  those 
around  him,  espedally  to  Blanche  and 
myself.  He  let  it  be  seen  that  he 
looked  on  me  now  as  his  lawful  suc- 
cessor—as the  future  supporter  of  his 
name — ^he  was  fond  of  confiding  to 
me  idl  his  little  plans,  and  consulting 
me  on  them.  He  would  walk  with  me 
around  his  domains,  (of  which  I  shall 
say  more  hereafter,)— point  out,  from 
every  eminence  we  climbed,  where  the 
broald  lands  which  hisforefathersowned 
stretched  away  to  the  horizon ;  unfold 
with  tender  hand  the  mouldering  pedi- 
gree, and  rest  lingeringly  on  those  of  his 
ancestors  who  had  held  martial  post, 
or  had  died  on  the  field.  There  was 
a  crusader  who  had  followed  Richard 
to  Ascalon ;  there  was  a  knight  who 
had  fought  at  Agincourt ;  there  was  a 
cavalier  Twhose  picture  was  still  ex- 
tant, witn  fair  lovelocks)  who  had 
fallen  at  Worcester-^io  doubt  the 
same  who  had  cooled  his  son  in  that 
well  which  the  son  devoted  to  more 
agreeable  associations.  But  of  all  these 
worthies  there  was  none  whom  my 
nnde,  perhaps  from  the  spirit  of  con- 
tradiction, valued  like  that  apocry- 
phal Sir  William:  and  why?— be- 
cause, when  the  i^KMtate  Stanley 
turned  the  fortunes  of  the  field  at 
Bosworth,  and  when  that  crv  of  des- 
pair—  "Treason,  treason  I"  burst 
from  the  lips  of  the  last  Plan- 
tagenet,  "  amongst  the  faithless," 
this  true  soldier  "foithftd  found  1" 
had  fallen  in  that  lion-rush  which 
Richard  made  at  his  foe.  "  Your 
father  tells  me  that  Richanl  was  a 
murderer  and  usurper,"  quoth  my 
lUide.  "  Sir,  that  might  be  true  or  not; 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Caxtons^^Part  X. 


157 


bat  it  was  not  on  the  field  of  battle 
that  his  followers  were  to  reason  on 
the  character  of  the  master  who 
tmsted  them,  especiallj  when  a  lesion 
of  foreign  hirelings  stood  opposed  to 
them.  I  would  not  have  descended 
from  that  tnmcoat  Stanley  to  be  lord  of 
aQ  the  lands  the  Earls  of  Derby  can 
boast  of.  Sir,  in  loyalty,  men  fight 
and  die  for  a  grand  principle,  and  a 
lofty  passion  ;  and  this  brave  Sir 
IVlDiam  was  paying  back  to  the  last 
Plantagenet  Uie  benefits  he  had  re- 
ceived from  the  first!" 

**  And  yet  it  may  be  doubted,"  said 
Imalicioiisly, "  whether  WilUamCax- 
ton  the  printer  did  not — " 

'*  Plague,  pestilence,  and  fire  seize 
William  Caxton  the  printer,  and  his 
invention  too!" died  my  uncle  bar- 
btfously.  "  When  there  were  only  a 
few  books,  at  least  they  were  good 
ones ;  and  now  tiiey  are  so  plentiful, 
all  they  do  is  to  confound  we  judg- 
ment, unsettle  the  reason,  drive  the 
ffood  books  out  of  cultivation,  and 
draw  a  ploughshare  of  innovation 
over  eveiy  ancient  landmark ;  seduce 
the  women,  womanize  the  men,  upset 
states,  thrones,  and  churches;  rear  a 
race  of  chattering,  conceited,  cox- 
combs, who  can  always  find  books  in 
plenty  to  excuse  them  from  doing 
their  duty;  make  the  poor  discon- 
tented, the  rich  crotchety  and  whim- 
sical, refine  away  the  stout  old 
virtues  into  quibbles  and  sentiments ! 
All  imagination  formerly  was  ex- 
pended in  noble  action,  adventure, 
enterprise,  high  deeds  and  aspira- 
tions ;  now  a  man  can  but  be  imagi- 
native by  feeding  on  the  false  ex- 
citement of  passions  he  never  felt, 
dangers  he  never  shared ;  and  he  iHt- 
ters  away  all  there  is  of  life  to  spare  in 
him  upon  the  fictitious  love-sorrows  of 
Bond  Street  and  St  James's.  ^, 
chivahy  ceased  when  the  press  rose! 
And  to  fasten  upon  me,  as  a  forefother, 
out  of  all  men  who  have  ever  lived  < 
and  sinned,  the  very  man  who  has 
most  destroy^  what  1  most  valued — 
who,  by  the  Lord  1  with  his  cursed  in- 
vention has  wellnlgh  got  rid  of  respect 
for  forctfiAthei8  altogether— is  a  cruelty 
of  which  my  brother  had  never  been 
capable,  if  that  printer's  devil  bad  not 
got  hold  of  him!" 

That  a  man  in  this  blessed  nhoe- 
teenth   century   should  be   such   a 


Vandal!  and  that  my  undo  Roland 
should  talk  in  a  strain  that  Totila 
would  have  been  ashamed  of,  within 
so  short  >a  time  after  my  father's 
scientific  and  erudite  oration  on  the 
Hygeiana  of  Books,  was  enough  to 
make  one  despair  of  the  progress  of 
intellect  and  the  perfectibility  of  our 
species.  And  I  have  no  manner  of 
doubt  that,  all  the  while,  my  uncle 
had  a  brace  of  books  in  his  pockets, 
Robert  Hall  one  of  them !  In  truth, 
he  had  talked  himself  into  a  pas- 
sion, and  did  not  know  what  non- 
sense he  was  saying,  poor  man.  But 
this  explosion  of  Captdn  Roland's 
has  shattered  the  thread  of  my  mat- 
ter. Pouff !  I  must  take  breath  anci 
bedn  again! 

Yes,  in  spite  of  my  sauciness,  the 
old  soldier  evidently  took  to  me  moro 
and  more.  And,  besides  our  cri- 
tical examination  of  the  property 
and  the  pedigree,  he  carried  me 
with  him  on  long  excursions  to  dis- 
tant villages,  where  some  memorial  of 
a  defunct  Caxton,  a  coat  of  arms,  or 
an  epitaph  on  a  tombstone,  might  be 
still  seen.  And  he  made  me  pore 
over  topographical  wwks  and  copnty 
histories,  (fi>rgetfhl,  Goth  that  he 
was,  that  for  those  very  authorities 
he  was  indebted  to  the  repudiated 
printer!)  to  find  some  anecdote 
of  his  beloved  dead  !  In  truth, 
the  coun^  for  miles  round  bore 
the  veatiffuz  of  those  old  Caxtons; 
their  handwriting  was  on  many  a 
broken  wall.  And,  obscure  as  they 
all  were,  compared  to  that  great 
operative  of  the  Sanctuary  at  West- 
minster, whom  my  father  clung  to — 
still,  that  the  yesterdays  that  had 
lighted  them  the  way  to  dusty  deiath 
had  cast  no  glare  on  dishonoured 
scutcheons  seemed  clear,  fit>m  tho 
popular  respect  and  traditional  afi^ec- 
tion  in  which  I  found  that  the  name 
was  still  held  in  hamlet  and  home- 
stead. It  was  pleasant  to  see  the 
veneration  witb  which  this  small 
hidalgo  of  some  three  hundred  a- 
year  was  held,'  and  the  patriarchal 
affection  with  which  he  returned  it. 
Roland  was  a  man  who  would  walk 
into  a  cottage,  rest  his  cork  le^  on 
the  hearth,  and  talk  for  the  hour 
togetiier  upon  all  that  lay  nearest  to 
the  hearts  of  the  owners.  There  is  a 
peculiar  spirit  of  aristocracy  amongst 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


158 


The  CaxUmt.'^art  X 


[Fd>. 


agrienlftiural  peaatnte :  they  like  M 
names  aad  fiOBttlies;  the^^  ideiiUfy 
tbanBelyies  wilh  tike  honoim  of  a 
houae^  as  if  of  iia  dan.  Thejdo-noi 
eaie  ao  modi  for  wealth  aa  townafioik 
and  tha  middle  class'do ;  they  haire  a 
p^,  bat  a  roapeet&l  one,  for  ««U- 
bornporerty.  And  thai  this  Sotend, 
too-^who  would  90  and  dine  in  a 
eook  sh(4>,aad  reeeive  ehange  £or  & 
shiMing,  ajid  shna  the  nanoos  loxaiy 
of  a  haak  eabriolei--e(m}d  be  poai- 
tively  extraTagaat  in  Ida  lH>eKaMtieB 
to  those  aroniMi  him.  He  waa  alto- 
gether aiMthar  bekskg  in  his  natesnaL 
aores.  The  ahabby-gealeaU  aalf-aay 
cq>tamt  lost  in  tiie  whirl  ef  Loadflin, 
here  hixariatad  into  a  dignified  ease 
of  manner  that  Chestedl^  isight 
hare  admked.  Aid,  if  to  please  is 
the  trae  sign  of  polUbeaeBS^  I  wish  yon 
coidd  have  seen  the  £aces  thai  smiled 
upon  Gaptam  Boland,  aa  he  walked 
down  the  yillage,  nodding  &om  eide 
to  side. 

One  day  a  frank,  hearty,  old 
womaiv  who  had  known  Baland  aa  a 
boy,  seeing  him  lean  on  my  arm, 
etopged  us,  as  she  aaid  bUufly,  to 
tirice  a '' gead  kik '*  at  me. 

Fortnnatdiy  I  was  stalwart  enoagh 
to  pass  master,,  even  in  the  eyos  of 
a  Gnmberiaad  mation;  aad,  i^ra 
eomptiment  at  whieh  Boland  seemed 
mndh  pleased,  she  said  to  me^  b«4 
pointing  to  the  Captaiii— 

^^Hegb,  sir,  now  you  ha  the  bra 
time  befoie yoa;  yoa  maim  een  tnr 
and  be  as  geod  aa  ke.  And  if  Urn 
last,  ye  wnll  too—- #ar  theie  nev^ 


waar  a  bad  ane  of  tiiat  stodL  Wi' 
heads  tindbr  atnp'd  to  the  least,  and 
lifted  maafo^  ooj^  to  the  heighest— that 
j^  all  war'  sin  ye  eame  frsm  the  Aik. 
Biessina  on  the  oidd  Bamer-yMMigi& 
little  pelf  geea  with  it— it  sounds  <m 
the  pear  man's  ear  like  a  bit  o* 
j^dr 

^^  Do  yon  notsee  now,"  aaid  Roland, 
as  we  toned  away,  ^' what  we  owe  to  a 
name,  and  wfanttooarfoce&thers^- 
da  yon  not  aaa  why  the  lemotast  an- 
cestiHr  has  a  right  to  onr  mapeet  and 
consideration— for  he  was  a  parent  I 
^Honour  ycmr  paiento' — the  law 
does  net  say, '  Honour  year  ehiidren  f 
If  a  diild  disgrace  na,  and  the  dead« 
and  the  sanotity  of  this  great  heritage 
of  their  virtoas— 1^  soaM; — if  he 
does—"  Boland  stopped  short,  and 
added  &r¥entlyt  ^<  Bat  yon  are  my 
hek  now-^  have  no  fi^l  What 
mnMeca  one  iaolish  old  man's-  ser- 
rew? —  the  name,  that  pixmei^ 
of  generati<ma,  ia  sared,  Ihank 
Heavenr— the  name !" 

Now  the  riddle  was  solved,  and 
I  understood  why,  aoaldst  all  his  nata< 
ral  grief  iot  a  son'a  loss,  that  prond 
ieith^  was  oonsoled.  For  he  waa 
less  himself  a  fother  than  a.  son— eon 
to  the  leng  dead*  From  every  graveL 
wheie  a  progenitor  alM^t,  he  had 
heard  a  parent's  voioe.  Heeaiddbeav 
to  be  bereaved,  if  the  ior^atibers  were 
not  dishonoureid.  Bdand  was  more 
than  half  a  Beman— the  son  might 
still  ding  to  his  honsehidd  i^bctioaSi 
bat  the  hru  were  a  part  of  hia 
retigion. 


OHAFTEB  L. 


Bat  I  o^hi  to  be  herd  a4  work, 
prflpacngn^paeiffarGambridgek  The 
deooal-^iow  can  I?    The  point  in 
on  whtdilie- 


qahe  most  prepandin  k  Ghreekcem- 
pedtmn.  I  cqbm  to  my  father,  wha, 
one  mi^  thi^  waa  at  home  nnaagh 
in  this.  Bat  rare  indeed  ia  it  to  ted 
a  mal  aoinlar  wke  is  a  good  taaoher. 
Bl^  dear  ittiber  t  if  one  ia  eonicnt  to 
tahayonhiyoarown  way,  there  Mfar 
was  a  more  ^dmifW<^  inatractorte 
the  heart,  te  head,  the  pthKiplm, 
or  tito  taalai  in  yov  own  war,  whan 
yon  haee  disoevwad  that  than  k  aoaa 
one  swe  to  be  haded    one  diftet  to 


be  lepaiaad;  and  yon  hnve  niUi)ed 
your  speetaekBt  and  got  year  hand 
fidriy  htto  that  leceaa  between  your 
frill  and  your  waktooaL  But  to  go 
to  yon,  cut  and  dry,  menetonoudy, 
regolariy^— book  mid  ezecdse  in  hand 
-—to  aee  the  meumM  patience  with 
which  yon  tear  yawadf  fam  that 
gneat  velnme  of  Cardan  ki  the  very 
honagpmoon  of  joiMnikn  wid  thai 
to  neto  thQaemi£ievebro«B  ffradaaU/ 
mitopeii^exeddia- 
I  £dae  qnand^  or 
some  barbarous  colloeatieD— tQl  there 
steal  tBrth  that  hwriUe  *'  Papttl" 
whkk  means  mam  on  your  lipa  than 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


I%e  CaxUMU.'-P^Brt  X. 


159 


I  am  stixe  it  e?er  did  when  Latm  was 
alive  laiigiiage«  aad^PafMsl"  a  na- 
tural aad  anpedantic  dacalationl^noY 
I  woold  aooner  bhmder  tkiovgh  the 
dark  Xxj  mjmM  a  thovsasd  times,  than 
li^t  mj  rnsh-llj^  at  the  lamp  oi  that 
Fhlegethonian''Pa{MDr' 

And  then  my  £ither  would  wisely 
and  khidiy,  bat  wondrous  ^wiy, 
erase  three-fourths  of  one's  pet  Terses, 
and  intercalate  others  that  one  saw 
were  ezqniaite,  bat  eonld  not  exactly 
see  why.  And  then  one  asked  why ; 
and  my  U&m  shook  his  head  in  de- 
spair, aad  said— ^^Bot  yon  ought  to 
/«/whTr 

In  short,  scholarship  to  him  was 
like  poetry :  he  conld  no  more  teach 
it  yon  tluui  Pindar  conld  have  tangfat 
yon  how  to  make   an  ode.     xon 
tNreathed  the  aroma,  but  yon  could 
BO  more  seise  and  analyse  it,  than, 
with  the  opening  ci  roar  naked  hand, 
yon  could  cany  off  the  scent  of  a  rose. 
I  soon  left  my  father  in  peace  to  Car- 
dan, and  to  the  Great  Book,  which 
last,  by  the  way,  advanced  but  slowly. 
For  Unde  JacK  had  now  insisted  on 
its  being  published  in  qaarto,  with 
illustrative  plates;  and  those  plates 
took  an  immense  time,  and  were  to 
cost  an  immense  sum— 4rat  that  cost 
was  the  affiiir  of  the  Anti-Publisher 
Society.  But  how  oani  settle  to  w<tfk 
l>y  myself?    No  sooner  have  I  got 
into  my  room— p^niitttf  o^  orhe  dmiits^ 
as  I  rashly  think— than  there  is  a  tap 
at  the  door.    Now,  it  la  my  mother, 
who  is  benevolently  engaged  upon 
makfaiff  curtains  to  ail  the  windows, 
(%  triflmg  snperflui^  that  Bolt  had 
forgotten  or  disdaineo,)  and  who  wants 
to  know  how  the  draperies  are  fa- 
shioned at  Mr  Trevanion*s:  a  pre- 
tence to  hvre.me  near  her,  and  see 
witii  her  own  ^es  that  I  am  not 
fretting;— the  m<«i€nt  she  hears  I 
have  shui  myself  iq>  in  my  room,  she 
is  sure  that  it  is  for  sorrow.    Now 
it  is  Bolt,   who   is  making  book- 
shelves for  my  fother,  and  desires  to 
consult  me  at  every  turn,  eq>edaUy 
aa  I  have  f^en  him  a  Gothic  design, 
which  pleases  him  hugely.    Now  it  is 
Blanche,  whom,  in  an  evil  hoar,  I 
undertook  to  teach  to  draw,  and  who 
comes  in  en  tiptoe,  vowing  shell  not 
disturb  me,  and  sits  so  quiet  thai  she 
fidflets  me  out  of  ail  paaence.    Now, 
and  much  more  often,  it  is  the  Cap- 


tain, who  wants  me  to  walk,  to  ride, 
to  fish.  And.  by  St  Hubert  1  (saint 
of  the  chase,)  lurigfat  August  comes 
—and  there  is  moor-game  on  those 
barren  wolds— and  my  uncle  lias 
given  me  the  gun  he  shot  with  at 
my  age — sini^barreUed,  flint  lock — 
but  yon  would  not  have  laughed  at  it 
if  you  had  seen  the  strange  feats  it 
did  InBoland's  hands— while  in  mine, 
I  could  always  lay  the  blame  on  the 
flint  lodL  1  Time,  in  short,  Mssed 
rapidly;  and  if  Bxdand  and  I  had 
our  dark  hours,  we  chased  them 
away  before  tfatey  comld  settle— shot 
Uiem  <m  the  wing  as  they 'got  up. 

Then,  too,  though  the  immediate 
scenery  around  my  uncle*s  was  so 
bleak  and  desolate,  the  coun^  within 
a  few  miles  was  so  fhll  of  objects  of 
interest— of  landscapes  so  poetically 
grand  or  lovely;  ana  occasionally  we 
coaxed  my  fisther  firom  the  Cardan, 
and  spent  whole  days  by  the  margin 
of  some  glorious  lake. 

Amongst  these  excursions,  I  made 
one  by  myself  to  that  house  in  which 
my  father  had  known  the  bliss  and 
the  pangs  of  that  stem  first  love  that 
still  left  its  scars  fresh  on  my  own 
memory.  The  house,  lar^  and  im- 
poshig,  was  ^ut  up— 4he  Trevanions 
had  not  been  there  for  years— the 
pleasure-grounds  had  been  contracted 
mto  the  smallest  possible  ^[Miee.  There 
was  no  positive  decay  or  ruin— that 
Trevanion  would  never  have  allowed ; 
but  there  was  the  dreary  look  of  ab- 
senteeship  everywhere.  I  penetrated 
into  the  house  with  the  help  of  my 
card  and  half-a-crown.  I  saw  that 
memcMraMe  boudoir— I  couM  fsncy  the 
very  spot  in  whidi  my  fiftther  had 
heard  the  sentence  that  had  dianged 
the  current  of  his  life.  And  when  I 
returned  home,  I  looked  with  new 
toidemess  on  my  father^s  placid  brow 
—and  blessed  anew  that  tender  help- 
mate, who,  hi  her  patient  love,  had 
chiaed  from  it  eveiy  shadow. 

I  had  received  one  letter  from  Vi- 
vian a  few  days  after  our  arrivaL  It 
had  been  reduected  from  my  fother'a 
house,  at  whkh  I  had  given  hkn  my 
address.  It  was  short,  but  seemed 
cbeeiftiL  He  said,  that  he  believed 
he  had  at  last  hit  on  the  ri^  waj. 
aad  shoold  keep  to  it-that  he  and 
the  world  were  better  fiiends  thaft 
they  had  been— and  that  the  only  way 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


160 


The  CaxUms.^Part  X. 


[Feb. 


to  keep  friends  with  the  world  was  to 
treat  it  as  a  tamed  tiger,  and  have 
one  hand  on  a  crow-bar  while  one 
fondled  the  beast  with  the  other.  He 
enclosed  me  a  bank-note  which  some- 
what more  than  covered  his  debt  to 
me,  and  bade  me  pay  him  the  snrplas 
when  he  should  claim  it  as  a  million- 
naire.  He  gave  me  no  address  in  his 
letter,  but  it  bore  the  post-mark  of 
Godalming.  I  had  the  impertinent 
cariosity  to  look  into  an  old  topogra- 
phical work  upon  Snrrey,  and  in  a 
supplemental  itinerary  I  found  this 
passage,  '^  To  the  left  of  the  beech- 
wood,  three  miles  from  Godalming, 
you  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  elegant 
seat  of  Francis  Vivian,  Esq."  To 
Judge  by  the  date  of  the  work,  the 
said  Francis  Vivian  might  bo  the 
grandfother  of  mv  friend,  his  name- 
sake. There  could  no  longer  be  any 
doubt  as  to  the  parentage  of  this  pro- 
digal son. 


The  long  vacation  was  now  nearly 
over,  and  all  his  guests  were  to  leave 
the  poor  Captain.  In  fact,  we  had 
made  a  long  trespass  on  his  hospi- 
tality. It  was  settled  that  I  was  to 
accompany  my  father  and  mother  to 
their  long-neglected  penates,  and  start 
thence  for  Cambridge. 

Our  parting  was  sorrowful— even 
Mrs  Primmins  wept  as  she  shook 
hands  with  Bolt  But  Bolt,  an  old 
soldier,  was  of  course  a  lady's  man. 
The  brothers  did  not  shake  hands 
only — thev  fondly  embraced,  as 
brothers  of  that  time  of  life  rarely  do 
now-a-days,  except  on  the  stage.  And 
Blanche,  with  one  arm  round  my 
mother's  neck,  and  one  round  mine, 
sobbed  in  my  ear, — **  But  I  will  be 
your  little  wife,  I  will."  Finally,  the 
fly-coach  once  more  received  us  all — 
all  but  poor  Blanche,  and  we  looked 
round  and  missed  her. 


CHAPTER  LI. 


Alma  Mater  I  Alma  Mater!  New- 
fashioned  folks,  with  their  large 
theories  of  education,  may  find  fault 
with  thee.  But  a  true  Spartan 
mother  thou  art—hard  and  stem  as 
the  old  matron  who  bricked  up  her 
son  Pausanias,  bringing  the  first 
stone  to  immure  him ;  hard  and 
stern,  I  say,  to  the  worthless,  but 
full  of  majestic  tenderness  to  the 
worthy. 

For  a  young  man  to  go  up  to  Cam- 
bridge (I  say  nothing  of  Oxford, 
knowing  nothing  thereoO  merely  as 
routine  work,  to  lounge  through  three 
vears  to  a  degree  among  the  <k  YroXXoi— 
for  such  an  one,  Oxford  Street  herself, 
whom  the  immortal  Opium-eater  hath 
so  direly  apostrophised,  is  not  a  more 
careless  and  stony-hearted  mother. 
But  for  him  who  will  read,  who  will 
work,  who  will  seize  the  rare  advan- 
tages profftered,  who  will  select  his 
friends  iudiciously— yea,  out  of  that 
vast  fbrment  of  young  idea  in  its  lusty 
vigour,  choose  the  good  and  reject 
the  bad— there  is  plenty  to  make  those 
three  years  rich  with  fruit  imperish- 
able— ^thrce  years  nobly  spent,  even 
though  one  must  pass  over  the  Ass's 
Bridge  to  get  into  the  Temple  of 
Honour. 


Important  changes  in  the  Academi- 
cal system  have  been  recently  an- 
nounced, and  honours  are  henceforth 
to  be  accorded  to  the  successM  dis- 
ciples in  moral  and  natural  sciences. 
By  the  side  of  the  old  throne  of 
Matheds,  they  have  placed  two  very 
useftil  fauteuHs  h  h  VoUaire,  I 
have  no  objection ;  but,  in  those  three 
years  of  life,  it  is  not  so  much  the  thing 
learned,  as  the  steady  perseverance  in 
learning  something  that  is  excellent. 

It  was  fortunate,  in  one  respect,  for 
me  that  I  had  seen  a  little  of  the  real 
world — the  metropolitan,  before  I 
came  to  that  mimic  one— the  cloistral. 
For  what  were  called  pleasures  in  the 
last,  and  which  might  have  allured 
me,  had  I  come  fiesh  from  school, 
had  no  charm  for  me  now.  Hard 
drinking  and  high  play,  a  certain 
mixture  of  coarseness  and  extrava- 
gance, made  the  fashion  among  the 
idle  when  I  was  at  the  universi^  tub 
comule  Planco  —  when  Wordsworth 
was  master  of  Trinity :  it  may  be 
altered  now. 

But  I  had  already  outlived  such 
temptations,  and  so,  naturally,  I  was 
thrown  out  of  the  society  of  the  idle, 
and  somewhat  into  that  of  the  labo- 
rious. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Caxtons.-^Part  X. 


161 


Still,  to  spieak  fhoikly,  I  had  no 
longer  the  old  pleasure  in  books.  If 
mj  acqaaintance  with  the  great  world 
had  destroyed  the  temptation  to  pu- 
erile excesses,  it  had  also  increased  my 
constitntional  tendency  to  practical 
action.  And,  alas !  in  spite  of  all  the 
benefit  I  had  derived  from  Robert 
Hall,  there  were  times  when  memory 
was  so  poignant  that  I  had  no  choice 
but  to  rush  from  the  lonely  room, 
hannted  by  tempting  phantoms  too 
dangerously  fair,  and  sober  down  the 
fevOT  of  the  heart  by  some  violent 
bodily  fatigue.  The  ardour  which 
belongs  to  early  youth,  and  which  it 
best  dedicates  to  knowledge,  had 
been  charmed  prematurely  to  shrines 
less  severely  sacred.  Therefore, 
though  I  laboured,  it  was  with  that 
full  sense  of  labour  which  (as  I  found 
at  a  much  later  period  of  life)  the 
truly  triumphant  student  never  knows. 
Leajning— that  marble  image — ^warms 
into  life,  not  at  the  toil  of  the  chisel, 
but  the  worship  of  the  sculptor.  The 
mechanical  workman  finds  but  the 
voiceless  stone. 

At  my  unde^s,  such  a  thing  as  a 
newspaper  rarely  made  its  appear- 
ance. At  Cambridge,  even  among 
reading  men,  the  newspapers  haa 
their  due  importance.  Politics  ran 
high  ;  and  I  had  not  been  three  days 
at  Cambridge  before  I  heard  Tre- 
vanion^s  name.  Newspapers,  there- 
fore, had  their  charms  for  me.  Tre- 
vanion's  prophecy  about  himself 
seemed  about  to  be  fulfilled.  Tliere 
were  rumours  of  changes  in  the 
cabinet.  Trevanion^s  name  was 
bandied  to  and  fro.  struck  frt>m  praise 
to  bhune,  high  and  low,  as  a  shuttle- 
cock. Still  the  changes  were  not 
made,  and  the  cabinet  held  firm. 
Not  a  word  in  the  Morning  Post^ 
under  the  head  of  fashionable  inteUi- 
gence^  as  to  rumours  that  would  have 
agitated  me  more  than  the  rise  and 
fsdl  of  governments — ^no  hint  of  ^^  the 
speedy  nuptials  of  the  daughter  and 
sole  heu-ess  of  a  distinguished  and 
wealthy  commoner  :'^  only  now  and 
then,  m  enumerating  the  circle  of 
brilliant  guests  at  the  house  of 
some  par^  chief,  I  gulped  back  the 
heart  that  rushed  to  my  lips,  when 
I  saw  the  names  of  Lady  Euinor  and 
Miss  Trevanion. 

But    amongst    all    that    ppollfic 

VOL.  LXV. — NO.  CCCC. 


progeny  of  the  periodical  press  — 
remote  ofi&pring  of  my  great  name- 
sake and  ancestor,  (for  I  hold  the 
faith  of  my  father,)  —  where  was 
the  Literary  Times  f — what  had 
so  long  retarded  its  promised  blos- 
soms? Not  a  leaf  in  the  shape  of 
advertisements  had  yet  emerged  from 
its  mother  earth.  I  hoped  from  my 
heart  that  the  whole  thing  was  aban- 
doned, and  would  not  mention  it  in 
my  letters  home,  lest  I  should  revive 
the  mere  idea  of  it.  But,  in  default 
of  the  Literary  Times^  there  did  ap- 
pear a  new  journal,  a  daily  journal 
too ;  a  tall,  slender,  and  meagre  strip- 
ling, with  a  vast  head,  bj  way  of  pro- 
spectus, which  protruded  itself  for  three 
weeks  successively  at  the  top  of  the 
leading  article ; — ^with  a  fine  and  subtle 
body  of  paragraphs ; — and  the  smallest 
legs,  in  the  way  of  advertisements, 
that  any  poor  newspaper  ever  stood 
upon !  And  yet  this  attenuated  jour- 
nal had  a  plump  and  plethoric  title, 
a  title  that  smacked  of  turtle  and 
venison  ;  an  aldermanlc,  portly,  gran- 
diose, Falstaffian  title — it  was  called 
The  Capftalist.  And  all  those 
fine  subtle  paragraphs  were  larded 
out  with  receipts  how  to  make  money. 
There  was  an  El  Dorado  in  every  sen- 
tence. To  believe  that  paper,  you 
would  think  no  man  had  ever  yet  found 
a  proper  return  for  his  pounds,  shil- 
lings, and  pence.  Yon  would  have 
turned  up  your  nose  at  twenty  per 
cent.  There  was  a  great  deal  about 
Ireland — not  her  wrongs,  thank  Hea- 
ven !  but  her  fisheries :  a  long  inquiry 
what  had  become  of  the  pearls  for 
which  Britain  was  once  so  famous :  a 
learned  disquisition  upon  certain  lost 
gold  mines  now  happily  rediscovered : 
a  very  ingenious  proposition  to  turn 
London  smoke  into  manure,  by  a  new 
chemical  process:  recommendations 
to  the  poor  to  hatch  chickens  in  ovens 
like  the  ancient  Egyptians:  agricul- 
tural  schemes  for  sowing  the  waste 
lands  in  England  with  onions,  upon 
the  system  adopted  near  Bedford,  net 

Sroduce  one  hundred  pounds  an  acre, 
a  short,  according  to  that  paper, 
every  rood  of  ground  might  well 
maintain  its  man,  and  every  shilling 
be  like  Hobson^s  money-bag,  *^the 
fruitful  parent  of  a  hundred  more." 
Por  three  days,  at  the  newspaper 
room  of  the  Union  Club,  men  talked 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Statistical  AccounU  €f  Soc4hmd. 


16i 

of  this  jonmal:  somepisked,  some 
sneered,  some  wondered ;  till  an  ill- 
natoped  mathematJdan,  who  had  just 
ifdcen  his  degree,  and  had  spare  time 
on  his  hands,  sent  a  long  letter  to  the 
Morning  Ckrtmick^  i^owmg  np  more 
Uuiders,  in  some  article  to  which  the 
editor  of  The  Capitalist  had  ^>edallj 
invited  attention,  (anlndcj  dog !)  thui 
wonld  have  paved  the  whole  island  of 
Lapnta.  After  that  time,  not  a  sonl 
read  The  Capitaljst,  How  long  it 
dragged  <>n  its  existence  I  know  not ; 
but  it  certainly  did  not  die  of  a  mala" 
die  de  longueur. 

Little  thought  I,  when  I  joined  in 
the  laugh  against  The  CapitaUet^ 
that  I  ought  rather  to  have  followed  it 
to  its  grave,  in  Idack  crape  and  weep- 
era,— unfeeling  wretch  tiiat  I  was! 


[Feb. 


But,  like  a  poet,  O  CamtaMst\  thou 
wert  not  discovered,  and  appreciated, 
and  prised,  and  mourned,  tiU  thorn 
wert  dead  and  buried,  and  the  Inll 
came  in  for  thy  monument  I 

The  first  tern  of  my  collc^  life 
was  just  expiring,  when  I  received  a 
letter  from  my  motiier^  so  agitated, 
BO  alarming,  at  first  reading  so  unin- 
telligible, that  I  could  only  see  that 
some  great  misfortune  had  befallen 
us;  and  I  stepped  short  and  dropped 
on  my  kneo,  to  pray  for  the  1^  and 
heallii  of  those  whom  that  misfortune 
more  specially  seemed  to  menace ;  and 
then — and  then,  towards  the  end  of 
t^e  last  blurred  sentence— read  twice, 
thrice,  ovei^— I  could  ay,  "  Thank 
Heaven,  thank  Heaven!  it  is  only, 
then,  money  after  all  I " 


STATISTICAL  ACCOUNTS  OF  60(>TIAKI>. 


It  is  a  term  of  very  wide  applica- 
tion, this  of  statistics — extending  to 
ev^ything  in  the  state  of  a  country 
subject  to  variation  either  from  the 
energ^and  fancies  of  men,or  from  the 
operations  of  nature,  in  so  far  as  these, 
or  the  knowledge  of  them,  has  any 
tendeni^  to  occasion  change  in  the 
condition  of  the  country.  Its  ele- 
ments must  be  either  changeable  in 
themselves,  or  the  cause  of  change ; 
because  the  use  of  the  whole  matter 
is  to  direct  men  what  to  do  for  their 
advantage,  moral  or  physical— by 
legislation,  when  the  case  is  of  suffi- 
cient magnitude— or  otherwise  by  the 
wisdom  and  enterprise  of  individuals. 

Governments,  it  is  |dain,  must 
have  the  greatest  faiterest  in  possess- 
ing knowledge  of  this  sort ;  but  they 
have  not  been  the  first  to  engage 
very  earnestly  in  obtaining  it.  It 
would  seem  that,  in  all  countries,  the 
first  veiy  notioeable  efforts  in  this 
way  have  been  made  by  indivi- 
duals. 

In  this  oountiy  we  have  now  from 
government  more  and  better  statis- 
tics than  frtnn  any  other  source ;  for 
besides  the  deoennial  census,  there  is 
the  yeariy  produce  in  this  way  of 
Cnrnn  Commissions  and  of  Parlia- 
mentary C<»nmiltee6 ;  and,  moreover, 


there  is  the  late  institution  of  a  sta- 
tistical department  in  connexion  with 
the  Board  of  Trade,  for  arranging, 
digesting,  and  rendering  more  acces- 
siUe  all  matter  of  this  land  collected, 
from  time  to  time,  by  the  different 
branches  of  the  administration.  But 
before  statistical  knowledge  became 
the  object  of  much  care  to  the  gov- 
ernment of  this  country,  it  had  been 
well  cultivated  by  individuals.  So  in 
Germany  statistics  first  took  a  scienti- 
fic form  in  the  works  of  an  individual 
about  the  middle  of  the  last  oentoir : 
and  in  France,  the  unfinished  Mi^ 
moires  des  Jnt^ukmts^  prepared  on  the 
order  of  the  king,  were  scarcely  an 
exception,  dnce  meant  for  theimvate 
instruction  of  the  young  prince.  But 
without  attaching  undue  importance 
to  the  fact  of  mere  precedence,  it  may 
be  said  that,  considering  the  chief  uses 
of  this  kind  of  knoided^,  it  has 
reoeived  more  contributions  from 
individuals  than  could  have  been  ex- 
pected. 

This  admits  of  bdng  easilv  ex« 
plamed.  It  has  been  well  said  that, 
while  histoiy  is  a  sort  <^  current  sta- 
tistics, statistics  are  a  sort  of  stationaiy 
liistory.  Tlieone  has  liierefore  much 
the  same  invitations  to  mere  literary 
tast»  as  Mother;  md  If  ^e  si^ject 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


fitaJiBtkal  Acommts  ^'JScatkmd, 


besot  so  genenlly  enga^ng,  the  faaicy 
BUjr  be  mi  Btroog,  and  prodooe  as 
pve  a  de^otkm  to  BtatiBtioB  aa  diere 
erv  ifl  to  faistoiy.  More  liiaathis, 
tiie  staitiit  majr  care  fin*  less  for  his 
aubfeetttuu  its  11668,— that  is,  hemaj 
choose  to  oDdergo  the  toil  of  researches 
only  xeeommended  by  tiie  diance  of 
thenrainliteriDg  tothebettergnidaaoe 
of  ■Qoia  part  of  public  poMi^,  and 
therofbretothepablicgood.  Ijieim- 
pabe  is  then  not  litenuy ;  nor  Is  it 
l^pblatiye,  for  the  power  is  wanting ; 
it  is  ^mply  patriotic,  for  so  it  most 
be  ooandered,  even  when,in  the  words 
of  Mr  M'GnUoch,  the  oMect  is  onlj 
^  to  bring  nnder  the  public  view  the 
deAdencies  in  statistical  information, 
aad  so  to  oontribate  to  the  adrance- 
ment  of  the  sdenoe  J^ 

This  public  natore  of  the  ahn  of 
statistical  works,  and  ^e  nnlikdihood 
of  their  anthon  choosing  that  medinm 
to  set  forth  anything  supposed  wortiiy 
of  notice  in  the  figure  of  their  own 
genias,  seem  to  have  been  recognised, 
exeept  in  rare  instences,  as  giving  to 
wortm  of  this  kind  a  title  to  be  weH 
reodred,  md  to  have  theurfoults  veiy 
gentilj  remarlced. 

Agian,  it  might  be  expected  that 
the  statistics  of  individuals  should 
have  a  more  limited  range  than  tiiose 
of  governments;  that  ihey  should 
refor  to  districts  of  less  extent ;  and 
to  the  state  of  the  eountry  in  fewer  of 
its  aspects.  But  the  ease  is  somewhat 
differmt.  The  statistics  of  individuals 
are  often  more  national  than  local, 
aad  gownmlly  consist  of  many  branches 
presented  hi  some  connexion ;  while 
those  of  governments  are  commonly 
confined  to  tiie  sing^  department  on 
which  some  question  of  policy  may 
chance  for  the  time  to  nave  fixed 
attention. 

On  the  occasion  mentioned,  the  in- 
quiries histltuted  in  France  were  not 
so  confined,  but  embraced  all  the 
pototsofduef  interest  in  the  statet^ 
the  oomtiy.  In  Ihigland,  noUung 
sindlar  lias  been  attempted;  although, 
some  jrears  ago,  it  is  known  that  a 
proposal  to  institute  a  general  survey 
of  Irelaod— K>n  the  plan,  we  believe, 
of  the  Ordnance  Sumy  of  the  parish 
of  Tomplemore— was  fbr  some  thne 
imder  consideration  of  the  gefvn- 


On  the  otiier  hand,  the  instanoes  of 


individuid  enterprise  in  tliis  way  to  a 
national  extent  are  numerous,  both 
at  home  and  abroad*  Among  the 
latter,  Aucherwall  cives  the  first  ex- 
ample, and  Peudaet  probably  the 
best ;  both  treating  of  the  country 
not  in  parts  but  as  a  whole, — not  in 
one  reelect  but  m  many.  Of  the 
same  wort  are  the  excellent  statistical 
woiks  of  Colquhonn,  M^Culloch, 
P<»*ter,  and  others,  relatoig  to  the 
British  emphre,  and  directed  to  many 
aspects  of  its  condition.  To  these 
we  add  the  StatMcal  AccomtU  of  Scot- 
itmdy — occupied  with  as  many  or 
more  matters  of  inquiry,  but  not  so 
property  national,  since  viewing  not 
the  country  collectively,  but  its  paro- 
dual  divisions  in  succession. 

One  advanta^  belongs  to  the  col- 
lection of  statistics  upon  many  points, 
which  is  not  found  in  those  that  are 
limited  to  one.  It  is  remarked  hj 
Schloaer  hi  his  nearie  4et  SiatutA^ 
that  ^  there  are  many  focts  seemingly 
of  BO  value,  but  wnich  become  un- 
portant  as  soon  as  you  combine  them 
with  other  foots,  it  mi^  be  of  quite 
another  dass.  The  affinities  subsist- 
ing among  these  facts  are  discov- 
ered by  the  talent  and  genius  of 
the  statist ;  and  the  more  various  the 
knowledge  he  possesses,  with  so  much 
the  more  success  he  will  perform  this 
last  and  crowmng  part  of  his  task.** 
The  observation  need  not  be  confined 
to  facts  ai^^arentiy  unimportant :  for 
even  those,  whose  importance  is  at 
once  perceived,  may  acquire  a  new 
value  from  a  skilful  collation.  In 
either  ease,  there  seems  a  necesdty 
for  remitting  the  detadied  statistics 
coUeeted  by  government  to  some 
such  department  as  that  in  connexion 
with  the  Board  of  Trade ;  otherwise, 
the  works  of  indi^ual  statists  must 
contmue  to  afibrd  the  only  oppor- 
tunity of  tracing  the  totent  rela- 
tions of  one  branch  of  statistics  to 
another. 

The  individual,  however,  who  at- 
tempts so  much,  is  in  hazard  ai 
attempting  more  than  any  individual 
can  wen  perform.  For,  besides  this, 
he  has  to  make  another  effort  quite 
distinct— ha  the  investigation  of  facts. 
All  the  needed  scientific  kno  wled^  he 
BHiy  possess;  but  the  same  snffidenc^ 
of  local  or  topographical  knowledge  la 
not  snppoeable.    The  woik  so  pro* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Statistical  Accounts  of  Scotland. 


164 

daced,  therefore^  cannot  easily  avoid 
the  defects,  either  of  error  in  the 
details  of  some  branch,  of  unequal 
development  of  the  parts,  or  of  a 
superficial  treatment  of  the  whole. 
Against  these  dangers  some  writers 
have  had  recourse  to  assistance,  in- 
viting contributions  from  others  fa- 
voureid  with  better  means  of  informa- 
tion than  themselves;  and  to  them 
attributing,  in  so  far  as  they  assisted, 
the  entire  merit  and  responsibility  of 
the  work. 

This  transference  of  responsibility  is 
warranted  by  the  necessity  of  the 
case — ^but  it  is  unusual ;  and  as  it 
scarcely  occurs  except  in  works  of  the 
kind  in  question,  it  may  happen  that 
even  a  professing  jud^e  of  such  works, 
if  the  habit  of  attention  be  not  good, 
may  entirely  overlook  the  circum- 
stance. 

In  the  Statistical  Account  of  Scot- 
land, the  obligation  to  individual  con- 
tributions has  been  carried  to  the 
greatest  extent ;  indeed,  it  is  simply  a 
collection  of  such  contributions,  and 
nothing  more.  This  part  of  the  plan 
was  necessitated  by  another,  in  which 
the  work  is  equally  peculiar — ^namely, 
the  distinct  treatment  of  smaller  divi- 
sions of  the  country,  than  have  been 
taken  up  in  any  oUier  work  of  the 
Jcind,  having  an  entire  country  for 
its  object.  To  obtain  a  body  of  pa- 
rochial statistics,  it  was  necessary  to 
have  recourse  to  persons  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  bounds,  and  intel- 
ligent, at  the  same  time,  upon  the  va- 
rious subjects  of  inquiry.  But  to  find 
such  in  nine  hundred  parishes  would, 
of  itself,  have  required  much  of  that 
local  knowledge,  the  want  of  which 
was  the  occasion  of  the  search— had 
there  not  been  a  class  or  order  of  men 
among  whom  the  desu^  qualification, 
In  many  points,  might  be  supposed  to 
be  pret^  generally  difi*used ;  and  from 
whose  favour  to  a  project  of  public 
usefulness  much  aid  might  be  expect- 
ed. It  was  in  this  manner  that  the 
co-operation  of  the  parochial  clergy 
came  to  be  suggested. 

The  Statistical  Account  of  Scotland 
was  originated,  promoted,  and  super- 
intended by  the  late  Sir  John  Sinclair. 
The  authors  of  such  works,  as  one  of 
the  best  of  them  remarks,  should  be 
carefol  to  explain  their  motives  in 
undertaking  it— we  presume,  because 


[Feb. 


undertakings  of  the  kind  are  ftelt  to 
be  scarcely  an  affair  of  individuals. 
In  this  instance,  a  desure  to  promote 
the  public  good  was  at  once  professed 
and  accredited  by  many  oUier  acts 
apparently  inspired  by  the  same  sen- 
timent. The  devotion  of  Sir  John 
Sindur^s  life  in  that  direction  was 
complete,  and  the  example  uncom- 
mon. In  this  a  late  reviewer  perceives 
nothing  more  than  a  restless  pursuit  of 
plans  of  no  further  interest  to  himself 
than  as  they  bore  the  inscription  of 
his  own  name.  But  whenever  public 
spuit  is  professed,  and  by  anything 
like  useful  acts  attested,  our  faith,  we 
think,  should  be  more  generous.  On 
such  occasions,  if  on  any,  it  is  right 
to  waive  all  speculation  upon  private 
motives,  and  to  presume  the  best— 
for  reasons  so  well  understood  in 
general  that  they  do  not  need  to  be 
explained.  But  if  genius,  with  a 
bent  to  that  sort  of  penetration,  must 
have  its  freedom,  we  do  demand  that 
some  token  should  appear  of  a  belief 
in  the  possibility  of  the  virtue  which 
is  denied. 

It  does  not  improve  the  grace  of 
any  such  judgments  that  they  are 
passed  fifty  years  after  the  occasion ; 
for,  in  the  meantime,  the  work  may 
have  acquired  merits  which  could  not 
belong  to  it  at  first : — and  so  it  has 
happened  with  the  Statistical  Account 
of  Sir  John  Smclair.  Results  may 
be  fairly  ascribed  to  that  perform- 
ance which  were  not  intended  nor 
foreseen,  and  which  seem  to  have  come 
from  its  very  defects,  as  well  as  fi^m 
the  defects  which  it  revealed  in  the 
condition  of  the  country,  and  in  the 
means  of  ascertaining  what  the  con- 
dition of  the  country  was.  Its  popu- 
lation-statistics were  extremely  mi- 
perfect ;  the  census  followed  in  a  very 
few  years.  Its  scanty  and  unequal 
notices  of  agriculture  suggested  the 
project  of  the  County  Reports ;  and 
to  these  succeeded  the  General  Report 
of  Scotland— Sk  work  still  usefal,  and 
of  the  first  authority  in  much  that 
relates  to  the  agriculture  and  other 
industry  of  the  country.  To  take  ad- 
vantage of  those  capabilities  which 
the  statistical  accounts  had  shown  his 
country  to  possess,  Sir  John  Sinclair 
originated  the  Agricultural  Society. 
All  of  those  things,  and  more,  appear 
to  have  resulted  from  the  StattUical 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Statistical  Accounts  of  Scotland, 


Account,  They  are  honours  that  have 
arisen  to  it  in  the  course  of  time,  and 
may  be  fairlj  permitted  to  mitigate 
the  notice  and  recollection  of  its 
foults. 

After  the  lapse  of  fifty  years,  Scot- 
land had  ceased  to  be  the  countir  repre- 
sented in  the  old  Statistical  Account; 
for  the  greater  part  of  what  is  proper 
to  such  a  work  is,  as  we  have  said, 
changeable  and  changing.  It  con- 
tain^ not  a  little,  however,  which 
remained  as  true  and  as  interesting  as 
at  first :  the  topography,  the  physical 
characters,  the  civil  divisions  of  the 
country  were  the  same ;  all  that  had 
been  said  of  its  history,  whether  local 
or  general,  might  be  said  again  as  sea- 
sonably as  before.  It  occurred,  then, 
to  those  to  whom  the  author  had  pre- 
sented the  right  of  this  work,  to  at- 
tempt to  restore  it  in  those  parts  which 
time  had  rendered  useless,  preserving 
those  which  were  under  no  disadvan- 
tage from  that  cause.  This,  as  we 
learn,  was  the  plain,  unambitious  in- 
tention of  the  New  Statistical  Account 
of  Scotland.  It  was  projected  and 
carried  on  during  ten  years  by  a  So- 
ciety, whose  object  it  is  to  afibrd  aid, 
where  aid  is  needed,  in  the  education 
of  the  children  of  the  clergy  of  the 
Church  of  Scotland.  Nothing  could 
be  more  foreign  to  that  object  than  to 
engage  in  a  work  of  national  statistics; 
nothmg  more  natural  than  that,  in 
their  relation  to  the  clergy,  and  with 
their  interest  in  the  first  work,  they 
should  propose  to  renew  it  in  the  manner 
meAtioned.  A  society  expressly  formed 
for  statistical  purposes,  and  not  re- 
strained like  the  Society  for  the  Sons 
and  Daughters  of  the  Clergy,  wouldpro- 
bably  have  proposed  something  diner- 
ent — something  more  new ;  it  might 
have  been  expected  to  produce  some- 
thing more  excellent — ^though,  even  in 
that  case,  the  demand  of  excellence 
would  have  been  limited  by  the  con- 
sideration, that  the  means  of  com- 
pletely investigating  the  statistics  of 
a  conntnr  are  not  at  the  command  of 
any  statlBtical  society  that  exists.  A 
modernisation,  so  to  speak,  of  the  first 
work  appears  to  have  been  the  idea  of 
the  second. 

It  has  been  executed,  however,  in 
the  freest  style,  and  scarcely  admitted, 
indeed,  of  being  accomplished  at 
all  in   any  other  manner.    In  such 


165 

cases,  it  is  seldom  that  the  adapta- 
tion is  effected  by  mere  numerical 
changes ;  the  whole  statement,  in  form, 
manner,  and  substance,  behoves  to  be 
remodelled.  Then,  certain  parts  of 
the  original  may  have  been  deficient, 
and  become  more  evidently  so  by  the 
changes  that  have  since  ensued  in  the 
state  of  the  object :  here  the  task  is 
less  one  of  correction  than  of  supple- 
ment. For  example,  the  ver^  inte- 
resting and  full  accounts  of  mining  and 
manufacturing  industry  which  abound 
in  the  new  work  are  nearly  peculiar 
to  it,  and  have  scarcely  an  example  in 
the  old.  One  entire  section  of  the 
latter,  that  of  natural  history,  has  been 
developed  to  an  extent  not  attempted 
in  the  former,  nor  indeed  in  any  other  ' 
statistical  work.  These  are  rather 
noticeable  licenses,  on  the  supposition 
of  the  aim  being  as  moderate  as  pro- 
fessed, and  they  go  far  to  form  a  new 
andindependentwork— havingnothing 
in  common  with  the  first,  except  the 
parochial  divisions  and  the  obligation 
to  the  clergy,  as  respects  the  plan ;  and 
as  respects  the  matter,  only  the  small 
part  of  it  which  is  historical,  and 
therefore  not  obsolete. 

We  observe,  accordingly,  that  the 
society  who  promoted  the  new  work 
have  put  it  forward  as  taking  some 
things  from  the  old,  for  which  they 
are  not  responsible,  but  as  containing 
far  more  which  must  form  a  new  and 
separate  character  for  itself.  In  both 
respects,  we  think  they  have  viewed 
the  work  with  a  proper  reference  to 
the  conditions  under  which  it  was  pro* 
duced. 

In  other  points,  the  new  Account  has 
improved  upon  the  old,  and  might  be 
expected  to  do  so.  It  has  more  mat- 
ter, by  a  third  part,  neither  less  suited 
to  the  place,  nor  more  difiuse  in  the 
statement;  and,  as  befits  a  work  of 
reference,  the  arrangement  is  more 
orderly  and  more  unSbrm.  It  is,  on 
the  whole,  more  careMly  and  better 
written,  and  shows,  on  the  part  of  the 
reverend  contributors,  a  remarkable 
advance  m  the  many  sorts  of  know- 
ledge requisite  to  the  task.  If  the 
comparison  were  pursued  further,  it 
might  be  said  that  some  contributions 
to  the  first  are  not  surpassed  in  the 
value  of  what  they  contain;  while,* 
from  the  greater  novelty  of  the  task 
at  that  time,  as  well  as  from  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


166 


StaiuiualAteowiU  t^SeoOtmeL 


[Feb. 


greater  fireedom  of  the  method,  thej 
are  somewhat  fresher  and  more  genisd 
in  manner.  The  later  woric,  if  raller, 
more  exact,  more  statistical  throogh- 
OQt,  possesses  Uiat  advantage  at  the 
cost  of  appearing  sometimes  more 
like  a  collection  of  returns  in  answer 
to  snbmltted  points  (^inqnlry, — a  cha- 
racter, however,  by.  no  means  unsuit- 
able to  a  compilation  of  the  kind.  In 
all  other  points  a  decided  superiority 
must  be  attributed  to  the  new  Ac- 
count. 

Our  remarks  at  thia  time  shall  be 
confined  to  the  i4an  of  the  new  Ac- 
count, and  to  th^  general  description 
of  its  contents.* 

The  chief  feature  of  the  plan  is  the 
distinct  treatment  of  each  pansh— pro- 
ducmg  a  body  neither  of  county  nor 
of  national,  but  merely  of  parochial 
statistics.  This  was  the  design^  and 
there  is  much  to  recommend  it.  It 
is  the  last  thing  that  can  take  the 
aspect  of  a  fault  in  statistics,  to  view 
the  matter  in  very  minute  portions ; 
ibr  thus,  and  thus  only,  it  is  possible  to 
arrive  at  an  accurate  knowledge  of 
the  whole.  There  can  be  no  good 
coun^  statistics  which  do  not  sup- 
pose inquiries  limited,  at  first,  to  lesser 
divisions  of  the  country,  and  which  do 
not  express  the  sum  of  particulars 
taken  from  subdivisions  that  can 
hardly  proceed  too  far.  If  such  minor 
surveys  do  not  come  before  the  public, 
they  are  presumptively  carried  on  in 
private.  But,  in  the  latter  case,  they 
are  the  more  apt  to  be  superficial,  as 
they  can  be  so  with  the  less  chance 
of  being  noticed;  they  are  apt  to 
take  aid  from  mere  computation  of 
averages ;  they  are  apt,  also,  to  result 
in  that  vague  description  which  is  the 
master-vice  of  statistics.  ''  In  this 
town,  there  are  manu£Eu;tures  which 
employ  many  hands  ;  in  this  district, 
vast  quantities  of  silk  are  produced. 
These, "  says  Schlozer,  **  are  pet 
phrases  of  tourists,  who  would  say 
something,  when  they  know  nothing ; 
but  they  are  not  the  language  of 
statistics."  The  parochial  method 
stuids,  then,  on  two  good  grounds :  it 
is  inevitable  dther  in  an  open  or  a 
latentform ;  and  it  favours  the  coHection 
of  suffid^t  data  Ibr  those  specific 
enumerations   which    are    the    true 


worth  and  the  dianictenstic  grace  of 
this  branch  of  knowledge. 

This  plan,  however,  has  some  dis- 
advantages ;  in  Tefening  to  which  we 
shall  find  occasion  to  bring  to  vieir 
some  of  the  proper  merits  of  tiie  work. 

In  the  fiist  place,  a  work  on  this 
plan  is  inevitably  voluminous.  The 
territorial  divisions  submitted  to  dis- 
tinct treatment  are  abont  nine  han- 
dred  in  number,  and  the  matter  is 
still  further  augmented  by  the  occa- 
sional as»gnm«it  to  diflferent  hands 
of  different  parts  of  the  survey  of  % 
single  parish.  In  proportion  to  the 
descent  of  the  details,  is  the  bulk  ai 
the  production ;  which  we  suppose  to  be 
an  evil  in  the  same  measure  inwhrnfait 
exceeds  thenecessity  of  the  case.  Nofw 
the  New  Statistical  Account  is  at  once 
seen  to  contain  not  a  little  matter  of 
merely  local  interest,  and  of  the 
smallest  value  considered  as  pertain- 
ing to  a  body  of  national  statistics  ; 
and  here,  if  anywhere,  it  is  apt  to  ba 
regarded  as  at  fiiult.  It  is  right,  how- 
ever, to  recollect  the  privilege  of  every 
work  to  be  judged  according  to  the 
conditions  of  the  spedes  to  whidi  it 
belongs.  The  present  is  not  set 
fbrth  as  a  statistical  account  of  Scot- 
land, but  as  a  collection  ci  tiie  statis- 
tical accounts  of  all  the  parishes  in 
Scotland;  for  this,  we  perceive,  is 
not  merely  implied  in  the  plan  of  th& 
work,  but  is  declared  in  the  prospectos^ 
where  the  hope  is  expressed  that,  by 
exhibiting  the  actual  state  of  the 
parishes,  with  whatever  is  thereiik 
amiss,  it  may  lead  to  parochial  im- 
provements. It  does  not  appear,  there- 
fore, to  have  been  firom  any  miscalcu- 
lation of  their  worth,  that  matters  of 
merdy  local  interest  have  been  so 
liberally  admitted ;  and,  all  things- 
considered,  more  of  that  nature  might 
have  been  expected.  Let  us  quote 
again  firom  tiie  best  theoir  of  statistics 
that  has  ever  been  produced.  "An 
object  may  be  deserving  of  remsric  in 
the  description  of  some  particnlar 
portion  of  a  country,  and  at  the  same 
time  have  no  claim  to  notice  in  any 
general  account  of  that  ocmntry  at 
large.  In  the  former  case,  the  rivulet 
is  not  to  be  omitted ;  in  the  latter,, 
any  allusion  to  it  wodd  be  a  defiBct, 
for  it  would  be  matter  of 


TU  New  SuuiUieal  Aeocmnt  of  Scotland.    In  1 5  vols.    Edinburgh,  1 845. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1840.3 


Statistical  AceowOA  qf  Scodamd. 


167 


saiy  and  trifling  detail***  It  ia re- 
corded, in  the  New  Statistical  AccowU^ 
that  "  Will-o'-wisp  had  nev&c  ap- 
peared in  the  pariah  of  Sooth  Uist 
previoiiB  to  the  jear  1812.*'  Nothing, 
in  a  national  point  of  view,  can  be 
GODceiyed  more  insignificant  than  Uiis 
&ct ;  bat,  taken  in  connexion  with  a 
notable  Biq»er8tidoa  in  that  district, 
its  local  importance  appeurs.f  To 
the  credit  of  this  method,  it  may  be 
noticed,  that  the  acooonts  which  are 
most  parochial  are,  at  the  same  time, 
among  those  which  have  been  drawn 
np  with  the  most  general  intelligence ; 
and,  this  being  the  case,  it  is  not  a 
strange  wish  that  the  accounts,  in 
general,  had  been  somewhat  more 
parochial  than  they  are. 

On  this  plan,  it  is  certain  there  is 
a  risk  of  much  repetition,  many 
parishes  having  some  c(»nmon  cha- 
zaeteristfl  which,  in  place  of  bein^ 
reconnted  for  each,  might  be  stated 
once  for  all.  How  far  does  the 
Statistical  AceowU  offend  in  this  man- 
ner ?  It  is  tme  that,  where  the  same 
iMsts  oc^B*  in  many  parishes,  a  sm^ 
Btiteinent  might  snmce ;  thon^  this 
might  be  at  the  cost  of  Ti<^^ig  the 
plui  which  for  the  whole  it  might  be 
fittest  ta  adopt,  upon  oonsiderati(m 
that  the  like  resemblance  is  not  found 
among  the  greater  number  of  the 
parishes*  But  it  is  remariuible,  how 
seldom  different  parishes  have  a^  Uie 
Bimilarity  requisite  for  such  a  common 
description ;  to,  in  statistics,  a  diffe- 
rence in  mere  number  or  quantity  is 
a  ^tal  difference,  and  expresses 
essentially  different  facts.  Many 
parishes  have  the  same  articles  of  pro- 
duce ;  while  no  two  produce  exactly  the 
aame  quantities.  A  very  short  dis- 
tance often  brings  to  yiew  considerable 
varieties  in  dimate,  soil,  and  other 
physical  quaHtiee  of  a  coui^iy.  Now, 
considering  that  the  object  of  this 
w<^  is  to  present  the  parishes  in  thehr 


distinguishing,  as  weU  as  in  their 
common  featores,  we  do  not  see  mudi 
sameness  in  the  sdbstance  of  ^  de- 
tails which  could  hare  been  avoided. 
A  sameness  there  is ;  but  more  in 
form  than  in  substance— eadi  account 
delivering  its  matter  under  the  same 
general  heads,,  recurring  in  all  cases 
in  exactly  the  same  order.  This  is 
convenient  when  the  book  is  used  for 
reference;  it  may  be  wearisome  to 
one  who  reads  only  for  amusement :  it  is 
monotimoas ;  hvt  who  looks  for  any 
*'  soul  of  harmony  **  in  such  a  quarter? 
We  rq)eat,  it  is  not  attended,  on  the 
whole,  with  much  importunate  re- 
appearance of  the  same  facts,  and 
cannot  seem  to  be  so,  except  to  a  veiy 
careless  or  distemp^ed  eye.  But  if, 
perchance,  there  may  be  some  facts 
mudi  alike  in  several  parishes,  this 
itself  is  an  unusual  fact,  and  we  should 
not  object  to  its  coming  out  in  the 
usual  way  of  each  parish  speaking  for 
itself ;  in  which  case,  there  is  always 
a  chance  of  some  variety  in  the  de- 
scription, from  the  same  thing  pre- 
senting itself  to  different  persons 
under  different  aspects.  But,  on  the 
whole,  we  think  there  is  less  repeti- 
tion in  these  accounts,  and  indeed  less 
occasion  for  it,  than  might  at  first 
sight  be  supposed. 

There  is  another  obvious  tendency 
to  imperfection  in  the  plan  of  paro- 
chial accounts.  Their  first,  but  not 
their  sole  object,  is  to  describe  the 
parishes ;  it  is  certainly  meant  that 
they  should  furnish,  at  the  same 
time,  the  grounds  of  statistical  com- 
putation fofr  the  whole  country. 
This  is  the  natural  complement  and 
the  proper  condusion  to  a  work  of 
parish  statistics.  It  is,  however,  a 
part  of  the  plan  which,  not  being  quite 
necessary,  and  requiring  afresh  effbrt 
at  the  last,  is  apt  to  be  omitted.  It 
was  not  till  twenty-five  years  after 
the  publication  of  the  old  Account  that 


*  Schloier. 

f  "  It  is  Baid  that  a  woman  in  Benbectda  went  at  night  to  the  Sandbanks,  to  dig 
for  some  roe  used  for  dyeing  a  red  colour,  against  her  husband's  will ;  that^  ii^ien 
she  left  her  house,  she  said  with  an  oath  she  would  bring  some  of  it  home,  though 
she  knew  there  was  a  regulation  by  the  factor  and  magistrates,  prohibiting  people 
to  use  it  or  dig  for  it,  by  reason  that  the  sandbanks,  upon  being  excavated,  would  be 
blown  awmy  with  the  wind.  The  woman  never  returned  home,  nor  was  her  body 
ever  fovnd.  It  was  shortly  thereafter  that  the  meteor  was  first  seen ;  and  it  is  said 
that  it  » the  ghost  of  the  imfortunate  and  pro&ne  woman  that  appears  in  this  shf^.** 
—New  Statiiticml  Aceount,  **  Inverness,'*  p  184. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


168 


Siatisticai  Accounts  of  Scotland. 


[Feb. 


Sir  John  Siaclalr  at  length  produced 
his  Analysis  of  the  Statistical  Account 
of  Scotland  considered  as  one  District, 
It  came  too  late.  A  similar  analysis 
or  summary  appears  to  have  been  at 
first  intended  for  the  new  Account : 
and  we  regret  that  this  part  of  the 
design  was,  by  force  of  circum- 
stances, not  carried  into  effect. 
One  use  of  it  would  have  been  to 
evince  that  parochial  statistics  do  not 
assume  the  character  of  national ; 
while  yet,  for  even  national  statistics, 
they  furnish  the  most  proper  founda- 
tion. To  pass  at  once,  however,  from 
parochial  to  national  statistics  would 
have  been  too  great  a  step ;  there  is 
an  intermediatestage,  at  which  the  new 
Account  would  certainly  have  paused, 
though  it  had  designed  to  proceed 
farther;  and  at  which,  without  that 
design,  it  has  here  rested ;  presenting 
the  statistics  of  each  county  in  a  sum- 
mary of  the  more  important  particu- 
lars concerning  the  included  parishes ; 
but  making  no  nearer  approach  to  any 
general  computations  for  the  country 
at  large. 

The  method  of  proceeding  from 
parishes  to  counties  suggests  that 
other  plan  for  the  entire  work,  which 
would  have  followed  the  opposite 
course — the  plan  that  would  have 
begun  with  counties,  and  given  County, 
not  Parochial  reports.  Somewhat  in 
this  fashion  has  been  formed  the  Geo- 
graphic  D^artementale  of  France,  now 
in  Course  of  publication,  in  which  the 
whole  matter  is  rigorously  subjected 
to  as  skilful  an  arrangement  as  has 
ever  been  devised  for  matters  of  the 
kind.  It  is  plain,  however,  that  greater 
difficulty  and  more  expense  wouldhave 
attended  the  construction  of  the  Scotch 
work  on  that  scheme,  than  private 
parties  could  have  undertaken ;  and 
even  the  example  of  the  French  work 
does  not  show  that,  for  the  compacter 
method  thus  obtained,  there  might  not 
have  been  a  sacrifice  of  much  that  is 
valuable  in  detail. 

It  may  be  added,  that  when  parishes 
are  well  described,  and  a  county  or 
more  general  summary  succeeds,  we 
ask  no  more;  a  work  like  this  has 
then  accomplished  its  object,  and  what 
remains  must  be  sought  for  elsewhere. 
What  remains  is  this — to  interpret 
the  statistics  thus  laid  down,  for  they 
Arc  often  very  far  from  interpreting 


themselves ;  to  ascertain,  by  analysis 
or  combination  of  their  different  parts, 
what  they  signify  in  regard  to  the  con- 
dition of  the  country.  Thus,  betwixt 
the  rate  of  wages  and  the  habits  of  a 
people — the  prevailing  occupations 
and  the  rate  of  mortality — the  descrip- 
tion of  industry  and  the  amount  of 
pauperism—there  are  relations  which 
it  is  exceedingly  important  to  remark. 
But  if  a  statistical  account  simply 
notes  the  kind,  number,  or  quantity  of 
each  of  these  particulars,  it  performs 
its  part, — ^no  matter  how  blindly,  how 
unconsciously  of  the  relation  that  sub- 
sists betwixt  them,  this  may  be  done. 
The  rest  is  so  different  a  work,  that  it 
must  be  left  to  other  hands.  It  is  not 
to  be  forgotten,  that,  for  bringing  out 
the  more  latent  truths  of  statistics  in 
the  manner  mentioned,  a  work  like 
this  is  merely  pour  servir ;  and,  keep- 
ing that  in  view,  our  prepossessions 
are  all  in  favour  of  abundance  and 
minuteness  of  detail. 

Lastly,  a  work  made  up  of  contri- 
butions from  nine  hundred  individuals 
must  be  of  unequal  merit,  according 
to  the  different  measures  of  intelligence 
or  care,  and  according  to  the  feeling 
with  whidi  a  task  of  that  nature  may 
happen  to  have  been  undertaken.  A 
slight  inspection,  accordingly,  dis- 
covers that  it  is  the  character  of  the 
writer,  more  than  of  the  parish,  that 
determines  the  length  and  interest  of 
any  one  of  these  reports.  This  is  an 
imperfection,  and  something  more — for 
it  makes  one  part  of  the  book,  by  impli- 
cation, reveal  the  defects  of  another.  A 
few  years  ago,  when  a  Crown  commis- 
sion considered  a  project  for  a  general 
survey  and  statistical  report  of  Ireland, 
their  attention  was  much  attracted  to 
the  New  Statistical  Account  of  Scot- 
land;  and,  in  their  report,  theynoticOt 
in  the  course  of  a  very  fair  estimate, 
this  inequality  as  the  main  disadvan- 
tage of  the  plan.  It  is,  however,  in- 
evitable, except  upon  a  scheme  which, 
from  the  expense  attending  it,  would 
have  hindered  the  existence  of  the 
Scottish  work,  and  which  appears 
to  have  prevented  or  postponed  the 
Irish.  From  a  single  author,  some- 
thinglike proportion  might  be  expected 
in  the  parts  of  such  a  compilation ; 
but  to  that  perfection  a  work  like  the 
Statistical  Account  of  Scotland^  with 
its  hundreds  of  avowed   responsible. 


Digitized  br^^OOQlC 


1849.] 


Statistical  Accounts  of  Scotland, 


169 


and  therefore  uncontrolled  authors, 
could  not  pretend.  For  this  reason, 
it  is  the  more  proper  to  follow  a  rule 
of  judgment  which,  in  anj  case,  is  a 
good  one:— to  estimate  the  general 
character  of  the  work  with  a  lively 
recollection  of  its  merits  ;  and  to  be 
mudi  upon  our  guard  against  the 
mean  instinct  of  looking  only  to  the 
weaker  and  more  peccant  parts  of  it. 

Paflsing  from  the  plan  to  the  matter 
of  the  work,  we  now  ask,  whether  all 
that  it  contains  is  properly  statistical, 
and  whether  it  contains  all  of  any 
consequence  that  falls  under  that  de- 
scription. 

Nothing,  we  suppose,  is  alien  to 
this  branch  of  knowledge  that  tends, 
in  however  little,  to  show  the  state  of 
a  country — social,  political,  moral — 
or  even  physical. 

But  this  last,  comprising  somewhat 
of  geography  and  natural  history, 
some  writers  would  remove  entirely 
from  the  sphere  of  statistics.  Among 
these  18  Peuchet,  in  his  work  before 
mentioned— who  gives  as  the  reason 
of  the  exclusion,  that,  in  any  analysis 
of  the  wealth  or  power  of  a  state, 
neither  its  geography  nor  natural  his- 
tory ever  come  into  ^ew :  a  fact  rather 
hastily  assumed.  The  parallel  work 
for  tMB  country,  by  ^  M^Culloch, 
while  it  follows  Feuchet^s  method  in 
much,  leaves  it  in  this  instance,  ad- 
mitting various  branches  of  natural 
history  to  ample  consideration.  It  is 
true  that  trespass  on  the  proper 
ground  of  statistics  has  been  so  com- 
mon an  oflfence,  that  writers  have  been 
carefol  to  mark  those  cases  in  which 
no  title  exists.  Thus  Schlozer,  look- 
ing to  the  intrusions  that  come  from 
the  quarter  we  refer  to,  is  averse  to 
all  imaghiative  descriptions  of  the 
physical  aspect  of  a  country,  but  does 
not  prohibit  natural  history.  Hogel, 
who  also  writes  well  upon  the  theory 
of  statistics,*  is  more  explicit — ad- 
mitting that  natural  history  may  en- 
croach too  far,  but  asserting  that  its 
several  branches  maybe  received  to 
ft  certain  extent.  "Whatever,  in 
the  physical  nature  of  a  country,  has 
any  influence  upon  the  life,  occupa- 
tions, or  manners  of  the  people,  per- 
tains to  statistics;  by  all  means, 
therefore,  in  any  body  of  statistics,  let 


us  have  as  much  of  mineralogy,  hydro- 
logy, botany,  ^ology,  meteorology, 
as  has  any  beanng  upon  the  condition 
of  the  people."  All  of  these  subjects 
have  been  allowed  to  enter  largely 
into  the  New  Statistical  Account, 

They  form  a  feature  of  that  work 
which  scarcely  belonged  to  the  old 
Account,  and  which  is  new,  indeed,  to 
parochial  statistics.  Investigations 
of  natural  history  have  usually  been 
carried  on  with  reference  to  other 
bounds  than  those  of  parishes ;  but, 
when  confined  to  parishes,  it  is  re- 
markable how  much  this  has  been  at 
once  for  the  advantage  of  the  science, 
and  for  the  enhancement  of  any  inte- 
rest in  these  territorial  divisions  by 
the  picturesque  mixture  of  natural 
objects  with  the  works  and  pursuits  of 
men.  More  of  this  parochial  treatment 
of  natural  history  we  may  possibly 
have  hereafter,  upon  the  suggestion  of 
the  Statistical  Account, 

For  the  abundant  favour  which  the 
work  has  shown  to  the  whole  subject 
of  natural  history,  i-easons  are  not 
wanting.  One  portion  of  that  matter 
has  obviously  the  quality  that  desig- 
nates for  statistical  treatment,— com- 
prising, for  example,  mines,  whether 
wrought  or  unwrought ;  animals,  pro- 
fitable or  destructive;  plants,  in  all 
their  variety  of  uses :  the  connexion 
of  which  with  the  wealth  and  industry 
of  the  country  is  at  once  apparent. 
The  same  connexion  exists  for  another 
class  of  objects ;  but  not  so  obviously. 
For  example,  there  is  a  detailed 
account  of  the  flowering  periods  of  a 
variety  of  plants  in  one  parish ;  the 
pertinence  of  which  is  not  perceived, 
until  it  is  mentioned  that,  in  the  same 
neighbourhood,  there  are  two  populous 
and  well-frequented  watering-places, 
which  owe  their  prosperity  to  the  qua- 
lities of  the  climate :  there  the  trade 
of  the  locality  connects  Itself  with  the 
early  honours  of  the  hepaticas.  A 
third  class  of  facts,  and  not  the  least 
in  amount,  is  not  qualified  by  any  re- 
lation they  are  known  to  possess  to 
the  social  condition  of  the  country; 
but  then  thev  belong  to  a  body  of 
facts,  some  of  which  have  that  rela- 
tion; and  the  same  may  be  esta- 
blished for  them  hereafter.  Still,  it 
may  be  said  that  the  matter,  if  appro - 


HooEL,  Entumr/zur  TkeorU  der  Statittik. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


170 


Si&iiatiealAeeo9mi§qfSeoamul. 


[FdO. 


priate,  behoves  to  be  presented  in  a 
BtatistkMkl,  not  in  a  scientific  form. 
But  this,  perhaps^  is  to  interpret  too 
strictly  the  laws  of  statistical  writings 
whidi  do  not  seem  to  forbid  ihe  pre- 
dominance of  a  sciaitific  interest  in 
tiie  descr^>tion,  when  the  mattw  fairly 
belongs  to  the  {Mrovince  of  statistics. 
And  if  any  license  at  aU  may  be 
allowed  in  works  of  so  sevare  a  charac- 
ter,itispreciselyhere  where  that  is  lea^ 
nnbefitting.  It  is  not  among  the  faults 
of  the  New  Statistical  Account^  bat 
rather  among  its  most  interesting  fea- 
toreSy  tiiat  the  mineral  resources  of  the 
countiy  are  so  often  desoribed  with  all 
the  skUl  and  passicm  of  the  mineralo- 
gist, forgetting  for  the  moment  every- 
thing  Imt  the  phraomena  of  nature. 

Under  the  head  of  Natural  History, 
we  have  many  instances  of  the  land- 
scape painting  proscribed  by  Schlozer. 
But  It  is  remarked,  that  the  same 
authority,  when  adverting  to  another 
matter,  lays  down  a  principle  of  ad- 
mission which  is  equally  i^lieaUe 
here.  '^  Antiquities,"  he  observes, 
*^  become  a  proper  subject  of  statis- 
tics in  such  a  case  as  that  of  Rome, 
where  a  large  amount  of  money  was 
at  one  time  annually  expended  by  the 
strangers  who  came  to  form  their 
tastcv  or  to  indulge  their  curioeity, 
npon  the  remains  of  ancient  art."  In 
like  manner,  if  tiiere  are  places  in 
Scotland  that  profit  economically  by 
the  attracticms  of  their  natural  beauty, 
we  do  not  see  that  there  is  afty  obli- 
gati(m  to  be  silent  upon  the  cause,  by 
reascm  merely  of  the  seeming  disson- 
ance betwixt  an  unaginative  descrip- 
tion and  the  austere  account  of  sta- 
tistics. Other  and  better  apologies 
might  be  offered;  and,onthewh<^e,we 
are  not  satisfied  that,  in  this  respect, 
any  less  indulgence  of  the  gratler 
vdn  would  have  been  attended  with 
advantage  te  the  work. 

On  these  grounds  it  appears  te  have 
been,  that  so  much  scope  is  allowed  te 
the  whole  suliject  of  natural  history. 
But  if  too  mudit  the  fault  has  been 
redeemed  by  the  firequent  excellence 
of  what  is  put  forth  on  that  head. 
Here  the  NemStatiitieai  AecowU  passes 
expectation ;  and  to  it  we  may  attri- 
bute much  of  the  increased  interest 
that  has  lately  attadied  to  that  branch 
of  knowledge  in  Scotland. 

r  thing  of  questionable  con- 


nexioii  with  statistioais  histoiy,  winch 
imports  a  reference  to  tiie  past; 
whereas,  as  the  name  dedares,  sta- 
tistics contemplates  but  the  praent, 
and  can  look  neither  badcward  nor  fiur- 
ward,  without  trenching  upon  other 
provincesb  Many  excellent  statistical 
works,  accordingly,  have  allowed  no 
place  to  history  at  all ;  and  the  writers 
before  cited,  on  the  theory  of  the  sub- 
ject, concur  in  excluding  it.  Hogd  is 
most  explicit.  '^  Statistics  never  go 
beyond  the  drele  of  the  jHresent  in 
their  represei^ations  of  the  cmiditioii 
of  a  country :  they  are  like  pamtiiig — 
they  fix  upon  a  single  point  of  time ; 
and  the  racts  ^duch  they  sde^  are 
those  which  come  la^  in  the  series, 
though  the  series  they  belong  to  may 
extend  backwards  for  ages.  All  that 
went  before  rests  on  testimony,  and 
is  therefore  beyond  the  sphere  of  sta- 
tistics, whose  grounds  are  in  actual 
observation.  There  is  no  limit  to  the 
number  of  facts  with  which  statistics 
have  to  do,  provided  they  are  oo- 
existing  facts,  and  do  not  i«eae&t 
themselves  in  succession:  fiicis,  and 
not  their  causes,  are  the  proper  matt^ 
of  statistics ;  and  they  must  be  £usts 
ofthe  present  time."  This  doctrine,  in 
whidi  there  seems  nothing  in  the  main 
amiss,  if  strictiy  i^liedtothework  un- 
der consideration,  cancds  a  large  part 
of  it.  But  against  that  conseqnenoe  we 
cansu];^>08eittobepleaded— First,  that 
for  relief  firom  a  continuily  of  details 
somewhat  arid  to  many  readers,  the 
woriE  borrows  something  from  a  nei^- 
bonring  branch  of  knowledge,  and  so 
far,  of  purpose,  drops  ite  statistical 
character — the  more  allowably,  as  in 
this  way  no  harm  ensues  to  the  sta- 
tistical character  of  the  rest.  And 
next — ^that  aU  the  hlstCMry  of  a  place 
has  not  equally  littie  to  do  with  its  pre- 
sent state ;  for  past  ev^ts  are  often, 
casually  or  otherwise,  related  to  the 
present,  and  so  become  a  fair  snl^ect 
of  retroispect,  unless  restraints  are  to 
be  imposed  oa  this  branch  of  know- 
ledge which  are  unknown  to  any  other. 
The  fault,  in  this  instance,  is  at  least 
not  so  great,  as  where  no  discoverable 
relation  exists.  It  may  be  worth 
while,  then,  to  observe  how  far  the 
historical  matter  of  the  Statistieal  Ac- 
camU  does  show  any  connexion  of  tto 
sort  in  question. 
Ul  includes^  under  the  head  of  his- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.] 


3taiMeaiAammi»ofScdAmd. 


toffT,  ynaksaa  dassea  of  partknlan. 
1.  The  pjoidL  has  been  the  scene  «f 
aomeeveat  remarkable  in  the  hktoiy 
of  tfaeconntry.  Of  this,  perhapa,  dia- 
tinct  traces  remaiB,  not  in  memory 
alone,  but  in  some  local  custom  car 
histitotion.  Bat  the  most  common 
case  la,  that,  as  the  cange  extends  to 
the  remotest  penods,  all  inflnence  or 
effect  of  the  event  has  ceased,  and  the 
intarest  of  its  recital  is  purely  histo- 
xfcaL  Here  the  StatisHeal  Account 
traaagraaoea  one  mle  (x£  snch  a  work 
by  the  adaaission  oi  saxh  BMtter,  and 
asks,  aa  wepeicecfe  it  does  ask  in  the 
proqwctoa,  liberty  to  do  so  on  one  <d 
the  gronnds  above  saggested. 

2.  The  same  apology  is  reqaired 
Ibr  the  antiqmtiea,  that  fbrm  a  large 
section  under  this  head^  These  have 
sometimea  perceptibly  the  connexion 
that  gifes  A&  tide  we  desire ;  a  con- 
nexion,  periiapa,  no  more*  than  per- 
ceptible. Thiu,  in  r^srence  to  the 
lonnd  hill  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton^ 
on  which  tiie  god  Thor  was  anciently 
wocahipped,  we  are  told  that,  ^^  on  the 
evening  before  the  June  &ir,  a  piece 
of  f  0^  is  stSd  demanded  at  eadi  hoase, 
and  invariably  given,  even  by  the  poor- 
est inhabitant,"  in  order  to  celebrate 
the  form  of  the  same  snperstitioas  rite 
which  has  been  annually  performed  on 
that  hH  for  many  coituriea.  The 
fiunons  Pietlsh  tower  at  Abemethy  is 
said  to  be  used  ^^  for  civil  purposes 
connected  with  the  burgh."  Ll  these 
cases  it  is  seen  how  very  slight  is  the 
qualifying  drcamatance ;  but  it  is  still 
more  so  for  much  the  greater  number 
of  par^uhsB  ctf  this  kind  which  the 
book  contains — such  as  ancient  coins, 
ancient  armour,  banowa,  standing- 
atones,  camps,  or  moat  hills:  all  of 
which  particularly  belong  to  archs- 
elogy,  aadobtain  aplace  here  aimplj  by 
fiivour.  Indeed,  no  part  of  the  work 
adheres  to  it  so  loosely  as  this  of  an- 
tiquities. The^obje^  live  as  curio- 
aitiea;  but,  to  all  intents  that  can 
xecommend  them  to  the  notice  of  sta- 
tistica,  they  are  dead,  ^'  and  to  be  so 
extant  is  but  a  fallacy  in  durati<»." 

If  thia  portion  of  the  matter  be  the 
least  appropriate,  it  is,  at  the  same 
time,  not  the  least  dtftoilt  to  handle ; 
for  uncertainty  besets  a  very  great 
part  of  it,  and  nothing  more  tries  the 
reach  of  knowledge  than  conjecture. 
Beaides,  the  knowladge  here  leqmaite 


171 

implies  both  taste  and  (^portaiitiea 
for  its  cultivation^— whidi  may  be- 
long'to  individuals,  but  which  cannot 
be  attributed  to  an  oitire  profession^ 
spread  over  all  parts  of  the  coun- 
try, and  designated  to  very  different 
studies.  If  antiijuities  could  be  con- 
sidered aa  a  main  part  of  statistics, 
it  is,  assuredly,  not  to  the  dergy 
we  should  look  for  a  statistical 
account;  wa  indeed  to  any  other 
body,  however  learned,  if  it  be  not 
the  Sode^  of  Antiqnaries.  The 
dtfgyman  who  honours  his  furt^esskm 
with  tiie  greatest  amount  of  qipro- 
priate  learning,  may  in  this  particular 
know  but  littie ;  and  if  we  do  not,  on 
that  account,  the  less  value  him,  it  is 
assuredly  not  fhma  undervaluing  in 
the  subtest  degree  a  very  interesting 
branch  of  knowledge. 

In  these  drcumstances,  the  reasons 
for  aUowmg  to  antiquities  so  much  of 
this  compilation  iq[>p€arto  have  been, — 
the  compiling  example  of  the  old  Ac- 
count, tiie  occasional  aptness  of  the 
matter,  and  the  effBCt  of  such  a  melange 
upon  the  mass  of  details  that  form  the 
body  of  the  work.  But  a  better  apo- 
logy remains ;  audit  may  be  extended 
to  what  is  said  of  the  r^narkable 
events  of  histoiy.  We  are  warranted 
in  aaying,  that  iheNew  Statutical  Ac- 
count  has  contriboted  mncb  to  the 
histoiy  and  antiquities  of  Scotland, — 
evincing  on  these  subjects  a  frequent 
novelty  and  Mness  of  knowledge  for 
surpassing  what  either  the  design  or 
the  apparatus  of  the  undertaking  gave 
any  title  to  expect. 

Of  one  foalt,  in  particular,  there 
is  no  iq[>pearance  in  1^  archsQology  of 
this  work.  Nowhere  is  there  any 
sign  of  an  idiosjncracy  which  is  not 
without  example — that  of  professing 
to  speak  of  statistics,  and  yet  speaking 
of  nothing  but  antiquities ;  as  if  these, 
which  are  saved  with  so  m«ch  diffi- 
culty from  the  charge  of  beingwhotty 
out  of  place,  were  the  pi<^  and  mar- 
row, the  most  vital  part  of  any  body 
of  statistics.  This  u  a  small  merit, 
but  it  is  allied  to  a  greater.  Through- 
out these  volumes,  there  is  no  ten- 
dency to  discuss  such  fotile  questions 
as  have  sometimes  lowered  the  credit 
of  antiquarian  pursuits.  We  have 
seen  it  solemnly  inquired,  whetiier 
^neas,  upon  landing  in  Italy,  touched 
the  soil  with  the  right  or  with  the  left 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Statistical  ActomHs  ofSaMhmd, 


fiuii  (ortimctni;  whether  Karl  Haco 
wjw  In  pfyfiKm  prcftiDt  at  the  sacrifice 
of  UU  mm  ;  whether  a  faded  inacription 
upcu  i)m  walla  of  an  old  church  be  of 
iU\n  Imnort  or  that— In  cither  case  the 
Uiit^rt^ni  having  so  little  to  support  it 
In  ttin  MiKnlOcance  of  the  record  that 
It  can  ncarro  bo  imnglncd  to  exist  at 
nWt  t^xront  as  It  may  centre  in  the 
tn»'r*^  trntli  of  the  deciphering.  No- 
IhlKi;  of  this  doting,  degenerate  cha- 
i««'l»'r»  ropuiliftlrd  b^  all  antiquaries, 
oMiHrt  In  iho  StuttHttral  Account :  if  it 
did,  llin  «um  of  fill  the  errors  in  names, 
(1n(rf<,  nnd  oiltor  things,  inevitably  In- 
I'ldMiit  Id  so  vnut  A  variety  of  details, 
^(Mild  not  Imvo  boon  an  cmial  blemish. 

ti  Is  tMolmhln  that  neither  history 
tior  atttttiulilos  will  tind  a  place  In  any 
hiMMnBhuUtlcsol'Srolland.  Not  that 
(liov  huvohoon  enough  oxaminod  cither 
Im  ihtti  (miuuohIou,  orrlsowhero;  but  It 
td  tton  (*(ttiMuou  to  nmko  thomthosub- 
)iiri  ot  sopttrttt0,  Indopondont  essays— 
(littnutMl  JM'opor  fonn  for  the  delivery  of 
nuyditiig  (hntportalns  to  such  matters. 
*riio  gtMul  service  dune  In  this  depart- 
ment, by  bt»th  of  these  Accounts,  now 
IiiIIh  to  he  performed  by  such  works  as 
(he  **  Ilaroulal  and  Kccleslastical  An- 
tli|ultlesof8<olland,"* which  have  this 
for  llieir  Mingle  object ;  and  the  pre- 
hunuition  is  onlv  fair,  that  some  t\ir- 
tlier  light  on  such  matters  may  be  con- 
tributed by  the  **  Pai'ochiale  Scoti- 
cannm,"  lately  annonnced  as  in  the 
course  of  preparation t— though  our 
expectations  would  not  have  been  at 
nil  lessened  by  a  somewhat  less  mag- 
nlilrent  promise  than  that  ^^  every  man 
in  Scotland  may  be  enabled  to  ascer- 
tain, with  some  precision,  the  first 
footing  and  graduat  progress  of  Chris* 
tmm'hj  in  his  own  district  and  nelgh- 
liourhood." 

Jt  Is  not  to  be  supposed,  however, 
that  some  other  topics  which  regularly 
nppear  In  this  New  Account,  under  the 
heail  of  history,  will  ever  drop  fVom 
any  work  of  parochial  statbtlcs.  We 
rvfvr  to  what  may  bo  termed  Parish 
i  listm y.  OS  distinct  horn  what  belongs 
to  tlio  history  of  the  country,— notices 
of  distinguished  Individuals  and  of 
ancient  fanillles,  changes  of  property, 
territorial  Improvements,  variations  In 


(Td). 


the  BodaL  state  of  the  people.  Xo 
part  of  a  hock  is  more  norel,  or,  to  a 
proper  cnrioeitj,  more  interesdng ; 
and  no  indlcatioii  is  needed  of  the  ^ur 
indd^ice  of  such  matters  to  a  work  of 
this  description. 

If  the  New  Statistkal  Account 
contains,  then,  some  partkulars  not 
quite  proper  to  the  professed  object, 
the  excess  appears  to  be  on  die  whole 
venial.  But  it  may  still  be  asked, 
whether  any  important  and  pp(q>er 
matters  appear  to  have  been  omitted. 

Now,  considering  how  many  things 
of  nature,  art,  instttntion,  and  in- 
dustry pertain  to  statistics,  we  do 
not  expect  any  compilation  to  embrace 
all,  or  to  treat  completely  of  all  such 
things  as  it  does  embrace, — ^we  expect 
imperfection  in  the  details. 

Accordingly,  it  is  seen  that  some 
subjects  well  described  in  some  ac- 
counts, are  either  not  at  all,  or  not  so 
fully,  taken  up  in  others;  while  yet 
the  occasion  may  be  much  the  same. 
Tho  climate  of  some  districts,  for 
instance,  is  well  iUustrated  by  carefol 
observations  firom  the  rain-gage  and 
thermometer;  in  some  panshes  we 
are  informed  of  the  size  of  the  agri- 
cultural possessions,  the  number  of 
ploughs,  the  rent  of  land ;  in  some, 
manufactories,  mines,  and  other  kinds 
of  industry,  are  viewed  in  all  their 
aspects.  But,  for  other  districts  or 
parishes,  reports  on  these  subjects  are 
wanting;  and  the  disadvantage  is,  not 
merely  that  such  desirable  information 
is  not  given  for  such  places,  but  that 
the  means  are  not  fhrmshed  of  making 
any  general  computations  for  the 
whole  countiy.  It  is  plain  there  have 
been  special  reasons  for  the  less  satis- 
factory representation  of  particular 
parishes  in  these  respects:  but  for 
all  such  faults,  both  of  omission  and 
imperfection,  we  understand  the  New 
Statistiad  Account  to  have  one  general 
apology ;  which  is  this. 

Two  distmct  efibrts  are  requisite  to 
the  preparation  of  a  comprehensive 
work  of  statistics.  There  is  first,  the 
investigation  of  facts ;  and  next,  the 
task  of  arranging  and  presenting  them 
in  the  report.  One  of  the  theorists 
before-mentioned,  views  it  as  a  neces- 


•  fh  JhtH)nhl  and  ICccifiiaitkal  AntigMities  of  Scotland,    lllastrated  by  R.  W. 
Ihi.uhiM,  sod  WiLMAM  BeaK. 

H«|>t)iiua  PanychiaU  Hcoticamm,  now  editmg  by  Cosmo  Iitkbs,  Esq.,  Advocate. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1819.] 


SiatittkaiAeeotmisofSeoikmd. 


sary  divifikm  of  labour,  that  both 
things  should  not  be  attenqited  by  (me 
and  the  same  par^,— especially  as  the 
first,  when  the  sol^ects  are  nomerons, 
is  not  to  be  accomplished  but  by  the 
assistance  of  many  hands — all  of 
which,  as  he  obeer^es,  most  be  at 
once  skilftil  and  smtaldy  rewafded. 
Now,  here,  the  task  of  inqniring  and 
reporting  was  not  divided ;  the  whole 
of  it  was  placed,  by  the  necessities  of 
the  case,  in  the  hands  of  the  reyerend 
contributors.  But,  as  no  prirate 
society  had  the  means  or  authority  to 
investigate  the  £M:ts  completely,  it  is 
nrged  that  the  defects  to  wfaidi  we 
have  allnded,  were  for  the  most  part 
inevitable. 

We  believe  it;  and,  recognising 
how  much  the  clergy  had  thus  to  do, 
whidi  could  only  be  done  completely 
bj'  the  government,  we  only  advert  to 
the  sonrces  of  information  to  which 
they  conld  have  reooorse. 

Pubitc  documetUsBeem  to  have  been 
consulted,  when  information  of  a  later 
date  could  not  be  had,— and  chiefly 
the  parliamentary  reports  on  popula- 
tion, crime,  education,  and  mmucipal 
affairs,  from  whidi  the  parish  accounts 
appear  to  have  been  supplemented 
with  whatever  was  necessary  to  the 
completion  of  the  county  summaries. 
Mucn  has  also  been  derived  from  the 
reports  of  Societies,  Boards,  and  mer- 
cantile companies;  of  this  there  is 
evidence  in  the  account  of  eveiy  con- 
siderable town. 

Public  records  appear  also  to  have 
been  examined,  and  chiefly  the  parish 
registers.  Every  parish  has  a  record 
of  the  transactions  of  its  kirk-session, 
—sometimes  extending  to  distant 
periods.  Extracts  from  these  occa- 
sionally show,  in  a  clear  light,  the 
state  and  manners  of  the  country  in 
former  times ;  more  of  which  authen- 
tic illustration  we  could  have  wished, 
and  more  the  same  sources  might 
possibly  have  supplied.  Most  pa- 
rishes have  also  records  of  births  or 
baptisms,  marriages  and  deaths. 
From  these,  and  these  only,  this 
work  could  derive  the  elements  of  its 
important  section  of  ^tal  statistics  ; 
but  how  far  were  they  fitted  to  serve 
that  purpose?  It  is  certain  that 
they  nowhere  form  a  complete  re- 
gister of  these  occurrences,  and 
that   for   the   most   part   they  are 


173 

very  defective.  Baptisms  Mppe^r  to 
have  been  entered,  in  the  parish  re- 
gister, regularly  till  the  year  1783, 
when  the  imposition  of  a  smril  tax 
first  broke  the  custom  of  registration ; 
and,  when  that  tax  was  removed, 
dissenting  bodies  were  nnwUling  to 
resume  the  practice.  The  proportion 
of  registered  baptisms  to  births,  for 
instance,  is  at  the  present  time  not 
more  than  one  fourUi  in  Edinburgh, 
and  one  third  in  Glasgow.  Tin 
marriage  register  is  also  unavailable 
to  statistical  purposes,  by  reason  of 
the  practice  of  double  enrolment— in 
the  parish  of  each  party.  In  many 
parishes  no  record  of  burials  exists  : 
in  others,  those  of  paupers  are  omitted. 
In  short,  there  is  scarcely  a  country 
in  Europe  that  does  not,  by  proper 
arrangements,  furnish  better  informa- 
tion on  these  important  points ;  and 
no  industry  of  individuals  can  remedy 
that  defect.  It  is  therefore  among 
the  postulates  of  a  work  like  this, 
for  Scotland,  that  its  vital  statistics 
should  be  imperfect. 

Books  relating  to  the  history,  civil 
or  natural,  the  institutions  or  manners 
of  the  country,  have  in  many  instances 
been  well  consulted ;  in  some,  not  at 
all ;  but  probably  as  much  from  want 
of  opportunity  as  from  any  other 
cause. 

Still  much  occasion  for  inquiry  re- 
mained after  all  the  use  that  could  be 
made  of  reports,  registers,  and  books. 
Much  of  what  related  to  the  institu- 
tions of  Religion,  education,  and  the 
poor,  might  be  supposed  to  come 
readily  to  hand,  the  clergy  themselves 
being  most  conversant  with  such 
matters.  But  they  appear  to  have 
charged  themselves  with  the  toil  of 
very  different  investigations.  Some 
have  been  at  the  pains  to  ascertain 
the  amount  and  occupations  of  the 
population,  betwixt  the  decennial 
terms  of  the  parliamentary  census. 
Few  have  omitted  to  state,  in  con- 
nexion with  the  a^cnlture  of  the 
parish,  the  quantities  of  land  under 
tillage  or  under  wood,  in  pasture  or 
in  moor,  and  the  amount  respectively 
of  the  different  kmds  of  produce— fact^ 
that  imply  not  a  little  correspondence 
with  land-owners  and  land-occupiers, 
and  much  industry  in  the  collation  of 
returns.  They  have  had  recourse,  fre- 
quently, to  mineralogists,  botanists, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


174 

overaeerB  of  miiiiiig  and  mamiSKtnrmg 
woiios,  whose  ooniribiitioiiB  are  of  as 
iirach  value  as  the  fdllest  and  ripest 
knowledge  can  gi^e.  Pictore-galleries 
are  sometimes  de8crU)ed  by^  tiieir 
ownen;  fondly  papers  occasionally 
disclose  ftcts  of  some  interest  & 
the  tufitoiy  of  the  oonntiy.  Throvgfa- 
ont  tiie  work  there  are  signs  not  to  be 
mistaken,  of  mnch  private  and  nn^ 
wonted  inqoiry  on  the  part  of  the 
reverend  onthors,  to  ^,  in  a  credi- 
table way,  a  work  that,  from  the 
satnre  of  it,  ongfat  to  have  been 
af^rtioned  to  at  least  two  d^Sorent 


SkOiBtic&i  AotmmU  of  Soofkmd. 


[Feb. 


Hie  defects  which  remain  only 
suggest  to  ns  the  bope  which  was 
thns  expressed  m  similar  chxmm- 
stanoes,  that  ^  tiie  clnmlation  of  this 
work,  by  bringing  the  deficiencies 
in  the  means  of  statistical  informa- 
tion under  the  public  view,  and 
drawing  aittention  to  them,  may, 
in  this  reject,  also  contribute  to  the 
advancfflnent  of  the  science."  It  is 
implied,  of  course,  "diat  the  work,  to 
be  useM  in  this  indirect  way,  must 
have  merits  of  another  kind.  On 
these  the  New  StatistUxd  Account  may 
Stand.  No  oHier  book  affords  the 
same  insight  into  the  various  natural 
resources  of  the  countiy;  none  de- 
scribes so  well,  and  so  skilfully,  the 
most  considerable  brandies  of  indus- 
try, and  the  methods  of  conducting 
them ;  none  has  brought  together  the 
same  variety  of  statistics,  with  the 
same  ample  means  of  speculating  upon 


their  Hntual  relatioBS.  It  is  stll 
more  remaifcaMe,  timt  ^ach  a  w>ork, 
embracing,  as  it  does,  m  modi  lie3^ondi 
tiie  ubmI flfAi0!<e  of  iinir  obtNUvai^m, 
should  proceed  finnn  Hw  oiergy;  but 
the  ex^anatlon  is,  that  the  poi^tioft 
and  character  of  that  body  open  to 
theni  the  best  means  of  informatioii 
on  numy  subjects  with  which  they  are 
thonselves  not  at  all  conversant. 
They  have  produced  here  a  work, 
whidi,  as  a  collection  of  parochial 
statistics,  stands  alone,  without 
either  rival  or  resemblance  in  any 
other  country,  representinK  "tite  state 
^  Scotland,  at  -&»  period  to  which 
it  refers,  in  dl  its  aspects,  and  so 
affording  the  means  of  a  definite 
comparison  between  the  past  and  the 
present,  sudi  as,  in  all  cases,  it  Is 
at  once  natural  and  profitable  to 
make.  A  peculiar  interest  arises  from 
the  unusual  diversity  of  the  matter, 
and  the  familiar^  cf  the  writers  with 
the  bounds  wMcih  lii^  describe.  It 
is  a  useful  work,  and  will  continue 
long  to  be  so,  in  as  many  ways  as  it 
tiffows  Ught  upon  the  condition  of  the 
comrtiy— and,  not  least,  in  the  local 
improvements  to  which  its  suggestions 
may  give  rise.  But,  if  its  uses  were  less 
than  they  are^  it  would  still  leave  an 
impression  of  respect  for  the  general 
intdligcmce  and  the  readiness  to  em- 
I^oy  their  opportunities  fm  the  publie 
good,  which  its  aatiiors  have  known 
to  udte  with  ^Kemplary  devotion  to 
the  duties  of  their  calling. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1«90 


The  PiMtry  ^  Sma^  md  Ispmdmy  Art, 


175 


THE  POETRY  OF  SACBED  AND  LEOENDABT  ART. 


We  are  of  the  belief  thii  mit  with  - 
out  poetry  k  worthlees — desd,  md 
deadening;  or,  tf  it  have  Titalily, 
there  is  no  music  in  itsjroeedi — no 
txnnmand  in  its  beantj.  We  treat  it 
with  a  khid  of  oontempt,  and  make 
apo]<^  Sm  the  lileaanre  it  has  af- 
fordedL  Smcfed  and  Legemdary  Art! 
How  diffBrent — how  precious— liow 
life-bestowing  I  The  material  and  im- 
material wodd  linked,  as  it  were,  to- 
getiier  by  a  new  sympathy,  working 
out  a  tissoe  of  beantiM  ideas  from  the 
goldm  threads  of  a  Divine  reydation  I 
By  Sacred  tmd  Legendary  Aii  is 
meant  the  treatment  of  religions  snb- 
jedB,  oommendng  with  the  Old  Tes- 
tament, and  termmating  in  tradition- 
ary tales  and  legends.  It  is  from  the 
latter  that  the  old  pfunters  have,  for 
the  most  part,  taken  that  rich  poetry, 
which,  glowing  on  the  canvass,  shows, 
even  amidst  the  wild  enrors  of  fisble,  a 
tnith  of  senthnent  belonging  to  a 
purer  £uth. 

By  the  Protestant  mind,  nm«ed, 
perhaps,  in  an  nndne  contempt  of  his- 
tories fk  samts  and  martyrs  of  the 
Bomi^  Chnrch,  the  treasures  c^  art 
<tf  the  best  period  are  rarely  under- 
stood, and  {^  more  rarely  Mt,  in  the 
8|Hrit  in  which  they  were  conceived. 
Those  for  whom  they  were  painted 
needed  no  cold  inqmiy  into  l£e  sub- 
jects. They  accepted  them  as  things 
uniyenally  known  and  relip:iousb^  to 
be  received,  widi  a  veneration  wnich 
we  botlittle  comprehend.  With  them 
lectures  and  statoes  were  among  their 
sacred  thhigs,  and,  together  with 
architecture,  spoke  and  taught  with 
an  autharity  lluit  Inxdu,  wludi  then 
were  rare  in  the  pecmle^s  hands,  have 
shice  scaroelv  ever  obtained.  Men  of 
genius  ftlt  mm  req[>ect  paid  to  their 
works,  if  denied  too  onen  to  them- 
sdves ;  and  thus  to  tiiehr  own  devo- 
tion was  added  a  kind  of  mhiisterial 
importance,  l^eir  work  became  a 
du^,  aad  was  veiy  freqimntly  prose- 
cuted as  snch  by  the  inmates  of  mo- 
Besides  their  works  on  a 


lar|;e  scale,  upon  the  walls  and  m  their 
deleters,  the  ornamenting  and  iUos- 
trating  missals  embodied  a  regions 
feeling,  if  in  some  degree  peculiar  to 
the  condition  of  the  wGrioirs,  of  a  vi- 
tal £nrm  and  beauty.  IVeasures  of  this 
kind  there  are  b^ond  numlier;  but 
they  have  been  hidden  treasures  for 
agM.  A  Protestant  contempt  fbrtheur 
legends  has  parsecmted,  with  long  ha- 
tred,  and  subsequent  long  indiflfbrencOy 
the  art  which  glorified  them.  And  now 
that  we  awake  from  this  dull  state,  and 
begin  to  estimate  the  poetry  of  reli- 
gious art,  we  stand  befm  tlie  noblest 
productions  amazed  and  ignorant,  and 
looking  for  interpreters,  and  lose  the 
qpportanity  of  enjq3rment  in  the  in- 
quiry. Art  is  too  valuable  for  all  it 
gives,  to  allow  this  entire  ignorance 
of  the  subjects  <^  its  favourite  treat- 
ment If,  for  the  better  understanding 
of  heathen  art,  an  acquaintance  with 
classical  literature  is  thought  to  be  a 
worthy  attainment,  the  excellence  of 
what  we  maytorm  Christian  art  surely 
renders  it  of  importance  that  we  should 
know  sometiiing  about  the  subjects  of 
which  it  treats.  The  inquiry  will  re- 
pay us  also  in  other  respects,  as  well  as 
with  regard  to  taste.  If  we  would 
know  ourselves,  it  is  well  to  see  the 
workincB  of  the  human  mind,  under  its 
every  imase,  its  every  condition.  And 
in  such  a  study  we  shall  be  gratified, 
perhros  unexpectedly,  to  find  the  good 
and  the  beautiful  stiU  tuning  through 
the  obscurity  of  many  errors,  predo- 
minant and  influential  upon  our  own 
hearts,  and  scarcely  wish  the  fabulous 
altogether  removed  from  the  mhids  of 
those  who  receive  it  in  devotion,  lest 
great  truth  in  feeling  be  removed  also. 
Indeed,  the  legends  tiiemselves  are 
mostiy  harmless,  and,  even  as  they 
become  discredited,  may  be  intapret- 
ed  as  not  unprofitable  allegoiies.  Had 
we  not,  in  a  Puritanic  seid,  discarded 
art  with  an  iconoclast  persecution, 
The  PUgrwCs  Proareu  Imd  long  ere 
this  be^  a  ^^  golden  legend  "  for  the 
people,  and  spoken  to  tton  in  worthy 


The  Poetry  o/Jhorei  w^  Leyendtiry  Art.    By  Mrs  JAHSK^if. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art, 


176 

illustration;  nor  would  they  have 
been  religiously  or  morally  the  worse 
had  they  been  imbued  with  a  thorough 
taste  for  the  graceful,  the  beautiful, 
and  the  sublime,  which  it  is  in  the 
power  of  well  cultivated  art  to  convey 
to  every  willing  recipient  It  is  a  great 
mistake  of  a  portion  of  the  religious 
world  to  look  upon  ornament  as  a  sin 
or  a  superstition.  Religion  is  not  a 
bare  and  unadorned  thing,  nor  can  it 
be  so  received  without  debasing,  with- 
out making  too  low  and  mean  the  wor- 
shipper for  the  worship.  The  "  wed- 
ding garment "  was  not  the  every-day 
wear.  The  poorest  must  not,  of  a 
choice,  appear  in  rags  before  the  throne 
of  EQm  who  is  clothed  in  glory,  nor 
with  less  respect  of  their  own  person 
than  they  would  use  in  the  presence  of 
their  betters.  It  was  originally  of 
God's  doing,  command,  and  dictation, 
to  sanctify  the  beautiful  in  art,  by 
making  his  worship  a  subject  for  all 
embelUishment.  For  such  a  purport 
were  the  minute  directions  for  the 
building  of  His  temple.  And  yet  how 
many  "  religious  "  of  our  day  contra- 
dict this  feeling,  which  seems  to  come 
to  us,  not  only  by  a  natural  instinct, 
but  with  the  authority  of  a  command! 
It  is  a  deteriorated  worship  that  pre- 
fers four  bare,  unadorned,  whitened 
walls  of  a  mean  conventicle  to  the 
loft^  and  arched  majesty  and  profuse 
ennchment  of  a  Gothic  minster.  We 
want  every  aid  to  lift  every  sense 
above  our  daily  grovelling  cares,  and 
ought  to  feel  that  we  are  acceptable 
and  invited  guests  in  a  house  far  too 
groat,  spacious,  and  magnificent  for 
ourselves  alone.  Even  our  humility 
should  be  sublime,  as  all  true  worship 
is,  for  we  would  fain  lift  it  up  as  an 
offering  to  the  Heaven  of  heavens.  It 
has  its  aspect  towards  Him  who  deigns 
to  receive,  together  with  conscious- 
ness of  the  lowliness  of  him  that  offers. 
It  is  good  that  the  eye  and  the  ear 
should  see  and  hear  other  sounds  and 
sights  than  concern  things,  not  only  of 
time,  but  of  that  poor  portion  of  it 
which  hems  in  our  dailv  wants  and 
businesses.  Beauty  and  music  are  of 
and  for  eternity,  and  will  never  die ; 
and  in  our  perception  of  them  wo 
make  ourselves  a  part  of  all  that  is 
undying.  These  are  senses  that  the 
spiritualised  body  will  not  lose.  Their 
cnUivation  is  a  tiling  for  ever;  we 


[Feb- 


are  now  even  here  the  greater  for 
their  possession  in  their  human  per- 
fection. The  wondrous  pile  so  ela- 
borately finished;  the  choral  ser- 
vice, the  pealing  organ,  and  the  low 
voice  of  prayer,  and,  it  may  be,  angel 
forms  and  beatified  saints  in  richly- 
painted  windows: — ^we  do  not  believe 
all  this  to  be  solely  of  man's  invention, 
but  of  inspiration;  how  given  wo 
ask  not,  seeing  what  is,  and  acknow- 
ledging a  greatness  around  us  far 
greater  than  ourselves,  and  lifting  up 
the  full  mind  to  a  magnitude  emulous 
of  angelic  stature.  Yes — ^poetic  ge- 
nius is  a  high  gift,  by  which  the  gifted 
make  discoveries,  and  show  high  and 
great  truths,  and  present  them,  pal- 
pable and  visible,  before  the  world — 
by  architecture,  by  painting,  by  sculp- 
ture, by  music— rendering  religion  it- 
self more  holy  by  the  inspuration 
of  its  service.  Take  a  man  out  of 
his  common,  so  to  speak,  irreverent 
habit,  and  place  him  hero  to  live  for 
a  few  moments  in  this  religious  atmo- 
sphere— ^how  unlike  is  he  to  himself, 
and  how  conscious  of  this  self-unlike- 
ness !  Would  that  our  cathedrals  were 
open  at  all  times !  Even  when  there 
is  no  service,  though  that  might  be 
more  frequent,  there  would  be  much 
good  communing  with  a  man's  own 
heart,  when,  turning  away  for  a  while 
from  worldly  troubles  and  speculations, 
in  midst  of  that  great  solemn  monu- 
ment, erected  to  his  Maker's  praise, 
and  with  the  dead  under  his  feet — ^the 
dead  who  as  busily  walked  the  streets 
and  ways  he  has  just  left; — ^he  would 
weigh  the  character  of  his  doings, 
and  in  a  sanctified  place  breathe  a 
prayer  for  direction.  Nor  would  it 
be  amiss  that  he  should  be  led  to  con- 
template the  ^^  storied  pane  "  and  reli- 
gious emblems  which  abound ;  he  will 
not  fail,  in  the  end,  to  sympathise  with 
the  sentiment  even  where  he  bows  not 
to  the  legend.  He  may  know  the  fact 
that  there  have  been  saints  and  mar- 
tyrs—that faith,  hope,  and  charity 
are  realities — that  patience  and  love 
may  be  here  best  learnt  to  be  prac- 
tised in  the  world  without 

It  is  curious  that  the  saints,  those 
Dii  minoresy  to  whom  so  man  v  of  our 
churches  are  dedicated,  still  retain 
their  holding.  Beyond  the  evangel- 
ists and  the  apostles,  little  do  tho 
people  know  of  the  other  many  saints 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Poetry  of  Sobered  and  Legendary  Art, 


while  they  enter  the  churches  that 
bear  their  names.  Few  of  a  congre- 
^tion,  we  suspect,  could  give  much 
account  of  St  Pancras,  St  Margaret, 
St  Werbnrgh,  St  Dunstan,  St  Cle- 
ment, nor  even  of  St  George,  but  that 
he  is  pictured  slaying  a  dragon,  and  is 
the  patron  saint  of  England.  Tet 
were  they  once  "  household  gods"  in 
the  land.  It  is  a  curious  speculation 
this  of  patron  saints,  and  how  eveiy 
family  and  person  had  his  own.  There 
is  a  great  fondness  in  this  old  personal 
attadiment  of  his  own  angel  to  every 
man.  That  notion  preceded  Chris- 
tianity, and  was  easily  engrafted  upon 
it :  and  the  angel  that  attended  from 
the  birth  was  but  supplanted  by  some 
holy  dead  whom  the  Church  canonised. 
And  a  corrupt  church  humoured  the 
superstition,  and  attached  miracles  to 
relics ;  and  thus,  as  of  old,  these  came, 
in  latter  times,  to  be  "  gods  many." 
And  what  were  these  but  over  a£^ 
the  thirty  thousand  deities  who,  He- 
siod  said,  inhabited  the  earth,  and 
were  guardians  of  men?  Tet,  it  must 
be  confessed,  there  has  been  a  popular 
purification  of  them.  They  are  not 
the  panders  to  vice  that  infested  the 
morals  of  the  heathen  world. 

But  how  came  the  heathen  world 
by  them  ?  Did  they  invent,  or  where 
find  them  ?  And  how  came  their  cha- 
racteristics to  be  so  universal,  in  all 
countries  differing  rather  in  name  than 
personality?  The  most  intellectually- 
gifted  people  under  the  sun,  the  ancient 
Greelcs,  give  nowhere  any  rational 
account  how  they  came  by  the  sods 
they  worshipped.  They  take  uiem 
as  personifications  from  their  poets. 
There  is  the  theogony  of  Hesioa,  and 
the  gods  as  Homer  paints  them.  They 
have  called  forth  the  glory  of  art ;  and 
wonderful  were  the  periods  that 
stamped  on  earth  then:  statues,  as 
if  aU  men's  intellect  had  been 
taslced  to  the  work,  that  they  should 
leave  a  mark  and  memorial  of  beauty 
than  which  no  age  hereafter  should 
show  a  greater.  We  acknowledge  the 
perfection  in  the  remains  that  are 
left  to  us.  Greek  art  still  sways  the 
mind  of  every  country— all  the  world 
mistmsts  every  attempt  in  a  contnur 
direction.  The  excellence  of  Gre^ 
Bcolptnre  is  reflected  back  again  upon 
Greek  fable,  the  heathen  mythology 
from  which  it  was  taken ;  and  perhaps 

VOL.  LXV. — ^NO.  CCCC. 


177 

a  greater  partiality  is  bestowed  upon 
that  than  it  deserves, — ^at  least,  we  may 
say  so  in  comparison  with  any  other. 
We  must  be  cautious  how  we  take  the 
excellence  of  art  for  the  excellence  of 
its  subject.  The  Greeks  were  formed 
for  art  beyond  every  other  people;  had 
their  creed  been  hideous — and  indeed 
it  was  obscene— they  would  have 
adorned  it  with  eveiy  beauty  of  ideal 
form.  And  this  is  worthy  of  note 
here,  that  their  poetry  in  art  was  in- 
finitely more  beautiful  than  their 
written  poetiy.  Their  sculptors,  and 
perhaps  their  painters,  of  whom  we 
are  not  entitled  to  speak  but  by  con- 
jecture, and  from  the  opinions  formed 
by  no  bad  judges  of  their  day,  did  aim 
at  the  portraying  a  kind  of  divine 
humani^.  If  their  sculptured  deities 
have  not  a  holy  repose,  they  are  sin- 
gularly fireed  firom  display  of  human 
passions;  whereas,  in  their  poetiy,  it  is 
rarely  that  even  decent  repose  is 
allowed  them;  they  are  generally  too 
active,  without  dignity,  and  without 
respect  to  the  moral  code  of  a  not 
very  scrupulous  ago.  Yet  have  these 
very  heathen  gods,  even  as  their  his- 
torians the  poets  paint  them — for  it 
would  disgrace  them  to  speak  of  their 
biographers — a  trace  of  a  better  origin 
than  we  can  gather  out  of  the  whim- 
sical theogony.  There  are  some  par- 
ticulars in  the  heathen  mythology  that 
point  to  a  visible  track  in  the  strange 
road  of  history.  Much  we  know  was 
had  from  Egypt ;  more,  probably,  came 
with  the  Cadmean  letters  from 
Phoenicia— aname  including  Palestine 
itself.  Inventions  went  only  to  cor- 
ruptions— the  original  of  all  creeds  of 
divinity  is  from  revelation.  We  may 
not  be  requhred  to  point  out  the  direct 
road  nor  the  resting-places  of  this 
*'  santa  casa^^^  holding  all  the  gods  of 
Greece,  so  beautif^il  in  their  personal 
portraiture,  that  we  love  to  gaze  with 
the  feeling  of  Schiller,  though  their 
histories  will  not  bear  the  scmtiny : 
but  it  will  suffice  to  note  some  simili- 
tudes that  cannot  be  accidental. 
Somehow  or  other,  both  the  historic 
and  prophetic  writings  of  the  Bible, 
or  narratives  from  them,  had  reached 
Greece  as  well  as  other  distant  lands. 
The  Greeks  had,  at  a  very  early  period, 
embodied  in  their  myths  even  the  per- 
sonal characters  as  shown  in  those 
writings.    Let  us,  for  example,  with- 

M 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


178 

OMtTeferriogto  their  Ztm  nft«pa]> 
ticokr  nuumer,  find  in  tiie  HimeB  or 
MevooiT  of  the  Greeks  the  identic 
witii  Moees.  What  ave  4he  dianie- 
teristicsofbot^?  If  Moees  deseeaded 
from  the  Moait  with  tiie  ooouiuumIs 
of  Go4i  and  was  eamhatioiXty  Godls 
messenm*,  so  was  BMines  the  see- 
senger  from  Olyu^ns:  his«hlefoffioe 
was  that  of  laesseager.  If  Moees  as 
known  as  the  slay  er  of  the  Egyptian^ 
80  te  Hemes,  (and  so  is  be  more  fre- 
quently oalled  hi  HomerO  Apym^opnfi, 
tiie  slayer  of  Aigns,  the  overseer  of  a 
hundred  eyes.  Moses  condncled 
through  the  wildemeas  to  the  Jordan 
those  who  died  and  readied  not  the 
promised  land ;  nor  did  be  pass  the 
Jordan.  So  was  Hermes  the  con- 
ductor of  the  dead,  delivering  tiieni 
over  to  Charon,  (and  here  note  the 
resemblance  of  name  with  Aaron,  the 
assodato  of  Moses) ;  nor  was  he  to 
pass  to  the  Elysian  fields. 

Then  the  rod,  the  serpents,— 4he 
Caduoeus  of  Hermes,  wUh  the  ser- 
pents twining  round  the  rod.  The 
appearance  of  Moses,  and  the  shining 
from  his  head,  as  it  is  commonly 
figured,  is  again  represented  in  the 
winged  cf^  of  Hermes.  There  are 
other  minute  circumstances,  effpeciaUy 
wme  noted  in  the  hymn  of  Hennes, 
ascribed  to  Homer,  which  we  ^^rbear 
to  enumerate,  thinking  the  cohi- 
cidences  already  motioned  are  suffi- 
dently  striking. 

Then,  again,  the  idea  of  the  ser- 
pent of  the  Greek  mythology,  whence 
did  it  come,  and  the  slaying  of  it  by 
the  son  of  Zeus — and  its  very  name, 
the  Python,  the  serpent  of  corraptton? 
And  in  that  sense  It  has  been  carried 
down  to  this  dsiy  as  an  emblem  in 
Christian  art.  But,  to  go  bade  a 
moment,  this  departure  of  the  lenrael- 
ites  from  Egypt,  is  there  no  notioe  of 
it  in  Homer?  We  thhik  there  is  a 
hint  which  indicates  a  knowledge  of 
at  least  a  part  of  that  histoiy-^the 
previous  slaveiy,  the  being  put  to 
work,  and  the  after-readiaMS  of  the 
Egyptians  to  be  ^^  ^xHled.''  Ulysses, 
giving  a  false  account  of  himself,  if 
we  remember  rightly,  to  Eunmns, 
says  he  came  fi:xMn  Egypt,  where  he 
had  been  a  merchant,  that  the  king 
of  that  country  sdzed  him  and  all  his 
men,  whom  he  put  to  work,  but  that 
at  length  he  found  favour,  and  was 
allowed  to  depart  with  his  people ; 


The  Poetry  ofSmered  tmd  Legend^  Art. 


[Feb. 


adding  that  he  oollectedmnchprqMii^ 
fimn  the  people  of  i^iypi,  ''liN-aUof 
them  gave.^^ 

Kpi^iAar'  aii*  AlyvtrrimK  4M|Ntf ,  dtto§nu 

Wedonotmeantolayany  great  stress 
itpon  this  quotation,  and  but  tinnk  at 
least  that  it  shows  a  diaracteristic  of 
the  Egyptians  as  narrated  by  Moses; 
and  never  havingmetwitfauny  allnsion 
to  it,  nor  indeed  to  our  parallel  between 
Moses  and  Hermes,  which  it  may  seem 
to  support,  we  have  thought  it  worthy 
this  brief  notice. 

We  fkn<5y  we  trace  the  h&tory  of 
the  cause  of  the  fall  of  man,  in  the 
eating  of  the  pomegranate  seed  which 
doomed  Proserpine  to  half  an  exist- 
ence in  the  infbmal  regions.  Can 
there  be  anythmg  more  striking  than 
the  Prometheus  Bound  of  -SSschylus? 
Whence  could  such  a  notion  come, 
that  a  man-god  would,  for  his  love  to 
mankind,  (for  bringing  down  fire  from 
heaven,)  sirifer  agonies,  nailed  not 
upon  a  cross  indeed,  but  on  a  rock, 
and,  in  the  description,  crucified?  "It 
is.  after  a  manner,"  says  Mr  Swayne, 
wno  has  with  great  power  translated 
this  strange  play  of  iGschylus,  "  a 
Christian  poem  by  a  pa^  author, 
foreshadoimg  the  opposition  and  re- 
conciliation of  DivinejusticeandBivfaie 
love.  Whence  the  sublime  concep- 
tion of  the  subject  of  this  drama  could 
have  been  obtained,  it  is  useless  to 
speculate.  Some  even  suppose  that 
its  auth(n*  must  have  been  acquainted 
with  the  old  Hebrew  prophets." 

Even  the  introduction  of  lo  in  the 
tale  is  suggestive— the  virgin-mother 
who  was  so  strangely  to  conceive 
(and  this  too  given  in  a  prophecy) 
miraculously. 

«  Jove  at  length  dudl  give  thee  back  ihy  mind, 
With  one  liimt  touch  of  his  nnouailing  hand. 
And,  fromtnat  fertilising  toucii,  a  son 
Steal  caU  Oiee  mother.'' 

Her   whom    Prometheus  thus    ad- 
dresses,— 

« In  that  the  i<m  shall  o  vMuateh  the  sire.'' 
— *<  Of  thine  own  elem  the  strong  one  idiall 
be  horn.'' 

Then  again  Sampson  passes  into  the 
Egyptian  or  l^naa  Hercules,  to  lose 
his  lub  by  another  Delilah  faiDi^eura. 
Whence  the  prrohetic  Sybils,  whence 
and  what  the  BJenatnian  mysteries? 
and  that  strange  glimpse  of  them  in 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18^.] 


7%eP$&irif4ff  Sacred  mdLeffmdofy  Art. 


liie  sigidfioant  ptnage  of  the  AloMlis, 
wlwre  the  restored  from  the  dead  most 
•bstainfinomi^eechtiMthetliipd  day 
—the  tentieeofher  coDiecimtioa  to 
HadesI 

^  Ovtrw  d^trntm  TifcHW  npoot^amnjarmm, 
KXufiy,  irpy  Up  Scocin  roun  v€prnp(m 
Aipayi/UrqTtUi  koL  rpirw  ftSKjj  ^ioos,^ 

*  We  mi^t  enter  luigdy  into  tiie 
mTSterieB  of  heathen  mythology,  and 
dieoover  strange  c(^BcideDoeB  andre- 
■emblanoeg,  but  it  ^ronld  take  as  too 
wide  from  oor  present  sol^eot.  Oor 
present  pmpose  is  to  show  that  we 
are  apt  to  attribute  too  mneh  to  the 
Grecian  fidde,  when  we  ascribe  to  it 
all  the  beanty  which  Gcredan  art  has 
elaborated  from  it.  For,  in  £i^  the 
migin  of  that  £ibBlo«s  poetry  is  be- 
yond them  in  fdix-aS  time ;  and  liy 
them  how  oormpted,  idioai  of  its  real 
grandeur,  aod  at  onoe  nmgnifloent 
andk>Telybean^I  How  mnch  mora, 
tiien,  is  it  ovs  tlum  theirs,  as  it  is  de- 
dndble  from  that  hi^  roreiatlon 
which  is  part  of  the  ChristiaB  re- 
ligion. We  overlook,  in  the  excel- 
lence of  Grecian  art,  the  fax  better 
materials  for  all  art,  which  we  in  oor 
religion  possess,  and  have  ever  pos- 
seesed.  With  the  Greeks  it  was  an 
instinct  to  love  the  beantifiil,  sensual 
and  intellectiial:  it  was  a  part  of  their 
nature  to  discover  it  or  to  create  it. 
They  would  have  fabricated  it  out  of 
any  materials;  and  deteriorated,  in- 
deed, were  those  which  came  to  their 
hands.  And  even  this  excess  of  their 
love,  at  least  in  their  poets,  made  the 
sensnons  tooveroome  the  intellectual ; 
Imt  the  far  higher  than  inteUectnal— 
the  oeleetial,  tiie  spiritual— tlM^  had 
BOt :  tiieir  highest  reach  in  the  moral 
sense  was  a  sublime  pride:  they  had 
no  conoepti(m  of  a  sablime  humility. 
!Chetr  hi^iest  divinity  was  how  much 
lower  than  the  lowest  (Hxler  of  angels 
that  wait  around  the  heavenly  throne 
and  adore, — low  as  is  their  Olympus, 
where  they  placed  their  Zeus  and  an 
his  band,  to  the  Christiaa  "  heavM 
of  heavois,"  which  yet  cannot  contain 
tiie  universal  Maker.  It  is  bad  taste, 
indeed,  in  us,  as  some  do,  to  give  them 
the  palm  of  the  possession  of  a  better 
fiela--{M)etic  field  for  the  exercise  of 
art.  ^^  Christian  and  Legendary  art** 
has  a  principle  which  no  other  art 
could  have,  and  whidi  theirs  certainly 
had  not;  they  were  sensuous  from  a 


179 

neoeadty  of  their  natnm,  keUng  this 
iprinci^.  We  oadit  to  ascribe  all 
which  they  have  left  IS  to  their  skiU, 
their  genius :  wandedhl  it  wis,  and 
woodedhl  things  did  it  pertem ;  hut, 
after  aU,  we  admire  mwt  than  wo 
lo^.  Their  divine  was  bat  a  grand 
and  stem  r^ose ;  tin^toveUnesa,  hat 
the  perfeetlan  of  the  human  ISorm. 
And  so  great  were  they  in  this  their 
gentas,  uat  the  monumentsof  heathen 
art  are  beyond  the  heathen  creed ; 
for  in  those  the  unseasoons  prevailed. 
Lotus  suppose  thegift of  theuraeainB 
to  hafe  been  delayed  to  the  Chris- 
tian era— as  poetkal  sntsiects,  their 
whole  mythology  wonld  have  been  aot 
aside  for  a  far  better  adoption  ;  and 
we  should  be  now  univenally  acknow- 
ledging how  lovdy  andhow  greaA,how 
foil  and  bountifoi,  for  poetiy  and  im 
art,  are  the  ever-fiowmg  UHUitains, 
gushing  in  life,  giving  «(xidwranee 
from  that  high  aMunt,  to  the  sight  of 
which  Pindas  cannot  lift  its  head,  nor 
show  its  poor  Castaiian  rills.  The 
''gods  of  Qreeoe,"  the  for4amed 
''.gods  of  Greeoe,"  uriiat  are  they  to 
the  Inerarchy  <A  heaven— «ngels  and 
archangeis,  and  aU  the  host— powers, 
dominions,  hailing  the  admission  to 
the  blissfol  regions  of  saints  sfaritn- 
alised,  and  after  death  to  die  no  more 
—Verified?  What  loveliness  is  like 
that  of  throned  chastity?  Graces  and 
Muses  in  their  perfeetaess  of  mari>]ed 
beauty— what  are  they  to  fotth,  liope, 
and  charity,  and  the  veiled  virtnes 
that  like  our  angels  shroud  themselves? 
When  these  becaaae  snl:jectsfor  om* 
Christian  art,  thai  was  tme  expression 
first  invented  in  drapery.  "Christian 
andieg^uhvy  act"  is  not  denied  the 
nude ;  but  no  other  has  so  made 
dn^^eiy  a  living,  i^Making  poetry. 
Tliere  is  a  dignity,  a  grace,  a  sweet- 
ness, in  the  dn^>ery  of  medieval 
sralpture,  liiat  equally  commands  ov 
adndration,  and  more  our  reverenoe 
and  our  love,  than  ancient  statues, 
dnq[»ed  or  nude.  And  this  is  the  ex- 
pressioa  of  Scripture  poetry— 4lie  re- 
presented language,  the  "dothing 
with  power,"  the  "garment  of 
righteousness."  We  often  loiter  about 
ouridd  cathedrals,  and  kx^  up  with 
wonder  at  the  mutilated  remains  as  a 
new  ^ype  of  beauty,  beaming  through 
the  obscurity  of  the  so-caUed  dark 
ages.  Lovers  of  art,  as  we  profess  to 
be,  in  all  its  forms,  we  profess  with- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legendary  A  rt. 


180 

out  hesitation  that  we  would  not  ex- 
change these — that  is,  lose  them  as 
never  to  have  existed—for  all  that 
Grecian  art  has  leftns.  Even  now, 
what  power  have  we  to  restore  these 
specimens  of  expressive  workmanship, 
broken  and  mntuated  as  they  ha  ve  been 
by  a  low  and  misbegotten  zeal?  We 
maintain  farther,  eenerallv,  that  the 
works  of  **  Christian  and  legendary 
art,'*  in  painting,  scnlptnre,  and  archi- 
tecture, are  as  infinitely  superior  to 
the  works  of  all  Crrecian  antiquity,  as  is 
the  source  of  their  inspiration  higher 
and  purer  :  we  are,  too,  astonish^  at 
the  perfect  agreement  of  the  one  with 
the  other,  showing  one  mind,  one 
spirit— devotion.  We  strongly  insist 
upon  this,  that  there  has  been  a  far 
higher  character  and  equal  power  in 
Christian  art  compared  with  heathen. 
It  ought  to  be  so,  and  it  is  so.  It  has 
been  too  long  set  aside  in  the  world's 
opinion  (often  temporary  and  Ul- 
fonned)  to  establish  the  inferior. 
This  country,  in  particular,  has  yielded 
a  cold  neglect  of  these  beautiful  things, 
in  shamenil  and  indolent  compliance 
with  the  mean,  tasteless,  degrading 
Puritanism,  that  mutilated  and  would 
have  destroyed  them  utterly  if  it 
could,  as  it  would  have  treated  every 
and  all  the  beautiful. 

Even  at  the  first  rise  of  this  Chris- 
tian art,  the  superiority  of  the  prin- 
ciple which  moved  the  artists  was  vis- 
ible through  their  defect  of  knowledge 
of  art,  as  art.  The  devotional  spirit 
is  evident;  a  sense  of  purity,  that 
spiritn/dised  humanity  with  its  hea- 
venly brightness,  dims  the  imperfec- 
tions of  style,  casting  out  of  observa- 
tion minor  and  uncouth  parts.  Often, 
in  the  incongruous  presence  of  things 
vulgar  in  detail  of  habit  and  manners, 
an  angelic  sentiment  stands  embodied, 
pure  and  untouched,  as  if  the  artist, 
when  he  came  to  that,  felt  holy  ground, 
and  took  his  shoes  from  off  his  feet. 
It  was  not  long  before  the  art  was 
equal  to  the  whole  work.  There  are 
productions  of  even  an  Mriy  time 
that  are  yet  unequalled,  and,  for 
power  over  the  heart  and  the  judgment, 
are  much  above  comparison  with  any 
preceding  works  of  boasted  uitiqui^. 

Take  only  the  ftall  embodying  of  an 
angelic  nature :  what  is  there  like  to 
it  out  of  Christian  art?  How  unlike 
the  cold  personifications  of  "Vic- 
tories" winged,— though  even  these 


[Feb. 


were  borrowed, — are  the  ministering 
and  adoring  angels  of  our  art — now 
bringing  cdestial  paradise  down  to 
saints  on  earth,  and  now  accompany- 
ing them,  and  worshipping  with  them, 
in  their  upward  way,  amid  the  reced- 
ing and  glorious  clouds  of  heaven! 
L^k  at  the  sepulchral  monuments  of 
Grecian  art — tue  frigid  mysteries,  the 
abhorrent  ghost,  yet  too  corporeal, 
shrinking  from  Leth^ ;  and  the  dismal 
boat  —  the  unpromising,  nnpitying 
aspect  of  Charon :  then  turn  to  some 
of  the  sublime  Christian  monuments 
of  art,  that  speak  so  differently  of 
that  death — ^the  Coronation  of  the 
Yirgui,  the  Ascension  of  Saints.  The 
dismal  and  the  dolefhl  earth  has 
vanished— choirs  of  angels  rush  to 
welcome  and  to  support  the  beatified, 
the  released :  death  is  no  more,  but 
life  breathing  no  atmosphere  of  earth, 
but  all  freshness,  and  all  joy,  and  all 
music ;  the  now  changed  body  glow- 
ing, Uke  an  increasing  light,  into  its 
spirituality  of  form  and  beauty,  and 
thrilling  with 

"  That  undifltarbed  song  of  pure  coiuent. 
Aye  Bong  before  the  aapphiro-coloar^d  throne 
To  Him  that  sits  thereon  ; 
With  saintly  ahont  and  solemn  jubilee, 
Where  the  bright  seraphim,  in  Doming  row, 
Their  loud  uplifted  angel-trumpets  blow  ; 
And  the  cherubic  host,  in  thousand  choirs, 
Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 
With  those  just  spirits  tnat  wear  yictorious 

palms, 
Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 
Singing  everlastingly.** 

Then  shall  we  doubt,  and  not  dare  to 
pronounce  the  superior  capabilities  of 
Christian  art,  arising  out  of  its  subject 
— ^poetiy?  We  prefer,  as  a  great  poetic 
conception,  Raffaelle's  Archangel, 
Michael,  with  his  victorious  foot  upon 
his  prostrate  adversary,  to  the  far- 
famed  Apollo  Belvidere,  who  has 
slain  his  I^thon ;  and  his  St  Margaret, 
in  her  sweet,  her  innocent,  and  clothed 
grace,  to  that  perfect  model  of  wo- 
man's form,  the  Venus  de  Medici. 
Not  that  we  venture  a  careless  or 
misgiving  thought  of  the  perfectness 
of  Aose  great  antique  woriu :  their 
perfbctness  was  accordmg  to  thehr 
purpose.  Higher  purposes  make  a 
higher  perfectness.  iMor  would  we 
have  them  viewed  irreverently;  for 
even  in  them,  and  the  genius  that 
produced  them,  the  Creator,  as  in 
^*  times  past,  left  not  Himself  with- 
out  witness."      In    showing  forth 


Digitized  by 


Google 


The  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art, 


1849.] 

the  ^017  of  the  human  fonn,  they 
show  forth  the  gloiy  of  Hun  who 
made  it — who  ia  thus  glorified  in  the 
witnesses ;  and  so  we  accept  and  love 
them.  Bnt  to  a  certain  degree  they 
must  stand  dethroned— their  influ- 
ence faded.  Lowly  unassuming  vir- 
tues— ^virtues  of  the  soul,  far  greater 
in  their  humility,  in  the  sacred  poetry 
of  our  Christian  faith,  shine  like 
stars,  even  in  their  smallness,  on  the 
dark  night  of  our  humanity ;  and  they 
are  to  take  their  places  in  the  celestial 
of  art ;  and  we  feel  that  it  is  His  will, 
who,  as  the  hymn  of  the  blessed 
Virgin— that  type  of  all  these  united 
yirtues— declares,  "hath  put  down 
the  mighty  from  their  seat,  and  hath 
exalted  the  humble  and  meek." 

We  trust  yet  to  see  sacred  art 
resumed;  for  the  more  we  consider 
its  poetry,  the  more  inexhaustible 
appears  the  mine.  Nor  do  we  require 
to  search  and  gather  in  the  field  of 
fabulous  legends ;  though  in  a  poetic 
view,  and  for  their  intention,  and  re- 
sumed merely  as  a  fabulous  allegory, 
they  are  not  to  be  set  aside.  But 
sure  we  are  that,  whatever  can  move 
the  heart,  can  excite  to  the  greatest 
degree  our  pity,  our  love,  or  convey 
the  greatest  delight  through  scenes 
for  which  the  term  beautiful  is  but  a 
poor  describer,  and  personages  for 
whose  magnificence  languages  have 
no  name — all  is  within  the  volume 
and  the  history  of  our  suflfering  and 
triumphant  religion. 

Would  that  we  could  stir  but  one 
of  our  painters  to  this,  which  should 
be  his  great  business  I  Genius  is 
bestowed  for  no  selfish  gratificati<m, 
but  for  service,  and  for  a  **  witness," 
to  bear  which  let  the  gifted  offer  only 
a  willing  heart,  and  his  lamp  will  not 
be  suffered  to  go  out  for  lack  of  oil. 
Why  is  the  tenderness  of  Mr  East- 
lake's  pencil  in  abeyance?  That 
portion  of  the  sacred  history  which 
commences  with  his  "  Christ  weeping 
over  Jerusalem,"  might  well  be  con- 
tinued in  a  series.  Even  still  more 
power  has  he  shown  in  the  creative 
and  symbolic,  as  exempUfied  in  his 
poetic  conception  of  Virtue  from 
Milton— 

"  She  can  teach  you  how  to  climb 
Hin^MT  than  the  tpbeiy  diime  ; 
Or  if  Virtue  feeble  wen, 
Heaven  iteelf  would  stoop  to  her.^* 

If  we  believe  genius  to  be  an  in- 


spiring  spirit,  we  may  contemplate  it 
hereafter  as  an  accusing  angel.  With 
such  a  paradise  of  subjects  before 
them,  why  do  so  many  of  our  painters 
run  to  the  kennel  and  the  stable,  or 
plunge  their  pendls  into  the  gaudy 
hues  of  meretricious  enticement  ?  Wa 
do  verily  believe  that  the  world  is 
waiting  for  better  things.  It  ia  tak- 
ingasreater  interest  in  hij^hersubjects, 
and  those  of  a  pure  sentmient.  It  is 
that  our  artists  are  behind  the  feeling, 
and  not,  as  they  should  be,  in  the  ad- 
vance. It  is  a  great  fact  that  there 
is  such  a  growing  feeling.  The  re- 
sumption of  sacred  art  in  Germany  ia 
not  without  its  effect,  and  is  making 
its  way  here  in  prints.  Most  of  these 
are  from  the  Aller  Heiligen  Eapelle 
at  Munich,  the  result  of  the  taste  of 
at  least  one  crowned  head  in  Europe, 
who,  with  more  limited  means  and 
power,  has  set  an  example  of  a  better 
patronage,  which  would  have  well 
become  Courts  of  greater  splendour, 
and  more  imperial  influence.  Must 
it  be  asked  what  our  own  artists — 
the  Academy,  with  all  its  ataff— are 
doing  ? 

We  must  stay  our  hand ;  for  we 
took  up  the  pen  to  notice  the  twa 
volumes  just  published  of  Mrs  Jame- 
son's Sacred  and  Legendary  Art,. 
They  have  excited,  in  the  reading,  an. 
enthusiastic  pleasure,  and  led  the 
fancy  wandering  in  the  delightful 
fields  sanctified  by  heavenly  sunshine, 
and  trod  by  sainted  feet ;  and,  like  a 
traveller  in  a  desert,  having  found  an 
oasis,  we  feel  loath  to  leave  it,  and 
would  fain  linger  and  drink  again  of 
its  refineshing  springs.  These  volumes 
have  reached  us  most  seasonably,  at  a 
period  of  the  year  when  the  mind  \& 
more  especially  durected  to  contem- 
plate the  main  subjects  of  which  they 
treat,  and  to  anticipate  only  by  days 
the  viaion  of  joy  and  glory  which  will 
be  scripturally  put  before  us— to  see 
the  Virgin  Mother  and  the  Holy 
Babe— 

*<  And  all  about  the  conrtly  stable, 
Bright  harness^  angels  sit  in  order  ser- 
viceable." 

Mrs  Jameson  disclaims  in  this 
work  any  other  object  than  the  poetry 
of  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art ;  and  to 
enable  those  who  are,  or  wish  to  be, 
conversant  with  the  innumerable 
productions  of  Italian  and  other 
schools,  to  an  artistic  view,  likewise 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  PMtrif  cf  Smcnd  mid  L€9emdmr^  Art 


182 

at  oaee  to  know  the  subjects 
i^on  which  tbej  treat.  £veii  as  a 
Inndbeok,  ttoefore,  these  y^iuHes 
are  Talaabie.  Mvdi  of  the  earij 
pafaitbig  was  sjnbolieal.  Ignorance 
of  the  symbols  rejects  the  soitnient, 
or  at  least  the  intention,  and  at  the 
same  time  makes  what  is  only  qoaint 
appear  absurd. 

**  The  ftrst  rohmie  contains  the  le- 
gends of  the  Scriptnre  personages,  and 
the  primitive  fathers.  The  second 
vohime  ccmtains  those  sainted  person- 
ages who  llTcd,  or  are  supposed  to 
have  lived,  hi  the  first  ages  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  wbose  real  YaeUsrj, 
foonded  on  fact  or  tradition,  has  been 
so  disgnised  by  poetical  embroidery, 
that  they  have  in  some  s(»t  the  air  of 
ideal  beings."  Possibly  this  poetical 
disgoise  is  favomtible  npon  the  whole 
to  art,  bnt  it  renders  a  key  necessary, 
and  that  Mrs  Jameson  has  snpidied-- 
not  pretending^  however,  to  more  than 
a  selection  (7  the  most  interesting; 
and,  what  is  extremely  valoable,  there 
are  marginal  references  to  pictures, 
and  in  what  places  they  are  to  be  met 
with,  and  by  whom  painted,  of  the 
subjects  given  in  the  text,  and  of  the 
view  the  artists  had  in  so  painting 
them.  The  emblems  are  amply  noted 
with  their  meanings;  and  even  the 
significance  of  colours,  which  has  been 
so  commonlv  overiooked,  and  is  yet  so 
important  for  the  comprehension  of 
the  full  subject  of  a  picture,  is  dearfy 
laid  down.    It  is  well  said  : 

'^  AH  the  productions  of  art,  from  the 
time  it  has  been  directed  and  dereloped 
by  the  Christian  influences,  may  be  re- 
garded under  three  diffareat  aspects : — 
Ist,  The  purely  religioas  aspect,  which 
beloiigs  to  one  mode  of  faith ;  2d,  The 
poetteal  aspect,  whieh  beloags  to  all; 
Sd,  The  artistic,  which  is  the  iadhridnal 
point  of  Tiew,  and  has  refereoee  only  to 
the  action  of  the  intellect  on  the  means 
and  material  employed*  There  is  a  plea- 
sure, an  intense  pleasure,  merely  in  the 
consideration  of  art,  as  art ;  in  the  facbl- 
ties  of  comparison  and  nice  discrimina- 
tion brooght  to  bear  on  objects  of  beanty ; 
in  the  exercise  of  a  cnltirated  and  refined 
taste  on  the  prodnctions  of  mind  in  any 
form  whaterer.  Bat  a  thre^ld,  or  ra- 
ther a  thonaaadfold,  ideasore  k  theirs, 
who  to  a  senM  of  the  poetteal  naite  a 
sympathy  wUh  the  spiritual  in  art,  and 
who  combine  with  a  deheacy  of  peioep- 
<Mhnical  knowledge,  more  ele- 
'(s  of  pleasure,  more  yariety  of 
habits   of  more   ezcursire 


[Feb. 


thought.  Let  none  imagme,  howitwiy 
that  in  phusing  before  the  uniaittatod 
these  napvetsading  vohuaes,  I  assome  any 
OMh  saperiority  as  is  here  implied.  Lika 
a  child  that  has  sprang  on  a  little  way 
before  its  playmates,  and  caoght  a  glimpse 
through  an  opening  portal  of  some  yaried 
Eden  witiiin,  all  gay  with  flowery  and 
musical  with  birds,  and  haunted  by  <fi- 
vine  shapes  which  beckon  forward,  and, 
after  one  rapturous  surrey,  runs  bask  and 
eatches  its  eenpanions  by  the  hand,  and 
hmries  them  forwards  to  sham  the  new- 
fonnd  pleasnre,  the  yet  unezploied  regies 
of  d^ight:  even  so  it  iawith  me  :  I  am  o& 
tiie  outside,  not  the  inside,  of  the  door  I 
open." 

This  is  a  lu4>py  introduction  to  that 
which  immediately  follows  of  angels 
and  archangels. 

Mrs  Jameson  has  so  managed  to 
open  the  door  as  to  frame  in  her  sub- 
ject to  the  best  advantage;  and  the 
reader  is  willing  to  stand  for  a  moment 
with  her  to  gaze  upon  the  inward 
brightness  <^  £he  garden,  ere  he  ven- 
tures in  to  see  what  is  around  and 
what  is  above.  It  is  on  the  first 
downward  step  that  we  stand  breath- 
less with  Aladdin,  and  feel  the  in- 
fluence of  the  first— the  partial  and 
fiumed-in  picture — gjowin^  in  the  un- 
earthly illnmination  of  us  magical 
creation. 

There  is  nothing  more  interesting 
than  these  few  pages  upon  angels. 
The  information  we  receive  is  very 
curious.  It  is  beautiful  poetry  to  sea 
orders,  and  degrees,  and  ministrations 
various,  types  of  an  embodied,  a  mi- 
nistering church  here,  and  ordained, 
together  with  the  saints  of  earth, 
to  make  one  glorified  triumphant 
church  hereafter.  Without  entering 
upon  the  theoloffical  question,  as  to 
the  extension  and  mystification  of  the 
ideas  of  angels  after  the  Captivity, 
(yet  we  thii^L  it  might  be  shown  that 
there  was  originally  no  Chaldaic  belief 
on  the  subject  not  taken,  first  or  last, 
firom  the  Jews  themselves,)  it  may 
not  be  unworthy  of  remark,  that  the 
word  ''  angel,""  signifying  messenger, 
could  scarcely  with  propriety  have 
been  at  the  first  applied  to  Satan,  the 
deceiving  serpent,  until,  in  the  after- 
develi^ment  of  the  history  of  the 
human  race,  the  ministering  offices 
gave  the  ge^ieral  title,  which,  when 
established,  included  all  who  had  not 
"  kept  their  first  estate."  Nor  do  we 
think,  withMrs  Jameson,  that  Chaldea 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18491] 


TtmPoetff^SmGMdQndkLegemiary  Art. 


i^a 


had  aajtiilBg  to  do  with  the  intro- 
duction of  tibe  worship  <^  angels  into 
^e  Chrisftitti  chvch.  The  '^  godi 
manj'*  of  the  heathen  oountries  in 
which  ChristMBitj  established  its^ 
witt  saffidestlj  aoeoont  for  the  readi« 
ness  of  the  people  to  traasfiBr  the  null* 
tifiirioQB  worship  to  which  thej  had 
been  aecnstomed  to  names  more  snit- 
ahle  to  the  new  religion.  It  is  with 
the  po^tod  derek^ment  we  hare 
here  to  do;  and  what  ground  is  there 
fbr  that  ftdi  defelopment  in  the  New 
TestaiBiwit,  wherein  they  are  repre- 
sealedae  ^^ooQBtlesa— as  saperiortoall 
h  mnan  wants  and  weaknesses — as  de- 
noted meeseogers  of  God  ?  Iheyre- 
joke  over  the  repentant  sinner ;  the j 
take  deep  interest  in  the  mission  of 
Christ ;  they  are  present  with  those 
whopray;  they  bear  thesonlsof  the  jost 
to  heaven ;  th^  minister  to  Christ 
on  earth,  and  will  be  present  at  his 
second  coming.*'  Fr(Hn  snch  antho* 
lity,  fhmi  sodi  a  sacred  theatre  of 
seenes  and  celestial  personages^  arose 
the  beaotiftd,  the  magnificent  visions, 
of  the  woricers  of  sacred  art.  Heresy, 
however^  reached  it,  as  might  have 
been  expected;  and  the  agency  of 
angels,  in  the  creation  of  the  world  and 
of  mtt,  has  been  represented,  to  the 
deterioration  ef  its  great  poetry. 
From  the  beginning  of  the  fourteeaih 
OQDtnry,  a  giia*  change  seems  to  have 
takes  place  in  the  lepresoitation  of 
the  aacel  with  reference  to  tiieVirgitt : 
the  feemie  is  changed ;  ^^  tiie  venera* 
tion  paid  to  tiie  Virghi  demanded 
aaothor  treatment.  She  becomes  not 
merely  Ite  principal  person,  bat  the 
soperior  being ;  she  is  tiie  ^  regina 
angekMnm,'  and  the  aagd  hows  to 
her,  or  kneels  before  her,  as  to  a 
qneea.  Thna,  in  the  Ikmons  altar- 
piece  at  Cologne,  the  angel  kneels : 
he  bears  the  sceptre,  and  also  asealed 
foU,  as  if  he  were  a  odestial  ambassa- 
dor deliverinf^  his  credentials.  Aboot 
the  same  penod  we  sometimes  see  the 
angel  merely  with  his  hands  iUded 
over  his  breayst,  and  his  head  inclined, 
deltvering  his  message  as  if  to  a  snpe- 
xior  being." 

It  is  a  great  merit  in  Ais  woHi  of 
Mrs  Jameson's,  that  we  are  not  only 
relerred  to  the  most  eurions  and  to 
the  best  specimens  of  art,  bnt  have 
likewise  beantilbl  woodcnts,  and 
some  etdnngs  admirably  exeeufced  by 
Mrs  Jameson's  own  hand  in  Hlostra* 


tioBL  There  is  a  greatness  hi  tto 
simplicity  of  BJake's  angels:  ^' The 
morning  stars  sang  together,  and  all 
the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy.*** 
Poor  Blake  t  Yet  why  say  poor?  ho 
was  happy  m  his  visions — a  little  be- 
fore his  time,  and  one  of  whom  the 
w(Mrld  (of  art)  in  his  day  were  not 
worthy :  thongh,  wM  a  wild  extra* 
vagance  of  tmsj^  his  creations  were 
his  faith,  often  great,  and  alwavs 
gentie.  Exqnisitefy  beantlM  are  tm 
^*  angels  of  the  planets"  l^mBaflkelle, 
and  copied  by  Mrs  Jameson  from 
Gnmer's  engravings  of  the  frescoes 
of  the  Capella  Chi^dana.  That  great 
painter  (^mystery,  Rembrandt,  whom 
the  mere  lovers  of  form  would  have 
mistakenly  thought  it  a  profanation  to 
commission  with  an  angelic  subject^  is 
justly  appreciated.  A  perfoct  master 
oi  light,  and  of  darkness,  and  ^  co- 
lour, it  mattered  not  what  were  the 
forms,  so  that  they  were  unearthly, 
that  plunged  into  or  broke  through 
his  luminous  or  opaque.  Of  the  pic« 
tore  in  the  Loime  it  is  thns  re- 
■ifc^ed:  "  Miraculous  for  true  and 
mnrited  expression,  and  for  the  actios 
of  the  soaring  angel,  who  parts  the 
clouds  and  stnkes  through  the  airliko 
a  steong  swimmer  through  the  waves 
of  the  sea."  Strange — ^but  so  it  is— 
we  cannot  conceive  an  alteration  of 
his  pictures,  all  parts  so  agree.  At- 
tention to  the  more  beautifal  in  form 
would  have  appeared  to  him  a  mistrust 
in  his  great  sift  of  coloiv  and 
dnarescuro ;  ana,  strangper  still,  that 
without,  uid  seemingly  in  a  mariied 
defiance  of  mere  beauty,  he  is,  we 
w«ttld  almost  say  never,  vulgar,  never 
misses  the  intended  sentiment,  nor 
Mb  where  it  is  of  tenderness,  even  of 
fomlnine  tenderness,  for  which,  if  he 
ctoes  not  give  beauty,  he  gives  its 
equivalent  in  the  fulness  of  the  feelings 
We  instance  his  Salutation— £lisa- 
both  and  the  Virgin  Mary.  There  is 
something  terrifically  grand  in  the 
cronddng  angel  in  ^eCampo  Santo,— 
not  in  the  form,  nor  in  the  face,  which 
is  mostly  hid,  \mM  in  the  conception  of 
the  attitnde  of  honror  with  whidi  he 
bdiolds  the  awfU  scene.  It  is  from 
the  Last  Judgment  of  Orcagna  in 
the  Campo  Santo.  We  must  not 
speak  of  Rubens  as  a  painter  of  an- 
gels; and,  ilnr  real  ang^exprseskm, 
Mhaps  the  earlier  painters  are  the 
iMst.  It  is  surprising  that  Mrs  Jame- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art. 


184 

son,  firom  whose  refined  taste,  and 
from  whose  sense  of  the  beautiful 
and  the  graceM  in  their  highest  qua- 
lities, we  shouldhave  expected  another 
judgment,  could  have  ventured  to 
name  together  Raffaelle  and  MuriUo 
as  angel  painters.  It  is  true,  in  speak- 
ing of  the  Visit  to  Abraham,  she 
admits  that  the  painter  has  set  aside 
the  angelic  and  mystic  character,  and 
merely  represented  three  young  men 
travellers ;  but  she  generally,  through- 
out these  volumes,  speaks  of  that 
favourite  Spaniard  in  terms  of  the 
highest  admiration,  —  terms,  as  we 
think,  little  merited.  The  angels  in  the 
Sutherland  Collection  are  as  vulgar 
figures  as  can  well  be,  and  quite  anta- 
gonistic in  feeling  to  a  heavenly  mis- 
sion. We  confess  that  we  dislike 
almost  all  th^e  pictures  by  this  so  much 
esteemed  master :  their  artistic  man- 
ner is  to  us  uncertain  and  unpleasing, 
—disagreeable  in  colour,  deficient  in 
grace.  We  often  wonder  at  the  excess 
of  present  admiration.  We  look  upon 
his  vulgarity  in  scriptural  subjects  as 
quite  profkne.  His  highest  power  was 
in  a  peasant  gentleness ;  he  could  not 
embody  a  sacred  feeling :  yet  thus  is 
he  praised  for  a  performance  beyond 
his  power : — **  St  Andrew  is  suspended 
on  the  high  cross,  formed  not  of 
planks,  but  of  the  trunks  of  trees  laid 
transversely.  He  is  bound  with  cords, 
nndraped,  except  bv  a  linen  cloth, 
his  silver  hair  and  beard  loosely 
streaming  on  the  air,  his  aged  coun- 
tenance illuminated  by  a  heavenly 
transport,  as  he  looks  up  to  the  open- 
ing skies,  whence  two  angels,  of  really 
celestial  beauty,  like  almost  all  Mu- 
rillo^s  angels,  descend  with  the  crown 
and  palro.^^  The  angels  of  Correggio 
are  certainly  peculiar :  they  are  not 
quite  celestial,  but  perhaps  are  sym- 
patheticallv  more  lovely  from  their 
touch  of  humanity ;  they  are  ever 
pure.  Those  in  the  Ascension  of  the 
the  Virgin,  in  the  Cupola  at  Parma, 
seem  to  be  rather  adopted  angels 
than  of  the  ''  first  estate ;''  for  they 
are  of  several  ages,  and,  if  we  mistake 
not,  many  of  them  are  feminine,  and, 
we  suspect,  are  meant  really  to  repre- 
sent the  loveliest  of  earth  beatified, 
adopted  into  the  heavenly  choir. 
Those  who  have  seen  Signor  Toschi's 
fine  drawings  of  the  Parma  frescoes, 
(now  in  progress  of  curving),  will 
readily  give  assent  to  this  impression. 


[Feb. 


We  remember  this  feeling  crossing  our 
mind,  and  as  it  were  lightly  touching 
the  heart  with  angelic  wings — ^if  we 
have  lost  a  daughter  of  that  sweet 
age,  let  us  fondly  see  her  there.  We 
cannot  forbear  quoting  the  passage 
upon  the  angels  of  Titian : — "  And 
Titian's  ange^  impress  me  in  a  simi- 
lar manner:  I  mean  those  in  the 
glorious  Assumption  at  Venice,  with 
their  childish  forms  and  features,  but 
an  expression  caught  from  beholding 
the  face  of  *  our  Father  which  is  in 
heaven:'  it  is  glorified  infancy.  I 
remember  standing  before  this  picture, 
contemplating  those  lovely  spuits  one 
after  another,  until  a  thrill  came  over 
me,  like  that  which  I  felt  when  Men- 
delssohn played  the  organ :  I  became 
music  while  I  listened.  The  face  of 
one  of  those  angels  is  to  the  face  of  a 
child,  just  what  that  of  the  Virgin,  in 
the  same  picture,  is,  compared  with 
the  fairest  daughter  of  earth.  It  is 
not  here  superiority  of  beauty,  but 
mind,  and  music,  and  love,  kneaded 
together,  as  it  were,  into  form  and 
colour."  This  is  very  eloquent,  but  it 
was  not  the  thought  which  supplied 
that  ill  word  "  kneaded." 

It  is  remarked  by  Mrs  Jameson,  as 
a  singular  fact,  that  neither  Leonaxda 
da  Vinci,  nor  Michael  Angelo,  nor 
Ra£faelle,  have  given  representations 
of  the  Four  Evangelists.  In  veiy 
early  art  they  are  mostly  symbolised, 
and  sometimes  oddly  and  uncouthly  \ 
and  even  so  by  Angelioo  da  Fiesole. 
In  Greek  art,  the  Tetramorph,  or 
union  of  the  four  attributes  in  one 
figure,  is  seen  winged.  ^'  The  Tetra- 
morph, in  Western  art,  in  some  in- 
stances became  monstrous,  instead  of 
mystic  and  poeticaL"  The  animal 
symbols  of  the  Evangelists,  however 
familiarised  in  the  eyes  of  the  people^ 
and  therefore  sanctioned  to  their  feel- 
ing, required  the  greatest  judgment  to 
brmg  within  the  poetic  of  art.  We 
must  look  also  to  the  most  mysterious 
subjects  for  the  elucidation,  such  as 
Raffaelle's  Vision  of  Ezekiel.  There 
we  view  in  the  symbols  a  great  pro- 
phetic, subservient  to  the  creating  and 
redeeming  power,  set  forth  and  coming 
out  of  that  blaze  of  the  clouds  of 
heaven  that  surround  the  sublime 
Majesty. 

The  earlier  painters  were  fond  of 
representing  everything  symbolically  : 
hence  the  twelve    apostles  are   so 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


7^  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art. 


treated.  In  the  descending  scale,  to 
the  naturalists,  the  mystic  poetir  was 
redaoed  to  its  lowest  element.  Ine  set 
of  the  apostles  by  Agostino  Caracci, 
though,  as  Mrs  Jameson  observes, 
£unoiis  as  works  of  art,  are  condemned 
as  absolutely  vulgar.  ^^St  John  is 
drinking  out  of  a  cup,  an  idea  which 
might  strike  some  people  as  pictur- 
esque, but  it  is  in  vile  taste.  It  Is 
about  the  eighth  century  that  the  keys 
first  appear  in  the  hand  of  St  Peter. 
In  the  old  churches  at  Bavenna,  it  is 
remarked,  St  Peter  and  St  Paul  do  not 
often  appear."  Bavenna,  in  the  fifth 
century,  did  not  look  to  Bome  for  her 
saints. 

After  his  martvrdom,  St  Paul  was, 
it  is  said,  buried  in  the  spot  where 
was  erected  the  magnificent  church 
known  as  St  Paolo  fuor^-le  mura.  *^I 
saw  the  diurch  a  few  months  before 
it  was  consumed  by  fire  in  1823.  I 
saw  it  again  in  1847,  when  the  restora- 
tion was  fur  advanced.  Its  cold  mag- 
nificence, compared  with  the  impres- 
sions left  by  the  former  structure,  rich 
with  inestimable  remains  of  ancient 
art,  and  venerable  firom  a  thousand 
associations,  saddened  andchilled  me." 
We  well  remember  visiting  this  noble 
church  in  1816.  A  singular  coinci- 
dence of  fact  and  prophecy  has  im- 
printed this  visit  on  our  memory. 
Those  who  have  seen  it  before  it  was 
burnt  down,  must  remember  the  series 
of  portraits  of  popes,  and  that  there 
was  room  but  for  one  more.  We 
looked  to  the  vacant  place,  as  directed 
by  our  cicerone,  whilst  he  told  us 
that  there  was  a  prophecy  concerning 
it  to  this  eflfect,  that  when  that  space 
was  filled  up  there  would  be  no  more 
popes.  The  prophecy  was  fhlfiUed, 
at  least  with  re^od  to  that  church, 
for  it  was  burnt  down  after  that  vacant 
space  had  been  occopied  by  the  papal 
portrait. 

The  su^ect  of  the  Last  Supper  is 
treated  of  in  a  separate  chapter. 
There  has  been  a  fresco  latelv  dis- 
covered at  Florence,  in  the  rerectory 
of  Saint  Onofrio,  said  to  have  been 
painted  by  Bafihelle  in  his  twenty- 
third  year.  Some  have  thought  it  to 
be  the  work  of  Keri  de  Bicd.  Mrs 
Jameson,  without  hesitation,  pro- 
nounces it  to  be  by  Baffaelle,  ^^fml  of 
sentiment  and  grace,  but  dcHfident,  it 
appears  to  me,  in  that  depth  and 
discrimination  of  character  displayed 


185 

in  his  later  works.  It  is  evident  that 
he  had  studied  Glotto^s  fresco  in  the 
neighbouring  Santa  Croce.  The  ar- 
rangement is  nearly  the  same."  All 
the  apostles  have  glories,  but  that 
round  the  head  of  Judas  is  smaller 
than  the  others.  Does  the  prejudice 
against  thirteen  at  table  arise  fi*om 
this  betrayal  by  Judas,  or  firom  the 
legend  of  St  Gregory,  who,  when  a 
monk  in  the  monastery  of  St  Andrew, 
was  60  charitable,  that  at  length,  hav- 
ing nothing  else  to  bestow,  he  gave 
to  an  old  beggar  a  silver  porringer 
which  had  belonged  to  his  mother? 
When  pope,  it  was  his  custom  to 
entertain  twelve  poor  men.  On  one 
occasion  he  observed  thirteen,  and 
remonstrated  with  his  steward,  who, 
counting  the  guests,  could  see  no  moro 
than  twelve.  After  removal  from  tho 
table,  St  Gregory  called  the  unbidden 

Siest,  thus  ^ble,  like  the  ghost  of 
anqno,  to  the  master  of  the  feast 
only.  The  old  man,  on  being  ques- 
tioned, declared  himself  to  be  the  old 
beg^  to  whom  the  silver  porringer 
had  been  given,  adding,  ^^But  my 
name  is  Wondeiful,  and  through  me 
thou  shalt  obtain  whatever  thou  shalt 
ask  of  God."  There  is  a  famous  fresco 
on  this  subject  by  Paul  Veronese,  in 
which  the  stranger  is  represented  to 
be  our  Saviour.  To  entertain  even 
angels  unknowingly,  and  at  convivial 
entertainments,  and  visible  perhaps 
but  to  one,  as  a  messenger  of  good  or 
of  evil,  would  be  little  congenial  with 
the  pmport  of  such  meetings. 

Mrs  Jameson  objects  to  the  in- 
troduction of  dogs  in  such  a  subject 
as  the  Last  Supper,  but  remarks 
that  it  is  supposed  to  show  that 
the  supper  is  over,  and  the  paschal 
lamb  eaten.  It  is  so  conmion  that 
we  should  rather  refer  it  to  a  more 
evident  and  more  important  signifi- 
cation, to  show  that  this  institution 
was  not  for  the  Jews  only,  and  allud- 
ing to  the  passage  showing  that  ^^  do^ 
eat  of  the  crumh«  which  fell  firom  theur 
masters'  table."  The  large  dogs, 
however,  of  Paul  Veronese,  gnawing 
bones,  do  not  with  propriety  repre-^ 
sent  the  passage ;  for  there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  the  word  *'  crumbs"  de- 
scribes the  small  pet  dogs,  which  it 
was  the  fashion  for  the  rich  to  carry 
about  with  them.  The  eariy  painters 
introduced  Satan  in  person  tempting 
Judas.    When  Barocdo,  with  littUk 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


186 


The  Poetry  of  Sacred  ami  Ltffemkary  Art. 


[F^. 


taste,  aAiptod  the  same  treatment, 
tibe  pope,  Clameiit  YIIL,  ordered  the 
fignre  to  be  obliteratad— "  Che  Hoagli 
piaceva  fl  demonio  sr  dim^sticssse 
tanto  COB  G^u  Chriato."  We  know 
not  where  Mrs  Jamesoa  has  foand  the 
anecdote  which  relates  that  Andrea 
del  Castagna,  called  the  Infamoiis, 
after  he  Imd  assassinated  D<»Dinico 
his  Mend,  who  had  intrasted  him  with 
Van  EycJi's  secret,  painted  his  own 
portrait  in  the  character  of  Judas,  from 
remorse  of  conscience.  We  are  not 
anre  of  the  story  at  all  respecting 
Andrea  d^  Castagno :  there  maj  be 
other  gfoonds  for  doubting  it,  bat  Uiis 
anecdote,  if  troe  to  the  fact,  woold 
rather  Indicate  msanit^  than  gnilt. 
The  farther  we  adyanee  in  the  history 
and  practice  cf  art,  the  more  we  find 
it  suffering  in  sentiment  from  the  in- 
fonon  of  Sie  dassiod.  In  the  Pitti 
Palace  is  a  picture  bj  Yasari  of  St 
Jerome  as  a  peutent,  in  which  he  has 
introdoced  Yoius  and  cnpids>  one  of 
whom  is  taking  aim  at  the  saint.  It 
b  true  that,  as  we  proceed,  legends 
crowd  in  upon  us,  and  tiie  painters 
find  rather  scope  for  fancy  than  sub- 
jects ion  faitii  and  resting-places  for 
d6¥0ti(ML  Art,  ever  fond  of  female 
forms,  readily  seiaed  upon  the  l^nds 
of  Mary  Magdalene.  Her  penSenee 
has  ever  been  a  favourite  subject,  and 
haa  given  opportunity  for  the  intro- 
4ucti<m  of  grand  landscape  bade- 
grounds  in  tibe  hmely  solitudes  and 
wildernesses  of  a  rocky  desert.  The 
individuality  of  the  charaetevs  of 
Mary  and  Martha  in  Scripture  history 
was  too  striking  not  to  be  taken  ad« 
vantage  of  by  palnt^s.  There  is  a 
legend  id  an  Egyptian  penitent  Mary, 
anterior  to  that  of  Muy  Magdriene, 
which  is  curious*  Whether  this  waa 
anotiier  Mary  or  not,  lAe  is  xmre- 
sented  as  a  female  anchoret ;  and  we 
are  reminded  thereby  of  the  double 
story  of  Helen  of  Troy,  whom  a  real 
or  fobukMis  history  has  deposited  in 
Egypt,  whilo  the  great  poet  of  the 
Smd  has  introduced  hw  as  so  visible 
and  palpable  an  agent  in  the  Trepan 
war,  and  not  without  a  touch  of  peni- 
tenee,  not  quite  characteristie  of  that 
age^  Aoeeunts  say  that  it  was  her 
double,  or  eidoloB,  which  4gured  at 
Troy. 
Mrs  JaneeoA  makes  a  good  eea- 
with  regard  to  the  famous 
Leonardo  da  Yinci,  known 


as  Modesty  and  Yanity,  and  that  it  is 
Mary  Magdalene  rebuked  by  her  sister 
Martha  for  vanity  and  loxury,  whkh 
exactly  corresponds  with  the  legend 
recq)ecting  her.  We  cannot  £cnrt>ear 
qnotaig  Ae  following  eloquent  pas^ 


^On  reyiewing  generally  the  ixdhilte 
variety  which  has  been  giTen  to  tiiese 
IkYonrite  sabjeots,  the  lifo  and  penaao*  of 
the  Magdalene,  I  miut  end  where  I  be* 
gaa*  In  how  few  inetaneoe  hae  tito  reenlt 
been  satirfbotory  to  mind»  or  heari^  «r 
aool,  or  sense  1  Many  haro  well  zepto* 
sented  the  partioular  sttoation,  tho  appro- 
priate sentimenty  the  sonow,  the  hope,  the 
derotion ;  bat  who  has  given  na  the 
character  ?  Anoble  creature,  with  strong 
sympathies  and  a  strong  will,  with  power- 
ful faculties  of  erery  kind,  working  for 
good  or  eril.  Sneh  a  woman  Biary  Mag- 
dalene most  have  been,  eren  in  her  hnmili- 
ation;  and  the  fteble,  girMsh,  common- 
place^  and  even  vulgar  women,  wh# 
a|H[Mar  to  have  been  maoally  seleoted  as 
modfik  by  tho  ar^sti^  tuned  into  Mag- 
dalenes  by  threwiag  np  their  eyes  ami 
letting  down  their  hair,  ill  represent  tho 
enthosiastio  convert^  or  the  augestic  pa- 
troness !" 

The  seoond  vi^nme  commences  witii 
the  patron  saints  <^  Christendom. 
These  were  delightful  fables  in  the 
creduloas  age  m  first  youth,  when 
foeling  was  a  greater  truth  than  foct ; 
and  we  confess  tiiat  we  read  these 
legends  now  wiA  some  regret  at  our 
ahAted  foith^  whidi  we  would  not 
even  ^^  now  have  shaken  in  the  chiv- 
alrio  characters  of  tiM  seven  cham- 
pious  of  Christendom." 

The  Bamish  Church  (we  say  not 
the  Catholio,  as  Mrs  Jameson  so  fre- 
quently impro^periy  terms  >ler)  readily 
acted  tiuit  part,  to  the  people  at  laigo, 
which  nurses  assume  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  their  children ;  and  in  bo^ 
caaes,the  moreimprobable  t^estory  tha 
greater  the  fascination ;  and  the  people^ 
like  chUdren,  are  more  credulous  than 
critical.  Had  we  not  known  in  our 
own  timM,  and  aearlv  at  the  preset 
day,  rtofies  as  absurd  as  any  in  these 
legBttdSy  gravely  asserted,  circulated, 
and  credited,  and  oMlntained  hj  men 
of  responsible  stataon  and  education — 
to  instance  only  the  garmentof  Trevea 
— we  shonld  have  pronounced  the  anTMi 
hgetukk  to  hnf%  been  a  creation  of 
the  foney,  arising,  not  without  thdr 
akunination,  from  the  fogs  and  fens  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  adi^ted  solely  for 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


ThfBPoetrf^SacndfmiLBgmimryArL 


miBds of  thfti period.  BoilhesaBie- 
tioii  of  them  bj  the  Church  of  Boiiie 
leads  ofl  to  Tiew  them  as  igmmfatidei 
another  character^  meant  to  amoBa 
aadtobewidor.  Wemaateventhmk 
It  poMiUe  Bi«r  lor  people  to  be 
iraoght  to  belieye  sndi  a  stoiy  as 
«hk:— ""It  is  related  that  a  oertain 
man^  who  was  afflicted  with  a  caaoer 
in  Jhis  leg,  went  to  perform  his  dero- 
tiona  in  the  chorch  of  St  Cosmo  aad 
St  Dandan  at  Borne,  and  he  prajed 
most  earnestly  that  these  boieficent 
sainta  would  be  pleaeed  to  aid  him. 
When  he  had  prayed,  a  deep  sle^  fell 
vpon  him.  Then  he  beheld  St  Cosmo 
and  St  Bamian,  who  stood  beside 
him ;  and  one  carried  a  box  of  oint- 
ment, the  other  a  sharp  knife*  And 
one  said,  'What  shall  we  do  to  r^aee 
this  diseased  leg,  when  we  have  cut  it 
iMV  And  the  other  replied, 'There 
la  a  Moor  who  has  been  bnried  jnst 
now  in  San  Pietro  in  Yincolo ;  let  na 
take  his  leg  for  the  purpose  !*  Then 
they  broogfat  the  leg  of  the  dead  man, 
and  with  it  they  r^aoed  the  leg  of 
the  sick  man — anointing  it  with  odes- 
tial  (Mntment,  so  that  he  remained 
whole.  When  he  awoke,  he  almost 
donbted  whether  it  oonld  be  himself; 
bnt  Ida  neif^bocirs,  seeing  that  he  was 
healed,  hxied  kito  the  tomb  of  the 
Moor,  andfofond  that  there  had  been  an 
exchange  of  legs ;  and  thus  to  troth 
of  this  great  mirade  was  proved  to  idl 
beholders.'*  It  is,  however,  rather  a 
kaaaidona  demand  ipon  orednlity  to 
aerre  xxp  again  the  feast  of  Thyestes, 
oo<Aed  in  a  addnm  of  even  more 
miracQloaseficacythanMedea's.  Sndi 
is  the  stupendoos  power  <^  St  Nicho- 
laa  >— '^  As  he  was  travdling  throogh 
his  diocese,  to  visit  and  comfort  hia 
people,  he  lodged  in  the  hooaa  <ji  a 
certain  host,  who  was  a  son  of  Satan. 
This  man,  in  tiiescaroitT  of  provisiona, 
was  accostoned  to  steal  littie  children, 
whom  he  murdered,  and  served  np 
their  fimba  as  meat  to  hia  gnests.  On 
the  airival  of  the  Bidiop  and  his  re- 
tinae, hehadtheaadad^toservenp 
the  dismembered  limbs  of  these  on* 
hi4>py  children  before  the  man  of  God, 
who  had  no  sooner  cast  hia  eyes  on 
them  than  he  was  aware  of  the  fraud. 
He  reproached  the  host  wil^  his 
abominable  crime;  and,  going  to  the 
tub  where  their  remains  were  salted 
down,  he  made  over  them  the  sign  of 


187 

tiie  cross,  and  they  rose  19  whole  and 
velL  The  peofrie  who  witnessed  this 
great  wonder  were  struck  with  as- 
tonishment ;  and  the  three  children, 
who  were  the  sons  of  a  poor  widow, 
were  restored  to  their  weeping  mo- 
ther." 

But  what  shall  we  say  to  an  entire 
new  saint  ci  a  modem  dir^,  who  has 
already  found  his  way  to  Yenicet 
Bologna,  and  Lombardy, — even  to 
Tuscany  and  Paris,  not  only  In  pic- 
tures and  statoes,  but  even  in  chi4>d8 
dedicated  to  her?  The  reader  maybe 
curions  to  know  something  oi  a  saial; 
of  this  century.  In  the  year  18Q2  the 
d^eton  of  a  young  female  was  dis- 
covered in  some  excavations  in  the 
catacomb  of  PrisdUa  at  Bome ;  the 
remains  of  an  inscription  were,  "  Lu- 
mena  Pax  Te  Cum  TrL"  Apriestin 
the  train  of  a  Ne^^olitan  prelate, 
who  was  sent  to  coamtnlate  Pius 
yn.  on  his  return  from  France,  begged 
some  relics.  The  newly-discovered 
treasure  was  given  to  him,  and  the 
inscription  thus  translated  —  *^  fHo- 
mena,  rest  in  peace."  ^'  Another 
priest,  whose  name  is  suppressed  6<- 
cmue  €f  hu  greed  humUity^  was  fa- 
voured by  a  vision  in  the  Inroad  noon- 
day, in  whi<^  he  beheld  the  i^orioua 
virgin  Filomena,  who  was  pleased  to 
reveal  to  him  that  she  had  suffered 
death  ftx  preferring  the  Christian 
feith,  and  her  tow  <»  diastity,  to  the 
addresses  Kji  the  emperor,  who  wished 
to  make  her  Ua  wife.  This  vision 
leaving  much  of  her  history  obscure, 
a  certidn  young  artist,  whose  name  is 
also  suppressed— i)erhi^  becanse  of 
his  great  humility— was  informed  in  a 
vision  that  the  emperor  alluded  to  was 
Diocletian ;  and  at  the  same  time  tiie 
tonnents  and  persecutions  suffered  by 
the  Christian  vurgin  Filomena,  as  well 
as  her  wonderful  constancy,  were  also 
reveided  to  him.  There  were  sone 
cBAcuttaes  in  the  way  of  the  Empenv 
Diocletian,  which  indines  the  wifter  of 
the  Maivrical  aooount  to  adopt  the 
opinion  that  the  young  artist  in  his 
vimon  «m^  have  made  a  mistake,  and 
that  the  emperor  may  have  beoi  hia 
colleague,  Maximiau.  The  fecta, 
howcYer,  now  adautted  of  no  doubt; 
and  the  relics  were  carried  by  the  priest 
Fraaeesoo  da  Lnda to Nai^ea;  they 
were  indosed  in  a  case  of  wood,  re- 
sembling in  form  the  hmnan  body* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art, 


188 

This  figure  was  habited  in  a  petticoat 
of  white  satin,  and  over  it  a  crimson 
tunic,  after  the  Greek  fashion;  the 
face  was  painted  to  represent  nature ; 
a  garland  of  flowers  was  placed  on  the 
head,  and  in  the  hands  a  lily  and  a 
javelin—with  the  point  reversed,  to 
express  her  parity  and  her  martyrdom ; 
then  she  was  laid  in  a  half  sitting  pos- 
ture in  a  sarcophagus,  of  which  the 
sides  were  glass ;  and  after  lying  for 
some  time  in  state,  in  the  chapel  of  the 
Torres  family  in  the  Church  of  Saint 
Angiolo,  she  was  carried  in  procession 
to  Magnano,  a  little  town  about  twenty 
iniles  from  Naples,  amid  the  acclama- 
tions of  the  people,  working  many  and 
surprising  murades  by  the  way.  Such 
is  the  legend  of  St  Filomena,  and  such 
the  authority  on  which  she  has  be- 
come, within  the  last  twenty  years, 
one  of  the  most  fashionable  saints  in 
Italy.  Jewels  to  the  value  of  many 
thousand  crowns  have  been  offered  at 
her  shrine,  and  solemnly  placed  round 
the  neck  of  her  image,  or  suspended 
to  her  rirdle." 

We  dare  not  in  candour  charge  the 
Bomanists  with  being  the  only  fabri- 
cators or  receivers  of  such  goods,  re- 
membering our  own  Saint  Joanna, 
and  Huntingdon's  Autobiography. 
There  are  aurea  legenda  in  a  cer- 
tain class  of  our  sectarian  literature, 
presenting  a  large  list  of  claimants  of 
very  hi^h  pretensions  to  saintship, 
only  waiting  for  power  and  an  esta- 
blished authority  to  be  canonised. 

It  is  not  surprLsing,  as  the  world  is — 
working  often  in  tiie  dark  places  of 
ignorance — ^if  a  few  glossy  threads  of  a 
coarser  material,  and  deteriorating 
quality,  be  taken  up  by  no  wilful  mis- 
take, and  be  interwoven  into  the  true 
golden  tissue.  Nevertheless  the 
mantie  may  be  still  beautiful,  and  fit 
a  Christian  to  wear  and  wedk  in  not 
unbecomingly.  There  are  worse  thinffs 
than  religious  superstition,  whose  bad- 
ness is  of  degrees.  In  the  mfaids  of 
all  nations  and  people  there  is  a 
vacuum  for  the  craving  appetite  of 
credulity  to  fill.  The  great  interests 
of  life  lie  in  politics  and  religion. 
There  are  bigots  in  both :  but  we  look 
upon  a  little  superstition  on  the  one 
point  as  fiar  safer  than  upon  the  other, 
espedallv  in  modem  times ;  whereas 
political  bigotry,  however  often  duped, 
is  credulous  still,  and  becomes  h«^g 


[Feb. 


and  ferocious.  We  fear  even  the 
legends  are  losing  their  authority  in 
the  Boman  States,  whose  history  may 
yet  have  to  be  filled  with  far  worse 
tales.  A  generous,  though  we  deem 
it  a  mistaken  feeling,  has  induced  Mrs 
Jameson  to  make  what  we  would 
almost  venture  to  call  the  only  mis- 
take in  her  volumes :  the  following 
passage  is  certainly  not  in  good  taste, 
quite  out  of  the  intention  of  her  book, 
and  very  unfortunately  timed — "But 
Peter  is  certainlv  the  democratical 
apostle  par  excellence^  and  his  repre- 
sentative in  our  time  seems  to  have 
awakened  to  a  consciousness  of  this 
ttuth,  and  to  have  thrown  himself—as 
St  Peter  would  most  certainly  have 
done,  were  he  living— on  the  side  of 
the  people  and  of  freedom."  A  demo- 
cratical successor  to  St  Peter !  He  is, 
then,  the  first  of  that  character.  With 
him  the  "  side  of  freedom  "  seems  to 
have  been  the  inside  of  his  prison, 
and  his  "  side  of  the  people  "  a  preci- 
pitate flight  from  contact  with  them 
m  their  liberty — and  for  his  tiara  the 
disguise  of  a  valet.  We  more  than 
paraon  Mrs  Jameson — ^we  love  the 
virtue  that  gives  rise  to  her  error ;  for 
it  is  peculiarly  the  nature  of  woman 
to  be  credulous,  and  to  be  deceived. 
We  admire,  and  more  than  admire, 
women  equally  well,  whether  they  are 
right  or  wrong  in  politics :  these  are  the 
business  of  men,  for  they  have  to  do  with 
the  sword,  and  are  out  of  the  tenderer 
impulses  of  woman.  But  we  are 
amused  when  we  find  grave  strong 
men  in  the  same  predicament  of  ill 
conjectures.  We  smile  as  we  remem- 
ber a  certain  dedication  "To  Pio 
Nono,"  which  by  its  simple  grandeur 
and  magnificent  beauty  will  live 
q>lendide  mendax  to  excuse  its 
prophetic  inaccuracy.  It  is  not  wise 
to  roretell  events  to  happen  whilst  we 
live.  Take  a  "long  range,"  or  a 
studied  ambiguity  that  will  fit  either 
way.  The  example  of  Dr  Primrose 
may  be  followed  with  advantage,  who 
in  every  case  of  domestic  doiu)t  and 
difficulty  concluded  the  matter  thus — 
"  I  wish  it  mav  turn  out  well  this  day 
six  months  f  by  whidi,  in  his  simple 
fiunily,  he  attained  the  character  of  a 
true  prophet. 

We  fear  we  are  losing  sight  of  the 
"  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legendary 
Art,"  and  gla^  turn  from  the  thought 


Digitized  by 


God^ 


1849.]  The  Poetry  of  Sacred 

of  what  ifl  to  be,  to  those  beantifnl  per- 
sonified ideas  of  the  past,  whether 
fabulous  or  historical,  in  which  we  are 
ready  to  take  Mrs  Jameson  as  our 
wniiDg  and  sore  guide.  The  four 
Tirgin  patronesses  and  the  female 
martyrs  are  favourite  subjects,  which 
she  enters  into  with  more  than  her 
nsnal  spirit  and  feeling.  These  two 
faaye  chiefly  engaged  and  fascinated 
the  genins  of  the  painters  of  the  best 
period,  and  will  ever  interest  the  worid 
of  taste  by  their  sentiment,  as  well  as 
by  their  grace  of  form  and  beanty,  and 
whynot  say  improved  them  too?  The 
really  beantifhl  is  always  tme.  It  is 
not  amiss  that  we  should  be  continu- 
ally reminded,  or,  as  Mrs  Jameson 
better  expresses  it — **It  is  not  a  thing 
to  be  set  aside  or  forgotten,  that  gene- 
rous men  and  meek  women,  strong  in 
the  strength,  and  derated  by  the  sa- 
crifice of  a  Redeemer,  did  suffer,  did 
endure,  did  triumph  for  the  truth^s 
sake ;  did  leave  ns  an  example  which 
ought  to  make  our  hearts  slow  within 
ns."  The  memory  of  Christian  hero- 
ism  should  never  be  lost  sight  of  in  a 
Christian  country,  and  we  earnestly 
recommend  this  part  of  Mrs  Jameson's 
volnmes  to  the  attention  of  our  paint- 
ers: they  will  find  not  unfirequent 
instances  of  fine  subjects  yet  untouch- 
ed, which  may  sanctify  art,  and  dignify 
the  profession  by  making  it  the  teacher 
of  a  purer  taste— not  that  true  genius 
will  ever  lack  materials,  for  materials 
are  but  suggestive  to  an  innate  inven- 
tive power.  It  is  curious  that  the 
authoress  should  not  yet  have  satisfied 
our  expectation  with  regard  to  the 
legends  of  the  Vhfgin.  Whatever  the 
motive  of  her  forbearance,  we  hope 
this  subject  will  take  the  lead  fai  the 
promised  third  volume,  which  is  to 
treat  of  the  legends  of  the  monastic 
orders,  considered,  as  she  cautiously 
observes,  '*  merely  in  their  connexion 
with  the  development  of  the  fine  arts 
in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenUi  cen- 
turies.** 

The  numerous  pictures  in  Italy 
which  represent  parts  of  the  legends 
of  the  Virgin  render  this  work  incom- 
plete without  a  full  development  of  the 
subject.  If  her  forbearance  arises 
firom  a  fear  that  at  this  particular  time, 
when  mariolatry  is  dreaded  by  a  large 
portion  of  the  religious  world,  we 
would  remind  her  that  the  Virgin 


and  Legendary  Art. 


189 


Mother  is  still  *^  the  blessed  **  of  our 
own  church. 

It  is  a  question  if  the  list  of  sainted 
martyrs  in  repute  has  not  been  left  to 
the  arbitrament  of  the  painters :  for 
we  find  many  deposed,  and  the  adopt- 
ed favourites  of  art  not  found  in  the 
early  list,  as  represented  in  their  pro- 
cessions. We  find  a  Saint  Beparata, 
after  having  been  the  patroness  saint 
of  Florence  for  six  hundred  years, 
deposed,  and  the  city  placed  under 
the  tutelage  of  the  Virgin  and  St  John 
the  Baptist. 

Yet  these  were  eariy  times  for  the 
influence  of  art ;  but,  at  a  period  when 
pictures  were  thought  to  have  a  kind 
of  miraculous  power,  it  is  not  impro- 
bable that  some  potent  work  of  art 
representing  the  Vli^  and  St  John 
may  have  caused  the  new  devotional 
demcation — as  was  the  case  in  mo- 
dem times,  when  the  imaged  Ma- 
donna de  los  Dolores  was  appoint- 
ed general-in-chief  of  the  Carlist 
army.  Painters  were  what  the 
poets  had  been — Votes  sacri.  Events 
and  the  memory  of  saints  may  have 
perished,  Carentqmavatesaero.  We 
wish  our  own  painters  were  more  fhlly 
sensible  of  the  power  of  art  to  per- 
petuate, and  that  it  is  its  province  to 
teach.  With  us  it  has  been  too  long 
disconnected  with  our  religion.  It 
will  be  a  glorious  day  for  art,  and  for 
the  people  that  shidl  witness  the  re- 
union. 

In  taking  leave  of  these  two  fasci- 
nating volumes,  we  do  so  with  the 
less  regret,  knowing  that  they  will 
be  often  in  our  hands,  as  most  valu- 
able for  instant  reference.  No  one 
who  wishes  to  know  the  subjects  and 
feel  the  sentiment  of  the  finest  works 
in  the  world,  will  think  of  ffoing 
abroad  without  Mrs  Jameson's  book. 
We  must  again  thank  her  for  the 
beautiful  woodcuts  and  etchings ;  the 
latter,  in  particular,  are  lightly  and 
gracefully  executed,  we  presume 
mostly  (to  speak  technically)  in  dry 
point.  Mrs  Jameson  writes  as  an  en- 
thusiast, her  feeling  flows  firom  her 
pen.  Her  style  is  fascinating  to  a 
degree,  forcible  and  graceful ;  but 
there  is  no  mistaking  its  character 
— fominine.  We  km)w  no  other 
hand  that  could  so  happily  have  set 
forth  the  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Le- 
gendary Art. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


190 


Ammcan  Tbouffktt  om  European  RemAtHoM, 


(T^ 


AMWBICAy  THOUGRIB  OK  SUBOPSAN  BEVOLU1101C8. 


B08VOK,  i)Mem6«r  1848. 

The  Ykas  of  Cqetstitutiqfs  is 
drawisg  to  its  end,  to  be  sacceeded,  I 
doubt  BOt,  by  the  Year  of  Snbstita- 
tioQS.  I  am  sony,  my  Basil,  ttiat 
yoa  do  &ot  quite  agree  with  me  as  to 
the  issue  of  all  this  in  France ;  but  I 
am  sore  you  wiU  not  dilate  my  opi- 
nion that  this  year's  wm-k  is  good  for 
nothing,  so  far  as  it  has  attempted 
construction,  instead  of  fiilfilling  its 
mksion  by  overthrow.  Its  great 
folly  has  been  the  constitatioB-fever, 
whidi  has  amounted  to  a  pestilence. 
When  mushrooms  grow  to  be  oaks, 
then  shall  such  constitutions  as  this 
year  has  bred,  stand  a  chance  of  out- 
nving  their  authors.  WiU  men  learn 
nothing  from  the  past?  How  can 
they  act  over  such  rotten  &roes, — 
make  themselves  such  fools  1 

You  admit  the  difference,  which  I 
endeavoured  to  show  yon,  between 
the  American  constitution  and  that  of 
any  c<»iceivable  constitution  which 
may  be  cooked  up  for  an  old  European 
state.  I  am  glad  if  I  have  directed 
your  attention,  accordingly,  to  the 
great  mistiJce  of  France.  She  sup- 
poses that  a  feeble  and  debauched  old 
gentleman  can  boil  himself  in  the 
levolutionaiy  kettle,  and  anerge  in 
all  the  tender  and  enviable  freshness 
of  the  babe  just  severed  from  the  ma- 
ternal mould.  Politicians  have  com- 
mitted a  blunder  in  not  allowing  the 
natural,  and  hence  legitimate,  origin 
of  the  American  constitution  in  that 
of  its  British  parent.  They  have  thus 
frivoured  the  theory  that  a  tolerably 
permanent  constitution  can  be  drafted 
o  priori^  and  imposed  upon  a  state. 
This  is  the  absurdity  that  makes  re- 
volutions. If  the  silly  French,  instead 
of  reading  De  Tooqueville,  would 
study  each  for  himself  the  history  of 
our  constitution,  and  see  how  gra- 
dually it  grew  to  be  our  constitution, 
before  pen  was  put  to  paper  to  draft 
it,  they  might  perhaps  stop  Uieir 
abortive  nonsense  in  tune,  to  save 
what  they  can  of  their  national  cha- 
racter from  the  eternal  contempt  of 
mankind. 

But  you  cannot  think  the  French 
wiU  find  so  fair  a  destiny  as  a  Besto- 


ratioal  Tell  me,  m  what  Frendt 
party,  at  present  existing,  there  is 
any  inherent  strength,  save  in  that  of 
the  legitimists?  Other  parties  are 
mere  factions;  but  the  legitimists 
have  got  a  seminal  priiM^le  among 
thffln,  which  dies  very  hard,  and  (h 
which  the  nature  is  to  qnt>ut  and 
make  roots,  and  then  show  itsdfl  I 
am  no  admirer  of  the  Bourbons: 
thdr  intrigaes  with  Jesuitiam  have 
been  their  curse,  and  are  t&e  worst 
obstacle  to  their  regainiiig  a  iMld  on 
the  sympathies  of  fi^eenaen.  The 
reactionary  party  have  in  vain  en- 
deavoured to  overcome  it  ibr  §Sty 
years.  Yet  there  is  such  tenacity  ti 
life  in  kgitimaey,  that  it  seems  to 
me  destined  to  outlive  all  opposition, 
and  to  succeed  by  necessi^.  The 
rapid  devdopments  of  this  memoraUe 
year  str^igthoa  the  probabili^  of  my 
prediction.  Revolutionism  k  spas- 
modR,  but  not  so  long  in  dying  9B  it 
usedtobe.  I  cannot  but  tUnk  tlua 
year  has  done  more  for  a  pennanent 
restoration  of  the  BouriMns  than  any 
year  since  Louis  XVI.  ascended  tiw 
scaffold.  In  this  respect  tiie  Barri- 
cades of  1848  may  tdl  more  inqfiree- 
sively  on  history  than  the  AUies  of 
1814[,  (a  even  the  carnage  of  Water- 
loo. 

Why  should  I  be  adiamed  ef  my 
theory,  when  everytiiing,  'so  fSv,  has 
gone  as  I  supposed  it  would,  only  a 
hundred  times  more  rapidly  than  any 
body  could  have  thought  possflile? 
What  must  be  the  residue  of  a  series 
which  thus  far  has  tended  but  one 
way  ?— what  say  you  of  the  Bartholo- 
mew-btttchery  in  June  ? — ^what  of  La- 
martine's  faU  ?— ^hat  of  tiie  diotator- 
ship  of  Cavaignac?  If  tilings  have 
gone  as  seems  probable,  Louis  KJqio- 
leon  is  president  of  the  repubUe.  If 
so,  what  is  the  instinct  which  has  tiins 
caUed  him  into  power?  The  heredi- 
taiT  principle  is  abolidied  on  paper, 
and  mstantly  recognised  by  the  nrst 
popular  act  done  under  tiie  new  oon- 
stitutionl  But,  for  aU  we  can  tdl  in 
America,  things  may  have  taken 
another  turn.  B  Cavaignac  elected? 
Then  a  military  master  is  pirt  over 
the  repuUic,  who  can  CromweUise  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


184d.] 


jjmm'wtm  T^ba^toim 


Aflsenblj,  aad  Monk  Om  rtata,  as 
soon  as  he  dkooem.  The  ropaUic 
has  givw  Hsalf  the  form  ef  a  diota- 
tonhip,  and  denonstrated  that  it 
does  not  exist,  ezoeftt  on  paper. 
Has  there  been  aa  insorrectiiMi  ? 
Thea  the  npnbUc  is  dead  ahreacfr* 
But  I  shaU  assome  that  Loais  has 
SBOceeded:  then  it  is  TirtoaUj  aa 
heroditaiy  eaopire.  To  be  sore,  ia- 
stinot  has  for  once  fiuled  to  know 
*^  the  trae  prince," — has  aocorded,  to 
the  mere  shadow  of  a  usurper,  what, 
in  A  More  substantial  form,  is  due  to 
the  heir  of  France;  bat  loog-sas- 
pended  animation  most  make  a  mis- 
take or  two  in  coming  to  life  again. 
The  events  of  the  year  ha^e  been  all 
fitTonrable  to  a  restoration,  beoanse 
thejr  iMwie  crashed  a  thoosand  other 
plans  and  plottings  for  the  soverogn- 
tj,  asd  becaose  th^  most  have 
forced  opon  at  least  as  man  j  theorists 
the  grand  practical  conclosion,  that 
there  is  to  be  no  rational  liberty  in 
IVaace  ontil  Ae  retoms  to  first  pnn- 
dples,  and  finds  the  repose  which  old 
nations  can  only  know  onder  their 
legitimate  kings. 

I  am  ashamed  of  you  for  more 
than  hinting  that  legitima<^  most  be 
given  np,  as  far  as  kings  are  con- 
cerned. Alas!  Diogenes  most  light 
his  lantern,  and  hvnt  throogh  Eng- 
land for  a  Toiy !  Yoaarebewhigged, 
indeed,  if  yon  give  it  op  that  Oeoige 
in.  was  a  legitimate  kmg,  and  that 
his  grand-daoffhter  is  to  yon  what  no 
other  penon  aLiye  can  possiUy  be, — 
▼oar  true  and  hereditary  sorereign 
lady !  Mast  I,  a  repnblican,  say  t&s 
to  an  En^^ish  monanchist,  who  votes 
himself  a  conservative,  and  v^o  is 
the  son  of  a  sturdy  old  English  Tory  ? 
Is  there  no  virtue  extant,  that  even 
yoa  allow  yonrself  to  be  flippant 
abont  ''  the  divhiity  that  hedges 
kings,"  and  to  trifle  with  saggesttons 
which  your  immortal  ancestor,  who 
fell  at  Piestonpans,  would  have 
drammed  oot  of  doors  with  poker  and 
t<mgB?  Why,  eiven  I,  who  have  a 
Ti^  to  be  whatever  I  choose,  by 
way  of  amateur  aUegianoe,  and  who 
have  always  found  myself  a  Jacobite 
whenever  the  talk  has  been  against 
the  White  Bos&— even  I,  hi  sober 
earnest,  yield  the  point,  that  George 
I.  was  a  legitimate  sovereign,  and 
that  Charlie  was  a  bit  of  a  rebel. 


191 

Those  stupid  Dutchmen!  it  makes 
me  mad  to  sinr  as  much  for  tiiem ; 
but  I  love  Old  £n|^d  too  well  to 
own  that  she  here  with  such  sove- 
reigns on  anv  lower  grounds  tiiaii 
that  of  theb  right  to  re^. 

I  am  sorry  von  give  in  to  te  silly 
cant  of  revoiBtionists,  and  ooniess 
ymuself  posed  with  their  challenge. 
What  if  they  do  insist  upon  a  defla- 
tion? Ave  you  bound  to  ke^  your 
heart  from  beatfaig  till  yoa  can  tcU 
why  it  throbs  over  a  page  of  Shak- 
speare*s  Bidiard  n.,  and  bounces, 
in  predsdy  an  oppoatte  manner,  over 
Carlyle's  Cromwcil  ?  Am  I  gofaig  to 
let  a  Whig  choke  me  with  a  dio- 
tionary,  beomse  It  contains  no  expla- 
nation of  my  good  old-fiMhiened 
word?  Let  him,  with  hu  ''  Usefiil 
Knowledge  Sode^*"  information,  give 
me  an  explanation  of  the  magnetic 
needle,  or  tell  me  why  it  turns  to  the 
pole,  Kod  not  to  the  antipodes?  Hie 
fellow  will  recollect  some  twopenny 

Stm^  of  the  compass,  and  retail  me 
f  a  column  of  tiie  Penny  Magaaine 
about  the  mysteries  of  nature.  And 
whatifIta&assensai>lyfrom  nature 
in  my  own  heart,  and  tell  the  stereo- 
type philosq>her  that  I  am  conscious 
of  an  ennoblbig  affiaction,  which  honest 
men  never  la&,  and  which  God  Al- 
mighty has  made  a  ^ulty  of  the 
human  soul  to  dignify  subordfaiation ; 
and  that  lovalty  has  no  lode-star  but 
legitimacy?  At  least,  my  dear 
Whigo-Tory,  you  most  allow,  1  should 
succeed  in  answering  a  fool  according 
to  his  folly.  But  I  daim  more:  I 
have  defined  legitinuu^  when  I  say  it 
is  the  home  of  lovalty. 

I  have  amused  myself  during  the 
summer  with  some  study  of  Ue  his- 
tory of  reacti<m  in  France,  and  flatter 
myself  that  I  have  discovered  the 
secret  of  its  failure,  and  the  great  dis- 
tinction between  its  spirit  and  that  of 
English  ConservatiBm.  But  this  by 
the«way ;  for  I  was  going  to  say  that 
I  have  found,  in  the  writings  of  one 
of  the  chief  of  the  reactionary  party, 
some  very  sensible  hints  upon  the 
sulijeot  I  am  discussing  with  you. 
Though  in  many  respects  a  daoger- 
oas  teacher,  and,  I  fear,  a  little  je- 
snitical  in  practice  as  well  as  in 
theory,  I  have  been  surprised  to  find 
the  Coont  de  Maetre  willing  ''  to  be 
as  his  ma«fer'W>n  thb  point,  and  to 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


American  Thoughts  on  European  Revolutions. 


192 

rest  legitimacy  very  nearly  on  the 
sober  principles  of  Burke.  He  is  far 
from  the  extravagances  of  Sir  Robert 
Filmer,  though  he  often  expresses,  in 
a  startling  form,  the  temperate  views 
of  English  Anti-Jacobhis.  Thus  he 
says,  with  evident  relish  of  its  smart 
severity,  Hie  people  will  always  accept 
their  masters^  and  will  never  choose 
them.  Strongly  and  nnpalatably  put, 
but  most  coincident  with  history,  and 
not  to  be  disputed  by  any  admirer  of 
the  glorious  Revolution  of  1688 !  I 
suspect  the  Frenchman  made  his  apho- 
rism without  stopping  to  ask  whether 
it  suited  any  other  case.  But  Burke 
has  virtually  said  the  same  thing  in 
his  reply  to  the  Old  Jewry  doctrine 
of  1789,  in  which  he  so  forcibly  urges 
the  fact,  that  the  settlement  of  the 
crown  upon  William  and  the  Georges 
"  was  not  properly  a  choice^  .  .  . 
but  an  act  of  necessity,  in  the  strict- 
est moral  sense  in  which  necessity  can 
be  taken."  Mary  and  the  Hanove- 
rians, then,  were  acknowledged  by  the 
nation,  in  spite  of  itself,  as  legitimate 
sovereigns;  and  even  William  was 
smuggled  into  the  acknowledgment  as 
^ueut-legitimate.  It  is  the  clear,  rea- 
sonable, and  truly  English  doctrine  of 
Burke,  that  the  constitution  of  a  country 
makes  its  kgitinuUe  kings;  and  that 
the  princes  of  the  House  of  Brunswick, 
coming  to  the  crown  according  to  con- 
stitutional law,  at  the  date  of  their 
respective  accessions,  were  as  legiti- 
mate as  King  James  before  he  broke 
his  coronation  oaths,  and  abdicated, 
ipso  facto^  his  crown  and  hereditary 
rights.  But  De  Maistre  talks  more 
like  the  schoolmen,  though  he  comes 
to  the  same  practical  results.  Con- 
stitutions, the  native  growth  of  their 
respective  countries,  he  would  argue, 
are  the  ordinance  of  God  ;  and  kings, 
though  not  the  subj^ts  of  their 
people,  are  bound  to  do  homage  to 
them,  as,  in  a  sense,  divine.  Legiti- 
macy, therefore,  is  the  resultant  of 
hereditary  mi^esty  and  constitutional 
designation;  it  being  always  under- 
stood that  constitutional  laws  are 
never  written  till  after  they  become 
such  by  national  necessities,  which  are 
divine  providence^  Apply  this  to 
1688.  The  BiU  Tf  Righto  was  an 
nnwritten  part  of  the  constitution 
even  when  James  was  crowned ;  and 
so  was  the  principlef  that  the  king 


[Feb. 


must  not  be  a  P^ist,  at  least  in  the 
government  of  his  realms.  Such,  if  I 
may  so  speak,  was  the  Salic  law  of 
England,  by  which  his  public  and 
political  Popery  stripped  him  of  his 
right  to  the  throne.  It  was  the  same 
principle  that  invested  the  House  of 
Brunswick  with  a  legitimacy  which 
the  heart  of  the  nation  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  recognise,  in  spite  of  unfeigned 
disgust  with  the  prince  in  whom  the 
succession  was  established.  To  throw 
the  proposition  into  the  abstract — 
there  can  be  no  legitimacy  without 
hereditary  majesty,  but  that  member 
of  a  royal  line  is  the  legitimate  king 
in  whom  concur  all  the  elemento  of 
constitutional  designation.  If  the 
phrase  be  new,  the  idea  is  as  old  as 
empire.  I  mean  that  constitutional 
power  which,  without  reference  to 
national  choice  or  personal  popularity, 
selecto  the  true  hen:  of  the  throne, 
among  the  descendanto  of  ito  ancient 
possessors,  on  fixed  principles  of  na- 
tional law.  Thus,  m  Portugal,  the 
constitution  seto  aside  an  idiot  heir- 
apparent  for  a  cadet  of  the  same 
family,  or,  if  need  be,  for  a  collateral 
relative;  while,  in  France,  it  pro- 
claims the  line  of  a  king  extinct  in  his 
female  heir,  and  ascends,  perhaps,  to 
a  remote  ancestor  for  a  trace  of  his 
rightfhl  successor.  It  is  a  principle 
essentially  the  same  which,  in  Eng- 
land, pronounces  a  Popish  prince  as 
devoid  of  hereditary  right  to  the  crown, 
as  a  bastard,  or  the  child  of  a  private 
marriage ;  and  by  which  the  heredi- 
tary blood,  shut  off  from  ito  natural 
course,  immediately  opens  some  auxi- 
liaiy  channel,  and  widens  it  into  the 
main  artery  of  succession,  with  all  the 
precision  of  similar  resources  in  phy- 
sical nature.  With  such  an  argument, 
if  I  understand  him,  the  Count  de 
Maistre  would  put  you  to  the  Mush 
for  sneering  sub  rosd  at  the  legitimacy 
of  your  Sovereign.  I  wish  his  prin- 
ciples were  always  as  arable  of  being 
put  to  the  proof,  without  any  absur- 
dity in  the  reduction.  Hereditary 
majesty  is  the  only  material  of  which 
constitutions  make  sovereigns;  and 
that,  too,  deserves  a  word  in  the  light 
which  this  sage  Piedmontese  Mentor 
of  France  has  endeavoured  to*  throw 
on  the  snbject.  It  is  interesting  in 
the  present  dilemma  of  France,  which 
stands  like  the  ass  between  two  hay- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


American  Thoughts  on  European  RevoluHons. 


stacks^rejecting  one  dynasty,  bat  not 

Set  choosing  another.  I  am  a  repub- 
can,  yon  know,  holding  that  my 
loyalty  is  due  to  the  constitntion  of 
my  own  conntry ;  and  yet  I  snbscribe 
to  the  doctrine  that  this  idea  of  ma- 
jesty is  a  reality,  and  that,  confess  it 
or  not,  even  republicans  feel  its  reality. 
17te  king's  name  is  a  tower  ofstrengm  ; 
and  inspiration  has  said  to  sovereign 
princes,  with  a  pregnant  and  monitory 
meaning— ye  art  gods.  .This  is  not 
the  fawning  of  courts,  bat  the  admo- 
nition of  Him  who  inyests  them  with 
His  sword  of  avenging  Justice,  and 
gives  them,  age  after  age,  the  natural 
homage  of  their  fellow -men.  Not 
that  I  would  flatter  monarchs :  I  see 
that  they  die  like  men^  and,  what  is 
worse,  live,  yery  often,  like  fools,  if  not 
like  beasts,  xet  I  am  sure  that  they 
have  something  about  them  which  is 
personally  theirs,  and  cannot  be  given 
to  others,  and  which  is  as  real  a  thing 
as  any  other  possession.  God  has 
endowed  them  with  history,  and  they 
are  the  living  links  which  connect 
nations  with  their  origin,  and  the 
men  of  the  passing  age  with  bygone 
generations.  Reason  about  it  as  we 
may,  it  is  impossible  not  to  look  with 
natural  reverence  on  the  breathing  mo- 
numents of  venerable  antiquity.  For 
a  Guelph,  indeed,  I  cannot  get  up  any 
false  or  romantic  enthusiasm;  and 
yet  I  find  it  quite  as  impossible  not 
to  feel  that  the  house  of  Guelph  en- 
titles its  royal  members  to  a  degree 
of  consideration  which  is  the  ordi- 
nance of  Heaven.  For  how  many 
ages  has  that  house  been  a  great  re- 
wtf,  casting  its  shadow  over  Europe, 
and  stretching  it  over  the  worid,  and 
as  absolutely  a£foctinff  the  destinies  of 
men  as  the  fl;eographical  barriers  and 
highways  of  nations  1  The  Alps  and 
the  Oceans  are  morally,  as  well  as 
naturally,  majestic ;  and  a  moral 
miyesty  like  theirs  attaches  to  a  line 
of  princes  which  has  stood  the  storms 
of  centuries  like  them,  and  like  them 
has  been  always  a  bulwark  or  a  bond 
between  races  and  generations.  Like 
the  solemnity  of  mountidns  is  the 
hereditary  mi^esty  of  a  family,  of 
which  the  onghi  is  veiled  in  the 
twilight  of  history,  but  which  is  always 
seen  above  the  surface  of  cotemporary 
events,  a  crowned  and  sceptred  thing 
that  never  dies,  but  perpetuates,  from 

VOL.  LXV.— NO.  CCCC. 


193 

generation  to  generation,  a  still  in- 
creasing emotion  of  sublimity  and 
awe,  which  all  men  feel,  and  none  can 
fully  understand.  There  are  many 
women  in  England  who,  for  personal 
qualities  and  graces,  would  as  well 
become  the  throne  as  she  whom  you  so 
Jl^ally  entitle  "Our  Sovereign  Lady." 
Why  is  it  that  no  election,  nor  any 
imaginable  possession  of  her  place, 
could  commend  the  proudest  or  the 
best  of  them  to  the  homage  of  the 
nation's  heart?  Such  a  one  might 
wear  the  robes,  and  glitter  like  a  star, 
outshining  the  regalia,  and  might 
walk  like  Juno ;  but  not  a  voice  would 
cry  Ood  save  her! — ^while  there  is  a 
glory,  not  to  be  mistaken,  which  in- 
vests the  daughter  of  ancient  sove- 
reigns, even  when  she  is  recognised, 
against  her  will,  in  the  costume  of 
travel,  or  when  she  shows  herself 
among  her  people,  and  treads  the 
heather  in  a  trim  little  bonnet  and 
a  Highland  plaid.  Why  is  it  that  ten 
thousand  fed  a  thrill  when  her  figure 
is  seen  descending  from  the  wooaen 
walls  of  her  empire,  and  alighting 
upon  some  long  unvisited  portion  of 
its  soil  ?  It  is  not  the  same  emotion 
which  would  be  inspired  by  the  landing 
of  Wellington.  Then  the  roaring  of 
cannon  and  the  waving  of  ensigns 
would  appear  to  be  a  tribute  rendered 
to  the  hero  by  a  gratefal  country ;  but 
when  her  M^esty  touches  the  shore, 
she  seems  herself  to  wake  the  thunders 
and  to  bow  the  banners  which  an- 
nounce her  eoming.  The  pomp  is  all 
her  own,  and  differs  from  the  tributary 
pageant,  as  the  nod  of  Jove  is  diff'erent 
from  the  acclamation  of  Stentor. 
Even  I,  who  "  owe  her  no  subscrip- 
tion," can  well  conceive  what  a  true 
Briton  cannot  help  but  feel,  when, 
with  an  ennobling  loyalty,  he  beholds 
in  hertheconcentrated  blood  of  famous 
kings,  and  the  propagated  soul  of 
mighty  monarchs ;  and  when  he  calls 
to  mind,  at  the  same  moment,  the 
thousand  strange  events  and  glorious 
histories  which  have  their  august 
and  venerable  issue  in  Victoria,  his 
queen. 

But  you  will  brinff  me  back  to  my 
main  business,  by  asking— who,  then, 
was  the  legitimate  king  of  France  at 
the  beginnmg  of  this  year?  The  King 
of  the  Barricades  was  not  lacking  in 
hereditary  majesty,  and  you  will  make 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


American  THovpto  on  European  RtvokHmu. 


194 

oviititBiR^oiconttihakmtddetigmxitkn^ 
hj  a  ptraUei  between  England  in 
1688,  and  f^ranee  in  1830.  K  you  do 
so,  yon  will  greatly  wrong  yonr  coun- 
try. The  loyalty  of  Enffiand  settled 
in  the  honse  of  Bninswi<^,  and  wonld 
haye  been  eren  leae  tried  if  there  had 
been  a  continuance  of  the  honse  of 
Orange;  bnt  no  French  loyalist  could 
ever  be  reconciled  to  ^e  dynasty  of 
Orleans.  And  why?  It  was  not  the 
natural  constitution  of  France,  bnt  the 
mere  blunder  of  a  mob,  that  selected 
Louis  Philippe  as  the  king  of  the 
French.  It  was  an  election,  as  the 
accession  of  William  and  Maiy  was 
not :  it  was  a  choice,  and  not  a  neces- 
sity— ^the  mere  ci^rice  of  the  hour, 
and  in  no  sense  the  rational  designa- 
tion of  law.  Did  erer  his  Barricade 
Majesty  himself,  in  all  his  dreams  of 
a  dynasty,  pretend  that  any  unalter- 
able principle,  or  fundamental  law  of 
France,  had  turned  the  tide  of  succes- 
sion from  the  heir-presumptiYe  of 
Charles  X.,  and  forced  heralds  upon 
the  backward  trail  of  genealogy, 
till  they  could  again  descend,  and  so 
find  the  hereditary  king  of  the  French 
in  thesonof  Egalit^?  Louis  Philippe 
was  not  legitimate,  in  any  reasonable 
sense  of  the  word ;  and,  could  he  have 
made  such  men  as  Chateaubriand  re- 
gard him  as  other  than  a  usurper,  he 
would  not  be  at  Claremont  now. 
That  splendid  Frenchman  uttered  the 
Toice  of  a  smothered,  but  not  extin- 
guished, constitution,  wjhen  he  closed 
his  political  life  in  1830,  by  saying  to 
the  Duchess  de  Berry-— ^^Madtme^votre 
JiU  est  mom  rai.*^  He  liyed  to  see  the 
secret  heart  of  thousands  of  his  coun- 
trymen repeating  his  memorable 
words,  and  died  not  till  Providence 
itself  had  overturned  the  rival  throne, 
and  directed  every  eye  in  hope,  or  in 
alarm,  to  the  only  prince  in  Europe 
who  could  claim  to  be  their  king. 

I  care  very  little  what  may  be  the 
personal  qualifications  of  Henry  of 
Bordeaux ;  it  seems  to  me  that  he 
is  destined  to  reign  upon  the  throne 
of  his  ancestors— and  God  grant  he 
may  do  it  in  such  wise  as  shall  make 
amends  for  all  that  France  has  suf- 
fered, by  reason  of  his  ancestors,  since 
France  had  a  Henry  ibr  her  king  be- 
fore 1  The  prestige  of  sovereignty  is 
his ;  and  while  be  lives,  no  republic 


[Feb. 


can  be  lasting;  no  goveniment,  save 
his,  can  insure  the  peace  which  the 
state  of  Europe  so  imperatively  de- 
mands. If  '^experience  has  taught 
En^^d  that  in  no  other  comrse  or 
method  than  that  of  an  hereditary 
crown  her  liberties  can  be  regulariy 
perpetuated  and  preservedsacred,"^ — 
why  should  not  an  experience,  a 
thousandfold  severer,  teach  France 
the  same  lesson?  It  has  already  been 
taught  them  by  a  genius  which  France 
cannot  desirise,  and  to  whose  oracular 
voice  she  is  now  forced  to  listen,  be- 
cause it  issues  from  his  fresh'  ^ve  I 
*^  Legitimacy  is  the  very  life  of 
France.  Invent,  calculate,  combine 
all  sorts  of  illegitimate  governments, 
you  will  find  nothing  else  possible  as 
the  result,  nothing  which  gives  any 
promise  of  duration,  of  tolerable  exis- 
tence during  a  course  of  years,  or  ev^ 
throng  severalmonths.  Legitima^^ 
is,  in  Europe,  the  sanctuary  in  whida 
alone  reposes  that  sovereignty  by 
which  states  subsist."  So  I  endeavour 
to  render  the  doquent  sentence  of 
Chateaubriand  ;t  and  though,  since  he 
wrote  it,  a  score  of  years  have  passed, 
it  is  stronger  now  than  ever— for  what 
was  then  his  prophecy  is  already  tiie 
deplorable  history  of  his  country. 
Had  ever  a  country  such  a  history, 
without  learning  more  in  a  year  than 
France  has  gained  from  a  miseraUe 
half-century? 

Just  so  long  as  France  has  been 
busy  with  experiments,  in  the  insane 
effort  to  separate  her  future  fr^m  her 
past,  just  so  long  have  all  her  labours 
to  lay  a  new  foundation  been  mise- 
rable failures,  covering  her,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  w(^d,  with  shame  and  infrymy. 
What  has  been  wanting  all  the  time? 
I  grant  that  the  first  want  has  been 
a  national  conscience — a  sense  of  re- 
ligion and  of  duty.  But  I  mean,  what 
has  been  wanting  to  the  successive 
administrations  and  governments? 
Certainly  not  ^endour  and  personal 
dignity,  for  the  Imperial  government 
had  both ;  and  the  King  of  the  Barri- 
cades made  himself  to  be  acknow- 
ledged and  foared  as  one  who  bore  not 
the  sword  in  vain.  But  the  prestige 
of  legitimacy  was  wanting ;  and  that 
want  has  been  the  downfrtU  of  eveir- 
thing  that  has  been  tried.  Yon  will 
ask,  what  was  tiie  downM  of  Chariea 


Buaxi. 


t  Memwr€9  wr  U  Dne  d§  Bmr^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


AMurktm  TlnmgkU  an  JEurCff&m  RwohdhtU. 


195 


X?  The  answer  is,  that  it  was 
not  a  down&U  farther  than  cob- 
oemed  himsdf ;  for  everybody  feeis 
that  the  Botirboa  claim  stmriyes,  while 
eveiy  other  has  been  forced  to  yield 
to  destuiyand  rekibnticMi.  How  is 
it  that  legitimacy  makes  itself  Mi 
after  years  of  exile  and  obscnrity?  Is 
it  not  that  instiiiflt  of  loyalty  which 
cannot  be  dnped  or  diyerted,  and 
which  detects  and  detests  all  shams  ? 
lait  not  titeinstinct  which  constitntion- 
makers  hare  endeayoored  to  appease 
by  pageants  and  by  names^  bat  whidi 
has  continaally  reydted  against  the 
emptiness  of  both?  The  existence  of 
that  instinct  has  been  perpetoally  ex- 
posed by  miserable  attempts  to  satisfy 
Its  demands  with  outside  show  and 
i^lendid  impotttions.  The  French 
cannot  even  go  to  work,  nnder  their 
msent  r^nblic,  as  we  do  hi  America. 
The  common-sense  of  oar  people 
teaches  them  thata  repablican  goyem- 
ment  is  a  mere  matter  of  bosiness, 
whidimostmakeno  pretences  to  splen- 
dour ;  and  hence,  the  constitution  once 
settled,  the  president  is  elected  and 
swora-in  with  no  nonsense  or  parade; 
and  Mr  Cindnnatas  Pdk  sits  down 
in  the  White  House,  and  sends  eyory 
maa  about  his  business.  A  young 
country  has  as  jret  but  the  instincts  of 
inEaney;  there  is  as  yet  nothing  to 
satisfy  but  the  crayiiur  for  nourish- 
ment, and  the  demand  for  large  room. 
But  it  is  not  so  where  nations  are  fall- 
grown.  Ckm  9  wiiaid  forget  her  ontO' 
maUs^  or  a  bride  her  attire  f  Can 
France  fbrget  that  she  had  once  a 
court  and  a  throne  that  daasled  the 
world?  No  1  says  eyeiy  craftsman  of 
the  reydution;  and  therefore  our 
repubiio,  too,  must  be  splendid  and 
imperial!  6o,  instead  of  going  to  work 
as  if  their  new  constitution  were  a 
reaHty,  there  must  be  a  f3te  of  inaugu- 
ration. Inthesameconyiction,Napo- 
Iwa  is  nominated  fbr  the  presidency, 
beeauae  he  has  a  name ;  and  he  im- 
mediately withdraws  from  yulgar 
eyes,  to  keep  his  ^'presence  like  a 
robe  pontifical,*'  against  the  inyesti- 
tnre.  Oh,  fbr  aomt  Yankee  farmer 
to  look  on  and  lau^  I  It  would  not 
take  him  kmg  to  calotUate  the  end  of 
sucharqmbfio.  Jonathan  can  under- 
stand a  queen,  and  would  stare  at  a 
eonmatkmin  sober  earnest,  conyinced 
that  it  had  a  meaning—at  least,  in 
£Bgla&d!    Birt  a  r^d^  of  kettle- 


drums and  trumpets  will  neyer  do  with 
him;  and  if  he  were  fkyoured  with  an 
inteiyiew  with  the  pompous  aspirant 
to  the  French  presidency,  it  would 
probably  end  in  his  telling  Louis  Na- 
poleon the  homely  truth— that  he  has 
nothing  to  be  proud  of,  and  had  better 
eat  and  drink  like  other  folk,  and 
^^  define  his  position  "  as  a  candidate, 
if  he  don't  want  to  find  himself  iMecf- 
tg^,  and  sent  on  a  long  yoyage  up 
Salt  Biyer;  which,  you  may  not 
know,  my  Basil,  is  a  Stygian  stream, 
and  the  andents  called  it  Lethe.  So 
much,  then,  Ibr  the  uUima  ratio  of 
illegilimate  goyemmentfr—the  attempt 
to  satisfy  the  demand  for  national 
dignity  by  pageants  and  by  names, 
and  to  drown  Ae  outcries  of  natural 
discontent  by  the  sounding  of  brass 
and  the  tinkling  of  cymbals. 

In  yain  did  the  sage  Piedmontese 
foretell  it  all,  like  a  Cassandra.  '<Mait 
is  prohibited,"  said  that  admirable 
Mentctf,  ^^  from  giying  great  names  to 
tilings  of  which  he  is  tiie  author,  and 
whicn  he  thinks  great ;  but  if  he  has 
proceeded  legit$iatdy,  the  yulgar 
names  of  things  wHl  be  rendered  illus- 
trious, and  become  grand."  How 
specially  does  England  answer  to  the 
latter  half  of  this  maxim  I  and  who 
can  read  the  fixmer  without  seeinjg 
France,  in  her  foolVcap,  before  his 
mental  eye?  De  Malstre  himself  has 
instanced  the  rey(^ti<mary  follies  of 
Paris,  and  lashed  them  with  unsparing 
seyenty.  Whateyer  is  nati<mal  in 
England  seems  to  haye  grown  up,  like 
her  oaks,  fix>m  deep  and  strong  roots, 
and  to  stand,  like  them,  immoyable. 
They  make  their  own  associations, 
cmd  dignify  their  ownnamee.  Eyery- 
thlng  is  home-bom,  natural,  and  reaL 
The  Garter,  the  Wool-sack,  Hyde 
Park,  Bpsom  and  Aseot--these  things 
in  FnuMe  would  be  the  Legion  of 
Honour^  the  CuruU-ckair^  the  Efysian 
,fidde^  Hie  Oiyn^  games  I  Theyeri- 
table  attempt  was  made  toreinstitute, 
in  the  Champ-de^Mars,  the  sports  of 
antiquity;    and   they   receiyed    the 

Cpous  name  ofLesJetm  Ofyn^nques^ 
iiaiBire  ridicules  thefar  nothinmess, 
and  adds  that,  when  he  saw  a  bufldlng 
erected  and  called  the  Od^  he  was 
sure  that  music  was  hi  its  decline, 
and  that  tiie  place  would  shortly  be  to 
let.  In  like  manner,  he  says  of  the 
motto  of  Rousseau,  with  intense  not- 
vote,  ^^Does  any  man  dare  to  write 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


19G  American  ThoughU  on 

under  his  own  ^TtrzXtyVitamimpendere 
veto  t  You  may  wager,  without  fur- 
ther information,  fearlessly,  that  it  is 
the  likeness  of  a  liar."  How  quick 
the  human  heart  perceives  what  is 
thus  put  into  words  by  a  philosopher! 
It  is  m  vain  for  France  to  think  of 
covering  her  nakedness  with  a  showy 
veil.  The  Empire  was  a  glittering 
gauze,  but  how  transparent!  They 
saw  one  called  Emperor  and  a  second 
Charlemagne;  and  the  Pope  himself 
was  there  to  give  him  a  crown«  But 
it  was  a  meagre  cheat.  Poor  Josephine 
never  looked  ridiculous  before,  but 
then  she  acted  nonsense.  The  impe- 
rial robes  were  gorgeous,  but  they 
meant  nothing  on  the  Citizen  Buona- 
parte. Everybody  saw  behind  the 
scenes.  They  detected  Talma  in  the 
stmt  of  Napoleon;  they  pointed  at 
the  wires  that  moved  the  hands  and 
eyes  of  the  Pope.  All  stage-effect, 
machineiy,  and  pasteboard.  The  im- 
perial court  was  all  what  children  call 
make-beUece :  it  vanished  like  the 
sport  of  children. 

The  great  feast  of  firatemity,  hist 
spring,  was,  on  de  Maostre's  principles, 
the  natural  harbinger  of  that  frater- 
nal massacre  in  June ;  and  the  inef- 
fectual attempt  to  be  festive  over  the 
late  inauguration  of  Uie  constitution, 
has  but  one  redeeming  feature  to  pre- 
vent a  corresponding  augury  of  dis- 
aster. Its  miserable  failure  makes  it 
possible  that  the  constitution  will  sur- 
vive its  anniversaiy.  Then  there  will 
be  a  demonstration,  at  any  rate,  and 
then  the  thine  wHl  be  superannuated. 
Since  1790,  ttiere  has  been  no  end  to 
such  glorifications ;  each  chased  and 
huzzaM,  in  turn,  by  a  nation  of  full- 
grown  childFen,  and  all  hollow  and 
transient  as  bubbles.  Perpetual  be- 
ginnings, every  one  warranted  to  be 
no  foMUTt  this  time^  and  each  ffoing 
out  in  a  stench.  What  contmnu 
Champs-de-Mars  and  Champs  de^ 
Mai!  what  wavings  of  new  flags,  and 
scattering  of  fresh  flowers !  and  all 
endinff  in  confessed  Mure,  and  bedn- 
ning  the  same  thing  over  again!  **r^o- 
thing  ffreat  has  great  be^nnhigs  "— 
saysMiMitoragahi.  "History  shows  no 
exception  to  this  rule.  Cresdt  occulto 
vehu  arbor  <bvo^ — this  Is  the  immortal 
device  of  every  great  histitution.'* 

Legitimacy  never  makes  such  mis'> 
takes,  except  when  permitted  by  God, 
to  accomplish   its   own  temporary 


European  Revokttions.  [Feb. 

abasement.  It  needs  not  to  support 
itself  by  tricks  and  shams.  It  has  a 
creative  power  which  dignifies  every- 
thing it  touches;  which  often  turns 
its  own  occasions  into  festivals,  but 
makes  no  festivals  on  purpose  to 
dignify  itself.  When  Henry  V.  is 
crowned  at  Rheims,  or  at  Notre- 
Dame,  he  will  not  send  over  the  Alps 
for  Pio  NonOy  nor  consult  Savons  to 
learn  how  CsBsar  should  be  attired 
that  day.  That  youth  may  safely 
dispense  with  all  superfluous  pag- 
eantry, for  he  is  not  new  Charlemagne, 
but  M  Charlemagne.  The  blood  of 
the  Cariovinsians  has  come  down  to 
him  frx>m  Isabellaof  Hainault,  through 
St  Louis  and  Henry  IV.  Cha- 
teaubriand should  not  have  forgotten 
this,  when  (speaking  of  this  princess 
unfortunate  father,  the  Duke  de 
Berry)  he  enthusiastically  sketched  a 
thousand  years  of  Capetian  glory, 
and  cried — ^'  He  Men  /  la  revohuian  a 
livri  tout  cela  au  couteau  de  Louod? ' 
Another  revolution  has  thus  fur  re- 
legated the  same  substantial  dignity 
to  exile  and  obscurity,  as  if  France 
could  afford  to  lose  its  past,  and  b^nn 
again,  as  an  infant  of  days,  fiut 
besides  the  evident  tendency  of  things 
to  reaction,  there  is  something  about 
the  legitimate  king  of  France  which 
looks  like  destiny.  He  was  announced 
to  the  kingdom  by  the  dying  lips  of 
his  murdered  shre,  while  yet  unborn, 
as  if  the  fate  of  empire  depended  on 
hisbirth.  ^^Minagex-vous^pourVenfant 
que  vous  portez  dans  voire  sein^^*  said 
the  unhappy  man  to  his  duchess,  and 
the  group  of  bystanders  was  startled ! 
It  was  the  first  that  France  heard  of 
Henry  the  Fifth,  and  it  seemed  to  in- 
spire Chateaubriand  with  the  spirit 
of  prophecy,  and  he  eloquently  re- 
marks upon  it  as  a  dermh-e  esperance. 
"  The  dying  prince,"  he  says,  '^seemed 
to  bear  wiw  him  a  whole  monarchy, 
and  at  the  same  moment  to  announce 
another.  Oh  God!  and  is  our  sal- 
vation to  spring  out  of  our  ruin  ?  Has 
the  cruel  aeath  of  a  son  of  France 
been  ordained  in  anger,  or  in  mercy? 
is  it  a  final  restoration  of  ^  legitimate 
throne^  or  the  downfall  of  dte  en^e 
ofdovisV^  This  grand  question  now 
hangs  in  suspense :  but,  as  I  said, 
Chateaubriand  nrast  have  taken  cou- 
rage before  he  died,  and  inwardly 
aiiswered  it  fiivourably.  That  great 
writer  seems  to  have  felt  beforehand, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


American  Thoughts  an  European  Revohitions. 


for  his  cotmtiymen,  the  loyalty  to 
which  they  will  probably  return.  To 
the  prince  he  stood  as  a  sort  of  spon- 
sor n>r  the  fntore.  When  the  royal 
babe  was  bapUsed,  he  presented 
water  from  the  Jordan,  in  which  the 
last  hope  of  legitimacy  received  the 
name  of  Dieu-donnd:  when  Charles 
the  Tenth  was  dethroned,  ho  stood 
up  for  the  young  king,  and  consented 
to  fall  with  his  exdosion ;  and  the 
last  years  of  Francois  greatest  senilis 
were  a  consbtent  confessorshlp  for 
that  legitimacy  with  which  he  be- 
liered  tne  prosperity  of  his  country 
indissolubly  bonnd.  Now,  I  shonld 
like  to  ask  a  French  republican— If  I 
could  find  a  sane  one, — ^what  would 
you  wish  to  do  with  Henry  of  Bor- 
deaux? Would  you  wish  this  heir 
of  your  old  histories  to  renounce  his 
birth-right,  declare  legitimacy  an  im- 
position, and  undertake  to  settle 
down  in  Paris  as  one  of  the  p^ple? 
Why  not,  if  yon  are  all  republicans, 
and  see  no  more  in  a  prince  than  in  a 
gamin  f  Why  should  not  this  Henry 
Capet  throw  up  his  cap  for  the  con- 
stitution, and  stkk  up  a  tradesman's 
sign  in  the  Place  de  la  Revolution,  as 
"  Henry  Capet,  par/umeur  V  Why 
not  let  him  hire  a  shop  in  the  lower 
stories  of  the  Palais  Boyal  and  teach 
the  Parisians  better  manners  than  to 
<mt  off  his  head,  by  devoting  himself 
to  shaving  their  beards  ?  Everybody 
knows  the  reason  why  not ;  and  that 
reason  shows  the  reality  of  legitimacy. 
Niffht  and  dav  such  a  shop  would  be 
mobbed  by  friends  and  foes  alike. 
€r0  where  he  might,  the  parfumeur 
would  be  pointed  at  by  fingers,  and 
aimed  at  by  hrgnettes^  and  bored  to 
death  by  a  rabble  of  starers,  who 
would  insist  upon  it  that  he  was  the 
hereditary  lord  of  France.  Mankind 
-cannot  free  themselves  frx)m  such  im- 
pressions, and,  what  is  more  conclu- 
sive, princes  cannot  free  themselves 
from  the  impressions  of  mankind,  or 
undertake  to  live  like  other  men,  as 
if  historv  and  genealogy  were  not 
facts.  For  weal  or  for  woe,  they  are 
as  unchangeable  as  the  leopard  with 
his  spots.  Let  Henry  Ci^t  come  to 
America,  and  try  to  be  a  republican 
with  us.  Our  very  wild-cats  would 
4i8serttheirinalienablerightto*4ook  at 
4iking,*'  and  hewould  certainly  be  torn 
to  pieces  by  good-natured  curiosity. 
it  is  curious  to  see  the  natural 


197 

instinct  amusing  itself,  forthe  present, 
with  such  a  mere  nomtnis  umbra  as 
Louis  Napoleon.  In  some  way  or 
other  the  hereditary  prestige  must  be 
created ;  nothing  less  is  satisfactory, 
and  the  *4mperial  fetishism"  will 
answer  very  well  till  something  more 
substantialis found  necessary.  Hichard 
Cromwell  was  necessary  to  Charles 
n.,  and  so  is  Louis  Napoleon  to 
Henry  V.  Napoleon  still  seems  cap- 
able of  giving  France  a  dynasty ;  this 
possibility  wUl  be  soon  extinguished 
by  the  incapability  of  his  representa- 
tive. Louis  will  reign  long  enough 
to  exhibit  that  recompense  to  Jo- 
sephine, in  the  person  of  her  grandson, 
which  heaven  delights  to  allot  to  a 
repudiated  wife;  and  then,  for  his 
own  sake,  he  will  be  called  cogutn 
taidpokron.  Napoleon  will  take  his 
historical  position  as  an  individual, 
haviuff  no  remaining  hold  on  France ; 
and  the  imperial  fetishism  will  be 
ignominiously  extinguished.  Richard 
Cromwell  made  a  very  decent  old 
English  gentleman,  and  Louis  Napo- 
leon may  perhaps  end  his  days  as 
respectably,  in  some  out-of-the-way 
comer  of  Corsica.  Let  me  again 
quote  the  French  Mentor.  He  says, 
"  There  never  has  existed  a  royal 
family  to  whom  a  plebeian  origin  could 
be  assigned.  Men  may  say,  if  Richard 
CromweU  had  possessed  the  genius  of 
his  father,  he  would  have  fixed  the 
protectorate  in  his  family ;  which  is 
precisely  the  same  thing  as  to  say — 
if  thb  family  had  not  ceased  to  reign, 
it  would  reign  still."  Here  is  the 
formula  that  will  suit  the  case  of  Louis 
Napoleon ;  but  future  historians  will 
moralise  upon  the  manner  in  which 
Napoleon  himself  worked  out  his 
own  destruction.  For  the  sake  of  a 
dynasty,  he  puts  away  poor  Josephine. 
The  King  of  Rome  is  bom  to  him,  but 
his  throne  is  taken.  The  royal  youth 
perishes  in  early  manhood,  and  men 
find  Napoleon^s  only  representative 
in  the  issue  of  the  repudiated  wife. 
Her  grandson  comes  to  power,  and 
holds  it  long  enough  to  make  men 
say— how  much  better  it  might  have 
b^n  with  Napoleon  had  he  kept  his 
faith  to  Josephine,  and  contentedly 
taken  as  his  heir  the  child  in  whom 
Providenoe  has  revealed  at  last  his 
only  chance  of  continuing  his  family 
on  a  throne !  It  makes  one  thing  of 
Scripture,  "  Yet  ye  say  wherefore  ? 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


198 


AMttncun  jtnsvgias  on  EUT9pt&ti  BctwuitMB* 


[Feb. 


because  the  Lord  hatii  been  witness 
between  thee  and  the  wife  of  thj 
jonth,  against  whom  them  hast  dealt 
treacheronsi J ;  ....  therefore  take 
heed  to  your  sfmit,  and  let  none  deal 
treacherondy  agah^t  the  wife  of  his 
jonth,  for  the  Ix>rd,  the  God  of  Israel, 
saith  that  he  hateth  patting  away.' 

A  traveller  from  the  sooth  of  France 
says  that  he  saw  eveiywhere  the  por- 
trait of  Henry  Y.  Besides  the  myste- 
rious hold  whidi  legitimacy  keeps  npon 
tiie  ynlgar  and  the  polite  alike,  there 
are  associations  with  it  which  operate 
on  idl  classes  of  men.  Tradesmen  and 
manufacturers  are  for  legitimacy,  be- 
cause they  love  peace,  and  want  to 
make  money.  The  raturiers  soon^ 
or  later  learn  the  misery  of  mobs,  and 
the  loTC  of  change  makes  them  willing 
to  welcome  home  the  king,  especially 
as  they  mistake  their  own  hearts,  and 
flatter  themselves  that  their  sudden 
loyalty  is  proof  of  remaining  virtue. 
Then  the  profligate  and  abandoned, 
they  want  a  monarchy,  in  hopes  of 
another  riot  in  the  palace.  It  may 
be  doubted  whether  the  blouses  can 
be  permanently  contented  without  a 
king  to  curse.  The  national  anthem 
cannot  be  sung  with  any  spirit,  unless 
there  be  a  monarch  who  can  be 
imagined  to  hear  all  its  imprecations 
against  tyrants:  in  fact,  the  king 
must  come  back,  if  only  to  make  sense 
of  the  Marseilles  Hymn. 

Que  Teat  cette  horde  d^esclares, 
De  trftitres,  de  rois  coDJiir6s  ? 

Pour  qui  cet  ignobles  entravet. 
Get  fen,  d^  long-tenu  pr^guu-^  ? 

What  imaginable  sense  is  there  in 
singing  these  red-hot  verses  at  a  feast 
of  fraternity,  and  in  honour  of  the  ftdl 
possession  of  absolute  liberty  ?  Then, 
where  is  the  sport  of  clubs,  and  the 
exdtement  of  conspiracies,  if  there's 
no  king  to  execrate  within  locked 
doors  ?  Is  Paris  to  have  no  more  of 
those  nice  little  emeutest  What's  to 
be  done  with  the  genius  that  delights 
in  infernal  machines?  Who's  to  be 
fired  at  in  a  glass  coach  ?  Everybody 
knows  that  Cavaignacs  and  Lamar- 
tines  are  small  game  fmr  such  sport. 
Tour  true  assassin  must  have,  at  least, 
a  duke  of  the  blood.  These  are  con- 
siderations which  must  have  their 
weight  In  deciding  upon  pn^bilitles; 
though,  for  one,  I  am  not  sure  but 
France  is  doomed,  by  retributive 
justice,  to  be  thus  the  Tantalus  <xf 


nations,  steeped  to  the  neck  fai  lO^erty^ 
but  forbidden  to  drink,  with  kings 
hanging  over  them  to  pixrroke  Uie  eye^ 
and  yet  escaping  the  hand. 

In  1796  de  Maistre  publLAed  his 
Considerations  sur  ia  France,  They 
deserve  to  be  reproduced  for  the  pre- 
sent age.  Kothmg  can  surpass  the 
cool  ccmtempt  of  the  philosophicid 
reacHonnaire^  or  the  confidence  with 
which,  from  his  knowledge  of  the  past, 
he  pronounces  oracles  for  the  fritnre. 
Do  you  ask  how  Henry  V.  is  to  re- 
cover his  rights?  In  ten  thousand 
imaginable  ways.  See  what  Cavug- 
nac  might  have  done  last  July,  had 
the  time  been  ripe  for  another  Monk  t 
There's  but  one  way  to  keep  legiti- 
macy out ;  it  comes  in  as  water  enters 
a  leaky  ship,  oozing  through  seams, 
and  gushing  throng  cradks,  whete 
nobody  dreuned  of  suc^  a  thing.  As 
long  as  even  a  tolerable  pretender 
survives,  a  popular  government  must 
be  kept  in  perpetual  alarm.  But  you 
shall  hear  the  Count,  my  Basil !  Let 
me  give  you  a  free  translation. 

'^  In  speculating  about  counter-re^ 
volutions,  we  often  fall  into  the  mistake 
of  taking  it  for  granted  that  such 
reactions  can  only  be  the  result  of 
popular  deliberation.  Tke  people  wonH 
auow  it,  it  is  said;  they  wiU  never  con- 
sent ;itis  against  the  popular  feetmg. 
Ah  1  is  it  possible  ?  The  people  just 
go  for  nothing  in  such  aflairs ;  at  most 
tiiey  are  a  passive  instrumrat.  Four 
or  ^YQ  persons  may  give  France  a 
king.  It  shall  be  announced  to  the 
provinces  that  the  king  is  restored  : 
up  go  their  hats,  and  vive  le  roif 
Even  in  Paris,  the  inhabitants,  save 
a  score  or  so,  shall  know  notMng  of 
it  till  they  wake  up  son^  morning  and 
learn  that  they  have  a  king.  '  Est-il 
possible V  will  be  the  cry:  */«w  very 
singular!  What  street  will  he  pats 
through  t  l^s  engage  a  umdow  m 
good  time,  there^U  be  such  a  horrid 
crowd  P  I  tell  you  the  people  will 
have  nothing  mcnre  to  do  with  re- 
establishing the  monarchy,  than  they 
have  had  in  establishing  the  revolu- 
tionary government!  ....  At  the 
first  hlnsAi  one  would  say,  undoubtedly, 
that  the  previous  consent  of  the  French 
is  necessary  to  the  restoration ;  but 
nothing  is  more  absurd.  Come,  well 
crop  the<H7,  and  imagine  certain 
facts. 

"  A  courier  passes  through  Bor- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1M9.]  Americati  Thtm§kU  cm 

deaoz,  Nantes,  Ljoob,  ftndsoenrcwif, 
teUing  everybodj  that  the  king  is 
proclaimed  at  Paris ;  that  a  certain 
party  has  seised  the  reins,  and  has 
declared  that  it  holds  the  goyemment 
0^7  in  the  king^s  name,  having  des- 
patdied  an  express  for  his  miyesty, 
idM>  is  expected  eveiy  minnte,  and 
that  er^ry  one  mounts  the  white 
eockade.  Bmnonr  catches  np  the 
story,  and  adds  a  thousand  imposing 
details.  What  next  ?  To  giye  the  re- 
public the  fairest  diance,  let  us  sup- 
pose it  to  have  the  favour  of  a  majo- 
rity, and  to  be  defended  by  republican 
troops.  At  first  these  troops  shall 
blnster  very  loudly ;  but  dinner-time 
will  come;  the  fellowB  must  eat, 
and  away  goes  their  fidelity  to  a 
cause  that  no  bi^^  promises  ra- 
tions, to  say  nothi]^  of  pay.  Then 
your  discontented  cfq>tains  and  lieu- 
tenants, knowing  that  they  have  no- 
thing to  lose,  begin  to  consider  how 
easily  they  can  make  somethkig  of 
themselves,  b^  bemg  the  first  to  set 
ip  FvM-fe-nn/  Each  one  begins  to 
draw  his  own  portrait,  most  bewitch- 
inglv  coloured;  looking  down  in  soom 
on  the  republican  ofllcerB  who  so  lately 
knocked  him  abont  with  contempt; 
his  breast  biasing  with  decorations, 
and  his  name  diq;>Tayed  as  that  of  an 
officer  of  His  Most  Christian  Majesty ! 
Ideas  so  single  and  natural  will  w<n^ 
in  the  brams  of  such  a  class  of  persons: 
they  all  think  them  over ;  every  one 
knows  what  his  neighbour  thinks,  and 
they  all  eye  one  another  suspidously. 
Fear  and  distrust  follow  first,  and 
then  jealousy  and  coolness.  The  com- 
mon soldier,  no  longer  inspired  by  his 
commander,  is  still  more  discouraged; 
and,  as  if  by  witchcraft,  tibe  bonds  of 
discipline  all  at  once  receive  an  in- 
comprehensible blow,  and  are  in- 
stantly dissolved.  One  begins  to 
hq>e  for  the  speedy  arrival  of  his 
mi^esty's  paymaster;  another  takes 
the  favourable  c^portunity  to  de- 
sort  and  see  his  wife.  There^s  no 
head,  no  tail,  and  no  more  any  sucti 
thingas  trying  to  hold  together. 

''The  afifair takes  another  turn  with 
the  populace.  They  push  about 
hither  and  thither,  knocking  one  an- 
odier  outof  breath,  and  asking  all  sorts 
of  questions ;  no  <me  knows  what  he 
wants ;  hours  are  wasted  in  hesitation, 
and  every  minnte  does  the  businesa. 
Daring  is  everywhere  confronted  by 


AcnyMon  i2eiM>lMlKMW. 


199 


caution ;  the  old  man  lacks  decision) 
the  lad  epoils  lUl  by  indiscretion ;  and 
the  case  stands  thus,  — one  msi^  get 
into  trouble  by  resisting,  but  he  that 
keeps  quiet  may  be  rowarded,  and 
will  certainly  get  ofif  without  damage. 
As  for  making  a  demonstration  — 
whero  18  the  means?  Who  are  the 
leaders?  Whom  can  ye  trust?  There's 
no  danger  in  keeping  still ;  the  least 
motion  may  get  one  into  trouble. 
Next  day  comes  news — wck  a  town 
has  opened  its  gates.  Another  induce- 
ment to  hold  back !  Soon  this  news 
turns  out  to  be  a  lie ;  but  it  has  been 
believed  long  enough  to  determine 
two  other  towns,  who,  supposing  that 
they  only  follow  such  example,  present 
themselves  at  the  gates  ci  the  first 
town  to  (^er  their  submission.  This 
town  had  never  dreamed  oi  such  a 
thing ;  but,  seeing  such  an  example, 
resolves  to  fall  hot  with  it.  Soon  it 
flies  about  that  Monsieur  the  mayor 
has  presented  to  his  majesty  the  keys 
of  his  good  dty  of  Quaquechose^  and 
was  the  first  officer  who  had  the  ho- 
nour to  receive  him  within  a  garrison 
of  his  kingdom.  His  Majes^ — of 
course — made  him  a  marshal  of  France 
on  the  spot.  Ohl  enviable  brevet  I 
aninmaoital  name,  and  a  scutcheon 
everlastingly  blooming  Yfithfleurs-de- 
Us!  The  royalist  tide  fills  up  eveiy 
moment,  and  soon  carries  all  before  it. 
Vwe-k-rai!  shouts  out  long-smothered 
loyalty,  overwhelmed  with  transports : 
Vwe-U-roil  chokes  out  hypocritical 
democracy,  frantic  with  terror.  No 
matter  1  there's  but  one  cry ;  and  his 
Miyesty  is  crowned,  and  has  aU  the 
rofjiai  makings  of  a  king.  This  is  the 
way  counter-revolutions  come  about. 
€rod  having  reserved  to  himself  the 
formation  of  sovereignties,  lets  us  learn 
the  foot,  from  observing  that  He  never 
commits  to  tlM  multitude  the  choioe 
of  its  masters.  He  only  employs  thern^ 
in  those  grand  movements  which  de- 
cide the  fate  of  empires,  as  passive 
instruments.  Never  do  they  get  what 
they  want:  they  always  take;  they 
never  choose.  There  is,  if  one  may 
so  speak,  an  artifice  of  Providence,  l^ 
which  the  means  which  a  people  take 
to  gain  a  certain  olHect,  are  precisely 
thcMO  which  Proviaence  employs  to 
put  it  from  them.  Hius,  thinking  to 
abase  the  aristocracy  by  hurrahing  for 
Caesar,  the  Bomans  got  themselves 
masters.    It  is  just  so  with  all  popu- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


'200  American  Thoughts  on 

lar  insmrectioDS.  In  the  French 
revolation  the  people  have  been  per- 
petually handcuffed,  outraged,  be- 
trayed, and  torn  to  pieces  by  factions; 
and  factions  themselves,  at  the  mercy 
of  each  other,  have  only  risen  to  take 
their  turn  in  being  dashed  to  atoms. 
To  know  in  what  the  revolution  will 
probably  end,  find  first  in  what  points 
all  the  revolutionary  factions  are 
agreed.  Do  they  unite  in  hating 
Christianity  and  monarchy?  Very 
well !  The  end  will  be,  that  both  will 
be  the  more  firmly  established  in  the 
earth." 

Cool,  certainly;  is  it  not,  my  Basil? 
The  legitunists  are  the  only  French- 
men who  can  keep  cool,  and  bide  their 
time.  Chateaubriand  has  observed, 
in  the  same  spirit,  that  there  is  a 
hidden  power  which  often  makes  war 
with  powers  that  are  visible,  and  that 
a  secret  government  was  always  fol- 
lowing dose  upon  the  heels  of  the 
public  governments  that  succeeded 
•each  other  between  the  murder  of 
Louis  XVI.  and  the  restoration  of 
the  Bourbons.  This  hidden  power  he 
calls  the  eternal  reason  of  things;  the 
justice  of  God,  which  interferes  in 
human  afiairs  just  in  proportion  as 
men  endeavour  to  banish  and  drive  it 
from  them.  It  is  evident  that  the 
whole  force  of  de  Maistre's  pro- 
phecy was  owing  to  his  religious  con- 
fidence in  this  divine  interference. 
He  wrote  in  1796.  That  year  the 
career  of  Napoleon  began  at  Montc- 
notte ;  and,  for  eighteen  years  sue- 
ceeding,  every  day  seemed  to  make 
it  less  and  less  probable  that  his  pre- 
dictions could  be  verified.  The 
Bourbon  star  was  lost  in  the  sun  of 
Austerlitz.  The  Republic  itself  was 
forgotten ;  the  Pope  inaugurated  the 
Empire ;  Austria  gave  him  a  princess, 
to  be  the  mould  of  a  dynasty,  and  the 
source  of  a  new  legitimacy.  France 
was  peopled  with  a  generation  that 
never  knew  the  Bourlxins,  and  which 
was  dazzled  with  the  genius  of  Napo- 
leon, and  the  splendour  of  his  impe- 
rial government.  But  the  time  came 
for  this  puissance  occulte^  cette  justice 
du  del!  When  the  Allies  entered 
Paris  in  1814,  it  was  suggested  to 
Napoleon  that  the  Bourbons  would 
be  restored ;  and,  with  all  his  sagacity, 
he  made  the  very  mistake  which  de 


European  RevohUions.  [Feb. 

Maistre  had  foreshown,  and  said,  in 
almost   his   very   words — "  Never ! 
nine-tenths  of  the  people  are  irrecon- 
cilably against  it  1"    One  can  almost 
hear  what  might  have  been  the  Count^s 
reply — ^^  Qudle  pitUl  Is  peuple  n'est 
pour  rien  dans  les  revolutions.    Quatre 
ou  cinq  personnes^  peut'Ctre,  donneront 
un  roi  h  la  France.^^    What  could 
Talleyrand  tell  about    that?     The 
facts  were,  that   in   four  days  tho 
Bourbons  were  all  the  ragel    The 
Place  Venddme  could  hardly  hold  the 
mob   that   raved  about  Napoleon's 
statue ;  and,  with  ropes  and  pulleys, 
they  were  straining  every  sinew  to 
drag  it  to  the  ground,  when  it  was 
taken  under  the  protection  of  Alex- 
ander!*   What  next?    In  terror  for 
his  very  life,  this  Napoleon  flies  to 
Frejus,  now  sneaking  out  of  a  back- 
window,  and  now  riding  po^t,  as  a 
common  courier,  actually  saving  him- 
self by  wearing  the  white  cockade 
over  his  raging  breast,  and  all  the 
time  cursmg  his  dear  French  to  Tar- 
tarus !   A  British  vessel  gives  him  hia 
only  asylum,  and  the  salute  he  re- 
ceives from  a  generous  enemy  is  all 
that  reminds  him  what  he  once  had 
been  in  France.    Meantime  these  de- 
tested Bourbons  are  welcomed  home 
again,  with  De  Maistre's  own  varieties 
of  Vive-le-roil    The  Duke  d*Angou- 
leme,  advancing  to  the  capital,  sees 
the  silver  lilies  dandng  above  the 
spires    of    Bordeaux:    the    Count 
d'Artois  hails  the   same  tokens  at 
Nancy:  not  captains  and  lieutenants, 
but  generals  and  marshals,  rush  to 
receive  His  Most  Christian  Majesty : 
and  the  successor  of  the  butchered 
Louis  XVI.  comes  to  his  palace,  after 
an  exile  of  twenty  years,  with  the 
title  of  Louis  the  Desured !    Nor  are 
subsequent    events  anything    more 
than  the  swinging  of  a  i>endnlum, 
which  must  eventually  subside  into  a 
plummet.    If  tho  first  disaster  of  Na- 
poleon, in  the  fulness  of  his  strength, 
could  make  France  welcome  her  lea- 
timacy  in  1814,  why  should  not  the 
imbecility  of  the  mere  shadow  of  his 
name  produce  a  stronger  revulsion 
before  this  century  gains  its  meridian? 
There  is  a  residuary  fulfilment  of  de 
Maistre's  augury,  which  remains  to 
the  Bourbons,  when  all  of  Napoleon 
that  survives  has  found  its  ignomi- 


*  AuaoN. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


American  Th<mght$  an  European  Revolutions. 


201 


Dions  extinction.  Tlien  will  the  ripe 
fimit  fall  into  the  lap  of  one  who,  if 
he  is  wise,  will  make  the  French  for- 
get his  kindred  with  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  Lonises,  and  remember 
onlj  that  Henry  of  Bordeaux  has 
before  him  the  example  of  Henry  of 
Nayarre. 

There  is,  indeed,  another  conceiv- 
able end.  CTest  Varrii  que  le  del  pro- 
nonce  e/^ftn  contre  lee  peuplee  sane 
Jugement,  ef  rebeHes  h  r experience,* 
If  France  does  not  soon  come  back  to 
reason,  we  shall  be  forced  to  think 
her  given  np  of  God,  to  become  snch 
a  country  as  (jermany,  or  perhaps  as. 
miserable  as  Spain.  But  we  must 
not  be  too  hasty  in  coming  to  con* 
dnsions  so  deplorable.  Let  the  re- 
public have  its  day.  It  will  work  its 
own  cure;  for  the  chastisement  of 
France  must  be  the  curse  of  ancient 
Judah.  ''The  people  shall  be  op- 
pressed, eveiT  one  bv  another,  and 
every  one  by  his  neighbour ;  the  child 
shall  behave  himself  proudly  against 
the  andent^  and  the  base  agidnst  the 
honourable.**  For  the  mob  of  Paris, 
who  got  drunk  with  riot,  and  must 
grow  sober  with  headache ;  for  the 
blousemen  and  the  boys  who  have 
pulled  a  house  upon  their  head,  and 
now  maul  each  other  in  painfhl  efforts 
to  get  from  under  the  ruins ;  and  for 
the  miserable  phUosophes  who  see,  in 
the  charmins  state  of  their  country, 
the  fruit  of  ^eir  own  atheistic  theo- 
ries ;  for  all  these  it  is  but  retribution. 
They  needed  government ;  they  re- 
solved on  license :  God  has  sent  them 
despotism  in  its  worst  form.  One 
Dities  Paris,  but  feels  that  it  is  Just. 
My  emotions  are  very  different  when 
I  think  of  what  were  once  ''  the  plea- 
sant viUages  of  France.*'  Miserable 
<xmtpagnards  I  There  are  thousands 
of  them,  besides  the  poor  souls  starv- 
ing in  provincial  towns,  who  curse 
the  republic  in  their  hearts;  and, 
from  Normandy  to  Provence  and 
Languedoc,  there  are  millions  of  such 
Frenchmen,  who  care  nothiuff  for 
-dynasties,  or  firatemities,  or  demo- 
cracy, but  only  pray  the  good  Lord  to 
give  peace  in  their  time,  that  they 
may  sit  under  their  own  vine,  and 
earn  and  eat  their  daily  bread.  For 
them — ^may  God  pity  them  I — ^what  a 
life  Dame  Paris  leads  them  I    If,  with 


the  simplidty  of  rustics,  they  were 
fbr  a  moment  disposed  to  be  merry 
last  February — when  they  heard  that 
thereafter  loaves  and  fishes  were  to 
fling  themsdves  upon  every  table,  for 
the  mere  pleasure  of  bdng  devoured — 
how  bitterly  the  simpletons  are  un- 
decdved!  Their  present  notions  of 
firatemlty  and  equdity  they  get  from 
hunger  and  from  rags.  It  is  not  now 
in  France  as  in  the  days  of  Henry 
lY.,  when  every  peasant  had  a  pullet 
in  the  pot  for  his  Sunday  dinner. 
That  was  despotism.  It  is  liberty 
now— liberty  to  starve.  There  is  no 
more  oppresdon^  for  the  very  looms 
refuse  to  work,  and  water-wheds 
stand  still ;  and  the  vines  go  eadding 
and  unpruned,  and  the  ^pe  disdains 
to  be  trampled  in  the  wme-vat  Yes 
— and  the  ol^paysan  and  his  sprightly 
dame,  who  used  to  drive  dull  care 
away  in  the  sunshine— she,  with  her 
shaking  foot  and  head,  and  he  with 
his  fiddle  and  his  bow,  they  have 
liberty  to  the  full;  for  their  seven 
sons,  who  were  earning  food  for  them 
in  the  sweat  of  their  brow,  have  come 
home  to  the  old  cabin,  ragged  and 
unpdd ;  and  they  lounee  iM)Out  in 
hungry  idleness,  longing  for  war,  but 
only  because  war  would  provide  them 
with  a  biscuit  or  a  bullet.  What  care 
they  for  glory,  or  for  constitutions  ? 
They  ask  for  bread,  and  their  teeth 
are  ground  with  gravd-stones.  Let 
England  look  and  learn.  If  she  has 
troubles,  let  her  see  how  easily  troubles 
may  be  invested  at  compound  interest, 
with  the  certainty  of  dividends  for 
years  to  come,  is  hard  thrift  in  a 
khigdom  so  bad  as  starvation  in  a 
democracy  ?  And  whether  is  it  better 
to  wear  out  honestly,  in  this  work- 
day world,  as  good  and  quiet  subjects: 
or  to  be  thrust  out  of  it,  kicking  and 
cuidng,  behind  a  barricade  of  cabs 
and  paving-stones,  in  the  name  of 
equahty?  These  are  the  common- 
sense  questions,  that  every  English 
labourer  should  be  made  to  fed  and 
answer. 

It  provokes  me,  Basil,  that  my  let- 
ter may  be  superannuated  while  it  is 
travellmg  in  the  steamer  I  The 
changes  of  democnunr  are  more  fre- 
quent than  the  revolutions  of  a  paddle- 
wheeL    Adieu.    Yours, 

Ernbst. 


•  Chatbaubbiaio). 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


203 


Bahmatia  and  MmUmeffro. 


[FbH. 


DALMATIA  AKD  MOMTSNSQKa 


It  is  really  astonishing  that  cmr 
want  of  information  inspecting  Dal- 
matia,  and  its  neighbourhood,  has  not 
long  ago  been  supplied.  It  is  by  no 
means  easy,  now-a-days,  to  hit  npon 
a  line  of  conntiy  that  may  afford  mb- 
ject-matter  for  acceptable  illnstration. 
Travellers  are  so  nnmerons,  and 
anthorship  is  so  generally  affected, 
that  the  best  part  of  Europe  has  been 
described  orer  and  over  again.  Yon 
may  get  from  Mr  Mnnray  a  hand- 
book for  ahnost  any  place  yon  wilL 
Manners  and  cnstoms,  roads,  inns, 
things  to  be  suffered,  and  notabilities 
to  l^  visited — in  short,  all  the  pro- 
bable oontin^des  c^  travel  between 
this  and  the  Yistnla,  are  already  noted 
and  set  down.  We  take  it  npon  our- 
selves to  say,  that  it  is  (me  of  the  most 
difficult  things  in  life  to  realise  the 
sense  of  desolation  and  unw(mtedness 
that  are  poetic  characteristics  of  the 
traveller.  How  can  a  man  feel  him- 
self stevige  to  any  i^ace  where  he  is 
so  thoroughly  up  to  usages  that  no 
hcandikre  can  cheat  him  to  the  amount 
of  a  zwanziger  f  And,  thanks  to  the 
books  written,  it  is  a  man's  own  fault 
if  he  wend  almost  anywhither  except 
thus  ftMmit  yfv6fitvog. 

In  truth,  European  travelling  is 
pretty  nearly  reduced  to  the  work 
of  verification.  Events  are  accord- 
ing to  prescription  ;  and  there  re- 
mains very  little  room  for  the  play  of 
an  exploring  spirit  The  grand  thing 
to  be  explored  is  a  matter  pysycho- 
logical  rather  than  material ;  it  is  to 
prove  experimentally  what  are  the 
emotions  that  a  generous  mind  ex- 
periences, when  vividly  acted  upon  by 
association  with  the  world  of  past 
existences.  Beyond  doubt,  this  is  the 
highest  range  of  inteUectnal  enjoy- 
m^t;  and  to  its  province  may  be 
referred  much  that  at  first  sight  would 
appear  to  be  heterogeneous,  as,  for  in- 
stance, delights  purely  scientific.  But 
at  any  rate,  we  must  all  agree  that  the 
main  privilege  of  a  traveller  is,  that 
he  is  enabled  to  test  the  force  of  this 
power  of  association.  It  is  an  enjoy- 
ment to  be  known  only  by  experi- 
ment. No  power  of  description  can 
give  a  man  to  understand  what  is  the 


SMisation  of  gaaing  on  the  Acropolis, 
or  of  standing  within  'Ayia  2o^^  It 
is  as  another  sense,  called  into  exis- 
tence l^  the  occasion  of  exercise. 

To  any  but  the  uncommonly  wdl 
read,  there  has  hitherto  been  meagre 
entertainment  in  travelling  amcmg  the 
Slavonian  borderers  on  the  Adruitic* 
It  has  been  impossible  to  realise  on 
their  subject  these  high  pleasures  of 
association,  because  so  little  has  hem 
known  oi  the  facts  of  their  histoiy ; 
ratiier  should  we  perhaps  say,  that,  of 
what  has  been  known,  so  little  has 
been  generally  accessible.  But  we 
are  happy  to  find  that  the  ri^t  sort 
o'  **  duel  has  been  amangthem,  takin^ 
notes."  The  way  is  now  oipea ;  and 
henceforth  it  will  be  easy  to  follow 
with  profit.  The  book  which  Sir 
Gardner  Wilkinson  has  given  us 
seems  to  be  exactly  the  thmg  which 
was  wanted;  and  certainly  the  use 
of  it  will  enable  a  man  to  travel  in 
Dalmatia  as  a  rati(«alcreature  should. 
No  mere  dotter  down  of  events  could 
have  passed  through  the  course  of 
this  country  without  producing  a 
documented  considerable  value.  The 
widespread  family  of  which  its  inha- 
bitants are  a  branch  have  been  inti- 
mately mixed  up  with  thehistory  of  the 
Empire  and  of  Christendom ;  and  now 
again  we  behold  them  playingaconspi- 
cuous  part  in  European  politics.  Mo- 
dem Pan8lavism[de^>enstiie  interest  to 
be  felt  in  this  fiuidly,  and  quickens  the 
anxiety  to  know  what  they  are  doing 
and  thinking  now,  as  well  as  what 
they  have  done  in  days  of  old.  In 
the  present  volumes  we  have,  besides 
the  memoranda  of  things  existing,  a 
compendium  of  Slavonian  history  and 
antiquities,  and  an  exhibition  of  the 
degree  in  which  the  race  have  been  mix- 
ed up  with  European  history.  Besides 
this,  an  account  is  given  of  their  more 
domestic  traditions,  of  which  monu- 
ments survive ;  and  it  must  be  a  man's 
own  fault  if,  having  this  book  with 
him,  he  miss  extracting  the  utmost 
of  profit  from  a  visit  to  the  country. 

In  one  way,  we  can  surely  prophesy 
that  this  book  will  prove  the  means 
of  bringing  to  us  increase  of  lore  from 
out  of  that  land  of  which  it  treats. 


Dalmatia  and  Monttnegro,    By  Sir  J.  Qakdvtb,  Wilkuisok.    London  :  Momy. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


JkAmOm  and  MtmieMejpro, 


208 


It  wfll  naturally  Im  taken  on  board 
ereiy  yacht  that,  when  next  summer 
shall  <^>en  skies  and  seas,  may  find  its 
way  into  the  Mediterranean.  Among 
thesebirds  of  passage,  it  can  scarcely  be 
bat  that  some  one  will  shape  its  course 
for  this  land  ci  adrentore,  thus,  as  it 
were,  newly  laid  open.  It  is  a  little,  a 
Tcry  little  ont  of  the  direct  track,  in 
iHikh  these  snmmer  craft  are  ^>t  to  be 
fonnd,  pfentifiil  as  butterflies.  They 
may  rest  assured  that  in  no  pla^ 
from  the  Pillars  of  Hercnles  to  the 
Pharos  of  Alexandria,  can  they  hope 
to  find  SQch  provision  of  entertain- 
ment The  stories  they  may  tiience 
bring  will  really  be  worth  sometiung— 
a  valne  mnch  higher  tiian  we  can  TOte 
ascribable  to  much  that  we  hear  of 
the  wdl-freqnented  shores  of  the 
French  lake. 

We  prophesy,  also,  that  an  inspirit- 
ing enect  will  be  prodnced  on  men 
better  qnaiified  eren  than  the  yachts- 
men for  the  work  of  trayel  —  we 
mean  on  the  gallant  officers  who  gar- 
riscm  the  isUind  of  C!orfii.  '&ej 
occupy  a  8tatk>n  so  exactly  calculated 
to  fiKcilitate  excorsionB  in  iht  desir- 
able direction,  >hat  it  wiQ  be  too  bad 
if  some  of  them  do  not  start  this 
yery  next  spring.  We  do  not  recom- 
mend the  Adriatic  in  winter  time,  and 
so  give  them  a  few  months*  grace, 
jnst  to  keep  dear  of  the  Bora.  Let 
them,  as  soon  as  possible  after  the 
eqainox,  avail  themselves  of  one  of 
those  gaps  which  will  be  oocnrring  in 
the  beat-regifiated  garrison  life. 
Times  will  come  round  whoi  dnty 
makes  no  exaction,  and  when  the 
indigenons  resonrces  of  the  island 
affbrd;no  amusement.  Should  such 
occasion  have  place  o«t  of  the  shoot- 
ing months — or  when,  haply,  some 
row  with  the  Albanians  has  placed 
Bntrinto  under  hiterdict— wond  are 
the  straits  to  which  our  ardent  young 
feOow-couatrymen  are  reduced.  A 
ride  to  the  Graroona  pass,  or  a  lounge 
into  Carabots  ;  er,  to  come  to  th^ 
worst,  an  hour  or  t^*8  Jitm^  round 
old  Sdiulenberg*B  statue,  are  well  in 
their  way,  but  cannot  please  for  ever. 
All  these  thfaigs  considered,  it  is,  we 
aay,  but  likely  that  we  shall  reap 
some  substantial  benefit  from  the 
leisure  of  our  military  friends,  so 
soon  as  their  literary  researches  shati 
have  carried  them  into  the  eajoynient 


of  this  book.  Dalmatia  is  almost 
before  their  yery  eyes.  If  hitherto 
they  have  not  drifted  thithor,  under 
the  combined  influences  of  a  long 
leave  and  an  uncertain  purpose,  it  is 
because  they  have  not  been  in  a  con- 
dition to  prosecute  researches.  We 
must  not  Name  them  for  their  past 
neglect,  any  more  than  we  Uame  the 
idleness  of  him  who  lacks  the  imple- 
ments of  work.  Give  a  man  tools,  and 
then,  if  he  wcnk  not,  mamstrart  digiUK 
Henceforth  they  must  be  regarded  as 
thoroughly  equipped,  and  without  ex- 
cuse. Let  us  hope  that  some  two  or 
three  may  be  roused  to  action  on  the 
yay  next  opportunity — ^that  is  to  say, 
on  the  very  next  occasion  of  leave. 
Let  us  hope  tfiat,  instead  of  sloping 
away  to  Paxo,  or  Santa  Maura,  they 
may  shape  their  course  through  the 
K<Hrth  Channel,  and  begin,  n  they 
I^ease,  by  exploring  the  Bocca  di 
Cattaro. 

Sir  Gardner  speaks  of  difficulties 
and  vexatious  ddays  interposed  be- 
tween the  traveller  and  his  purpose 
by  the  Austrian  authorities.  These 
scrutineers  of  passports  seem  to  grow 
worse ;  and  with  them  bad  has  long 
been  the  best.  We  used  to  think 
that  the  palm  of  pettifogging  was 
fah-ly  due  to  the  officials  of  bis  Hel- 
lenic majesty.  It  was  bad  enough, 
we  always  thought,  to  be  kept  wait- 
iug  and  watching  for  a  license  to  move 
from  the  PirsDus  to  Lutraki,  by  steam ; 
but  we  confess  that  Sir  Gardner 
makes  out  a  case,  or  rather  several 
cases,  that  beat  our  experience  hol- 
low. We  should  like  to  commit  the 
passport  system  to  the  yerdict  to  be 
pronounced  by  common-sense  after 
perusal  of  the  two  or  three  pages  he 
has  written  on  this  subject.  But  com- 
mon-sense must  be  far  from  us,  or  the 
mob  would  not  be  raving  for  liberty 
while  still  tolerant  oi  passports. 

There  is  another  pcnnt  in  respect  of 
whidi  a  change  for  the  worse  appears 
to  have  taken  place,  and  that  is  in 
the  important  point  of  bienveUkmct 
towards  English  trayellers.  We  learn 
that,  at  present,  Austrian  officers  9jn 
shy  of  English  companionship ;  and 
that  it  is  even  eajoined  on  them  au- 
thoritatively that  they  avoid  intimacy 
wiUi  stragglers  from  Corfu.  The 
reason  ass^^oable  is  found  in  the  Ute 
sad  and  absnrd  conspiracy  hatcbeaia 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Dalmatia  and  Montenegro. 


204 

that  island— a  conspiracy  which  would 
have  been  utterly  ridiculous,  had  it 
not  in  the  event  proved  so  melan- 
choly. It  will  freely  be  admitted  that 
the  English  would  deserve  to  be  sent, 
as  they  are,  to  Coventry,  were  it  fact 
that  the  insane  project  of  the  young 
Bandieras  had  found  English  parti- 
sans, and  that  such  partisanship  had 
been  winked  at  by  the  authorities. 
But  the  real  state  of  the  case  is  ex- 
actly contrary  to  this  supposition. 
Humanity  must  needs  have  mourned 
over  the  cutting  off  of  the  young  men, 
and  the  sorrow  of  their  father,  the 
gallant  old  admiral.  But  common- 
sense  must  have  condemned  the  un- 
dertaking as  utterly  absurd  and  mis- 
chievous. It  is  a  pity  that  any 
misunderstanding  should  be  permitted 
to  qualify  the  good  feeling  towards  us, 
for  which  the  Austrians  have  been 
remarkable.  This  good  feeling  has 
been  observable  eminently  among 
their  naval  oflBcers,  who  have  got  up 
a  strong  fellowship  with  us,  oyer 
since  they  were  associated  with  our 
fleet  iu  the  operations  on  the  coast  of 
Syria.  That  particular  servicehas  done 
much  towards  the  exalting  of  them  in 
their  own  estimation ;  and,  of  course, 
the  increase  of  friendship  for  us  has 
been  in  the  direct  proportion  of  the 
lift  given  to  them.  The  Austrian 
militairesy  also,  used  to  be  a  very  good 
set  of  fellows,  and  only  too  happy  to 
be  civil  to  an  Englishman.  At  uieir 
dull  stations  an  arrival  is  an  event, 
and  any  considerable  accession  of 
visitora  occasions  quite  a  jubilee. 
These  gentlemen,  however,  cannot 
have  among  them  much  of  the  spirit  * 
of  enterprise,  or  they  would  take 
more  trouble  than  they  do  to  learn 
something  of  the  condition  of  their 
neighbours.  They  will  complain 
freely  of  the  dulness  of  the  place  of 
their  location,  but  at  the  same  time 
will  evince  little  interest  in  the  con- 
dition of  the  world  beyond  their  im- 
mediate ken.  Many  of  them  who 
live  almost  within  hail  of  the  Monte- 
negrini,  have  never  been  at  the 
trouble  of  ascending  the  mountains. 
Nothing  seems  to  astonish  them  more 
than  the  eitatic  disposition  which 
leads  men  in  quest  of  adventure ; 
they  cannot  conceive  such  an  idea  as 
thatofvolunteeringforacruise.  Yachts 
puzzle  them :  the  owners  must  be 


[Feb. 


ssdlors.  Of  any  military  officers  who 
may  chance  to  visit  them  in  jrachts, 
they  cannot  conceive  otherwise  than 
that  they  belong  to  the  marine. 
Nevertheless  they  are,  or  used  to  be, 
kind  and  hospitable ;  and  would  treat 
you  well,  although  they  could  not 
quite  make  you  out. 

That  this  countij  is  a  ne^ected 
portion  of  the  Austrian  empire  is  v^y 
evident.  The  officials  sigh  under  the 
very  endearments  of  office.  The 
sanith  man,  who  comes  off  to  greet 
your  arrival,  will  tell  you  how  insuf- 
ferably dull  it  is  living  in  the  Bocca, 
—and  how  he  longs  to  be  remored 
anywhither.  Place,  people,  climate, 
all  will  be  condemned.  Yet,  to  a 
stranger,  many  of  the  localities  seem 
exquisitely  beautiful.  The  same  cause 
seems  to  mar  enjoyment  here  that 
spoils  the  beauty  of  our  own  Norfolk 
Island.  The  Austrian  residents  re- 
gard themselves  as  being  in  a  state  of 
banishment,  and  take  up  their  abode 
only  by  constraipt :  the  constraint,  that 
is  to  say,  of  mammon.  By  the  govern- 
ment, its  possessions  in  this  quarter 
have  been  neglected  in  a  manner  most 
impolitic.  The  value  of  this  strip  of 
coast  to  an  empire  almost  entirely 
inland,  yet  wishing  to  foster  trade, 
and  to  possess  a  navy,  is  obvious. 
Yet  even  the  plainest  use  of  it  they 
seem,  till  lately,  to  have  missed. 
Promiscuous  conscriptions  were  the 
order  of  the  day,  and  men  bom  sidl- 
ors  were  enrolled  in  the  levies  for  the 
army.  Of  course  they  wefe  miserable 
and  discontented,  and  the  public  ser- 
vice suffered  by  the  use  of  these  unfit 
instruments.  Recently  it  seems  that 
a  change  has  been  made  in  this 
respect,  and  we  doubt  not  that  the 
navy  has  consequently  been  greatly 
improved.  But  many  glaring  instan- 
ces of  neglect  in  the  administration  of 
the  afiBEurs  of  the  country  continue  to 
astonish  beholders,  and  to  prove  that 
the  paternal  government  is  not  awake 
to  its  own  interests. 

But  of  all  objections  to  be  made 
to  the  wisdom  of  the  government, 
the  strongest  may  be  grounded  on 
the  condition  of  the  agricultural  popu- 
lation in  various  parts  of  Dalmatia. 
Nothingis  done  to  improve  their  know- 
ledge of  the  primary  art  of  civilisa- 
tion. Their  implements  of  husbancbry 
are  described  as  being  on  a  par  with 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 

those  ufied  by  the  unenlightened  in- 
habitants of  Asia  Minor.  The  wag- 
gons to  be  encountered  in  the  neigh- 
bonrhood  of  Knin  are  referable  to 
the  same  date  in  the  progress  of  in- 
vention, as  are  the  conyeniences  in 
TOgne  in  the  plains  about  Mount  Ida. 
The  mode  of  tillage  is  like  that  fol- 
lowed in  the  remote  provinces  of 
Turkey ;  the  ploughs  of  the  rustic 
population  are  often  inferior  to  those 
to  be  seen  in  the  neighbouring  Turkish 
provinces.  Lastly— most  incredible 
of  all!— we  learn  that  there  is  not  to 
be  found  in  the  whole  district  of  the 
Narenta  such  a  thing  as  a  mill, 
wherein  to  grind  their  com.  Will  it 
be  believed  that  the  rustics  have  to 
send  all  the  com  they  grow  into 
the  neighbouring  province  of  Her- 
zegovina to  be  ground?  The  in- 
convenience of  such  an  arrangement 
may  easily  be  conceived.  Their  best 
of  the  bargain— t.e.  the  being  obliged 
to  seek  firom  across  the  frontier  all 
the  flour  they  want— is  bad  enough, 
and  must  be  sufficiently  expensive ; 
but  their  predicament  is  apt  to  be 
much  worse  than  this.  In  that 
part  of  the  world,  people  are  subject 
to  stoppages  of  intercommunication. 
The  league  may  break  out  in  the 
Turkish  province,  and  thus  a  strict 
quarantine  be  established,  to  the  in- 
terdiction even  of  provisions  that 
generally  pass  unsuspected;  or  the 
oountiy  maybe  flooded,  and  the  ways 
impassable.  What  are  the  poor  peo- 
ple to  do  then  for  flour?  whv,  the 
only  thing  they  can  do  is,  to  send  their 
com  to  their  nearest  neighbours  pos- 
sessed of  mills — that  is  to  say,  to 
Salona,ortoImoschi.  As  these  places 
are  distant,  the  one  about  thirty-five 
miles,  and  the  other  about  seventy 
miles,  we  may  fancy  how  serious  must 
be  the  pressure  of  this  necessity. 
The  ordinary  expense  of  grinding 
their  com  Is  stated  to  be  about  13 
per  cent.  What  it  must  be  when  the 
seventy  miles*  carriage  of  their  pro- 
duce is  an  item  in  the  calculation,  we 
are  left  to  conjecture.  Now  these 
poor  fblks  are  not  to  be  blamed— they 
nave  no  fhnds  to  enable  them  to  build 
mills ;  but  that  they  are  left  to  them- 
selves in  this  inability  is  a  reproach 
to  the  government  under  which  they 


Ddimaiia  and  Montenegro. 


205 

live.  This  inconvenience  so  inti- 
mately affects  their  social  wellbeing, 
that  we  cannot  put  faith  in  the  bene- 
volence of  the  rulers  who  allow  them 
to  remain  so  destitute. 

Despite,  however,  of  the  disadvan- 
tages under  which  the  people  of  Dal- 
matia  labour,  it  will  be  seen  that 
pictures  chiefly  pleasurable  are  to  be 
met  by  him  who  shall  travel  amongst 
them.  Their  honest  nature  seems  to 
comprise  within  itself  some  compen- 
sating principle,  which  makes  amends 
for  the  damage  of  circumstances?  The 
Morhicd,  espedally,  seem  to  be  a 
simple,  hardy  set,  of  whom  one  cannot 
read  without  pleasure.  These  are  the 
rustic  inhabitants  of  the  agricultural 
districts,  who  eschew  the  great  towns. 
They  made  thehr  entry  into  the  roll 
of  the  peasantry  of  Dalmatia  at  a 
comparatively  late  date.  The  first 
notice  of  them,  we  are  told,  is  about 
the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
After  that  time  they  began  to  retire 
with  their  families  from  Bosnia,  as 
the  Turks  made  advances  into  the 
countiT.  They  are  of  the  same  Sla- 
vonic family  as  the  Croatians ;  though 
their  hardy  manner  of  life,  and  the 
purity  of  the  air  in  which  they  have 
dwelt,  on  the  mountains,  have  co-oper- 
ated to  confer  on  them  superiority  of 
personal  appearance,  and  of  physical 
condition.  On  a  general  estmiate  of 
the  people  of  the  land,  and  of  their 
mode  of  receiving  strangers,  we 
are  disposed  to  rank  highly  their 
claims  to  the  titie  of  hospitable  and 
honest. 

Sir  Gardner  Wilkinson  certainly 
travdled  amongst  them  most  effectu- 
ally. North,  south,  east,  and  west, 
he  intersected  the  country.  One  part 
of  his  travels  possesses  especial  inte- 
rest»  because,  so  far  as  we  know,  no 
denizen  of  civilised  Christendom  has 
ever  before  been  so  completely  over 
the  ground.  We  refer  to  his  expedition 
into,  and  through  the  territory  of  the 
Montenegrini.  Others — some  few 
only,  but  still  some  others— have  been 
far  enough  to  get  a  peep  at  these 
wild  children  of  the  mountains ;  and 
more  than  once  of  late  years,  Maga 
has  given  notices  concerning  them :  * 
but  only  scanty  knowledge  of  their 
domestic  condition  has  been  attainable. 


^  See  Bla^noood'i  Magazine,  for  January  1845,  and  for  October  1846. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


206 


Daimatiti  amd  M9nie»e^ro. 


[Feb. 


Sir  Gardner  went  right  through  their 
coontiT  to  the  Tuiish  border,  iwd 
tarried  amongst  them  long  enongh  to 
fiorm  prettjT  accsrate  notions  of  their 
state. 

In  the  account  of  onr  author's  first 
jonmey,  no  serioos  stc^  is  made  till  we 
come  alongside  of  the  island  of  Veglia : 
apropos  to  the  passage  by  which,  we 
have  ^Ten  to  ns,  at  some  length,  an 
interesting  extract  from  the  report  of 
a  Venetian  commissioner  sent  to  the 
island^  in  1481,  to  inqture  into  its 
state.  Of  this  document  we  will  say 
BO  more  than  that  it  is  exceedingly 
cnrions,  and  will  well  reward  the  pams 
of  reading.  A  passing  notice  is  given 
to  Segna,  situated  on  the  mainland, 
near  Veglia,  for  the  memory's  sake  ci 
those  desperate  yillains  the  Uscocs,  to 
whom  it  belonged  of  old.  A  good 
deal  of  their  history  is  given  m  the 
last  chapter  of  the  second  volume, 
^diich  serves  as  a  documentary  appen- 
dix to  the  work.  Everything  neces- 
sary to  beget  interest  in  the  islands 
scattered  hereaway  is  told;  but  we 
pass  them  by,  and  are  brought  to  Zara. 
What  of  antiquities  is  here  discover- 
able is  rooted  out  for  our  benefit,  but 
not  much  remains.  The  most  inter- 
esting relic  in  the  place,  to  our  mind, 
is  the  inscription  recording  the  victory 
of  Lepanto.  As  Zara  is  the  capital 
of  Dalmatia,  occasion  is  taken,  while 
speaking  of  the  dty,  to  give  some 
account  of  the  government  of  the 
province,  and  of  tine  general  condition 
of  the  people. 

An  incident  mentioned  by  Sir  Gard- 
ner displays,  in  a  painful  light,  the  kind 
of  feeling  entertamed  by  ue  Austrian 
government  towards  these  its  subjects, 
and  permitted  by  its  officials  to  find 
expression  before  the  natives.  We 
cannot  take  it  as  a  case  of  isolated 
insolence :  because  men  in  responsible 
situations,  especially  where  the  social 
system  comprises  an  indefinite  supplv 
of  spies,  do  not  ostentatiously  commit 
themselves,  unless  they  have  a  fore- 
pone  conviction,  that  what  they  say 
IS  according  to  the  authorised  tone. 
Men  under  inspection  of  the  higher 
powers  do  not  put  themselves  out  of 
their  wav  to  make  a  dlsp]Aj  of  bitter- 
mess,  unless  they  think  thereby  to  con- 
ciliate the  good-win  of  their  superiors. 
This  is  the  incident  in  question :  On 
a  certahi  oocasioii,  the  conversatioii 


happoied  to  turn  on  the  subject  of  a 
then  reoeiit  disturbance  in  a  Dalma- 
tian town.  The  sddiery  and  the 
people  had  quarrelled,  and  in  ^ 
^meuU  two  of  the  severs  had  been 
killed.  On  these  data  forth  spake  a 
Jack  in  office.  He  knew  not,  nor  did 
he  care  to  know,  how  many  of  the 
peasants  had  fidlen,  nor  does  he  ap- 
pear to  have  entered  at  all  curiously 
into  the  question  of  t^oMUf  Mb'.  He 
simply  recommended,  as  the  disturb- 
ance had  taken  place,  and  as  tiie  actual 
perpetrators  of  the  violence  were  not 
forthcoming,  that  t^e  whole  popula- 
tion of  ^e  town  should  be  ^'  decima- 
ted and  shot."  "The  butchery  of  any 
number  of  Datmatians,"  says  our  au- 
thor, "  was  thought  a  fit  way  of  re- 
medying the  incapacity  of  the  police." 
One  wcmld  hardly  imagine  that  this 
counsel  could  have  been  met  by  the 
applauses  of  persons  hiding  official 
situations ;  but  so,  we  are  assured,  it 
wte  in  fiftct  received.  This  manifes- 
tation of  feeling  is  a  sort  of  thing 
which,  when  emanate  ttom  a  group 
of  merely  private  individuals,  maybe 
disregarded.  Idle  people  will  talk,  and 
their  hard  words  will  break  no  bones. 
But  the  hard  words  of  the  ministers  of 
government  do  break  bones;  and 
such  words  must  be  aceepted  as 
serious  indications  of  subeistent  evil. 
Such  receipts  for  keq^ing  pe(^le  in 
peace  and  quietness  are  consistent 
enough  wiA  the  genius  of  their  neigh- 
bours the  Turios.  Betrendmient  of 
heads,  and  of  causes  of  complaint,  are 
to  their  apprehension  one  and  the  same 
thing — ir(^Xc»ir  opofidrmf,  fMp^  fiUu 
We  know  this,  and  expect  it  It  is 
not  so  very  loiig  ago  suioe  ^  Cw^U 
tan  Pasha  gave  £e  word  to  heave 
the  officer  of  the  watch  overboard^ 
because  his  ship  missed  stays  in  going 
about  in  the  Black  Sea.  But  the 
Austrians  are  civilised  and  Christian; 
we  expect  better  things  of  thmn,  and 
can  but  mourn  over  their  misappre- 
hension of  the  true  principles  of 
elity.  The  EngUshman  ym>  stood 
'  rebuked  the  prwnoters  of  these 
atrocious  sentiments;  and  for  this  act 
of  championship  he  was  subsequently 
thanked  by  the  Dafanatians  who 
were  present  Th^  could  not  have 
ventured  to  unchnrtake  their  own  de- 
fence, but  must  have  listened  in 
sUenoe  to  tUa  outrageous  language. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


DoftMrfia  (Bk/ ifofttaM^. 


307 


Oiff  aathor  doabts  not  that  thia  exhi- 
bition of  simple  homanitj  on  his  part, 
had  the  effect  of  caosing  him  to  be 
Ibrthwith  placed  under  the  smreii- 
lance  <^  the  police ;  and  that  snch  a 
consequence  should  be  so  Tory  likely 
to  follow  the  honest  expression  of  a 
eommon-sense  opinion  in  society  is  a 
&ct  that  shows  clearly  enough  how 
wuoundihAt  state  of  things  must  be. 
Assuredly  one  of  the  best  eflloots  of 
intercourse  witii  dvilised  nations  is, 
that  we  thereby  become  enabled  to 
institute  a  comparison  between  their 
social  condition  and  our  own.  Even 
those  unhappy  Chartists,  who  lately 
hare  acquii^sd  the  habit  of  addressing 
one  another  as  *^  brother  slayes," 
would  learn  to  ralue  British  freedom, 
if  they  knew  something  of  the  social 
condition  of  their  European  brethren : 
they  would  see  some  ^ffermce  be- 
tween the  security  of  their  own  hours 
of  relaxation,  and  the  degree  in  which 
a  man's  freedom  in  Austria  is  invaded 
by  the  espionage  of  the  police. 

From  ^ara  uie  course  of  the  narra- 
tire  takes  us  to  Sebenico,  a  town 
situated  on  the  inner  side  of  the  lake 
or  bay  into  which  the  waters  of  the 
Kerka  debouch.  It  is  one  of  the 
coaling  stations  of  the  steamer;  and, 
when  the  time  of  arriyal  will  aUow 
such  concession,  the  passengers  are 
permitted  to  take  a  trip  in  a  four- 
oared  boat,  to  visit  the  Ms  of  the 
Kerica.  Here  the  costume  of  the 
women  is  noticed  as  being  singularly 
graceful.  In  coasting  along  from 
Sebenico  to  Spalato,  the  headumd  of 
la  Planca  is  remarkable.  Near  it  is 
a  little  church  which  is  fomous  in 
local  chronicle  for  having  once  upon 
a  time  served  as  a  trap,  wherein  an 
ass  caught  a  wolf.  How  this  marvel- 
lous feat  was  accomplished,  we  will 
not  just  now  stop  to  tell,  but  must 
refer  tiie  curious  to  the  book  itself. 
This  point  is  also  remarkable,  because 
here  begins  abruptly  a  change  in  the 
dimate.  Some  plants  unlmown  to 
the  northward  be^  to  appear;  and 
henceforward,  to  one  proceeduiff 
southward,  the  dreaded  Sdrocco  wiU 
be  a  more  frequent  infliction.  To 
the  southward  of  la  Planca,  this 
objectionable  wind  is  constantly  blow- 
ing ;  and  at  Spalato,  we  are  tdd,  it 
assumes  for  its  aUowanoe  100  days 
out  of  the  365.    Apropos  to^e  S^- 


occo,  we  have  an  episode  on  OMenui- 
logify  and' are  taugnt  how  the  did 
Greeks  and  Romans  used  to  box  the 
compasft— at  least  how  they  would 
have  done  so,  had  they  had  com- 
passes to  box.  In  the  distance,  to 
the  soutii  oi  the  promontory  of  la 
Planca,  is  the  island  of  Lissa,  funous 
in  modem  history  for  Sir  William 
Hoste*s  action  in  1811.  «^Sueh  an 
action,"  says  James,  *^  st«id»^  un- 
rivalled in  the  annals  of  the  naval 
hist(»7  of  Great  Britain,  or  that  of 
any  other  country,  from  the  great 
disproportion  in  numerical  force,  as 
well  as  the  beauty  and  address  of  its 
manoeuvres;  it  stands  surpassed  by 
none  in  the  spirit  and  enteq>rise  with 
?riiich  it  was  encountered,  and  car- 
ried through  to  a  successful  issue." 
There  is  not  much  risk  in  making  this 
asserdon,  when  we  consider  that  on 
tiiat  occasion  the  French  squadron 
consisted  of  four  forty-gun  frigates, 
two  oi  a  smaller  class,  a  sixteen-gun 
corvette,  a  ten-gun  schooner,  one  six- 
gun  xebec,  and  two  gunboats ;  and 
that  the  Engli^  squadron  was  of 
three  frigates,  and  one  twenty-two 
gnnship.  Lissa  was  also  famous  in 
the  time  of  the  Romans,  being  then 
called  Issa.  We  have  a  notice  <^  its 
history,  and  then  pass  on  to  Bua, 
and  so  to  Spalato. 

Concerning  Spalato  dettuls  aro  given, 
as  mig^t  be  expected,  at  some  length. 
Much  is  told  us  of  its  past  and  present 
condition ;  in  fact,  there  is  presented 
to  us  a  very  sufficient  assemblage  of 
indicia  concerning  it.  We  recom- 
mend ainr  one  who  wishes  to  ev^j  a 
visit  to  l^alato  to  take  with  him  this 
book,  and  chapter  IStii  of  Gibbon. 
The  extract  from  Poiphyrogenitus, 
g^ven  by  Gibbon,  tells  us  what  the 
palace  of  Diocletian  was ;  and  Sir 
Gardner  Wilkinson  tells  us  ^at  it  is 
now,  and  what  has  been  its  history. 
Besides  verbal  description,  his  p^icil 
affords  some  i^  illustrations  of  the 
actual  condition  of  the  buildings.  We 
see  by  these,  and  by  his  account,  that 
the  treasures  of  Spalathie  architec- 
turo  have  been  obscured  by  the  build- 
ingup  of  modem  edifices  on  their  sites. 
^*  The  stnmger,"  he  says,  ^*  is  shocked 
to  see  windows  of  houses  through  the 
arches  of  the  court,  interoolumnia- 
tions  filled  up  with  petty  shops,  and  the 
peristyle  of  the  great  temple  masked 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


208 


Dabnatiaand 


by  modem  honses.^^  Doubtless,  many 
a  predoos  relic  has  been  appropriated 
by  modem  barbarians  to  common 
nses,  and  so  perished  out  of  sight.  But 
with  joy  we  learn  that  the  government 
has  taken  measures  to  prevent  the 
continnance  of  such  destraction,  and 
that  the  remaining  monuments  are 
safe,  however  they  may  be  mixed  up 
with  the  houses  and  shops  of  the  pre- 
sent generation.  We  are  told  that, 
under  the  care  of  the  present  director 
of  antiquarian  researches,  there  is  good 
reason  to  hope  that  the  collection  at 
SpaJato  may  become  tralv  valuable. 
The  high  character  of  Professor 
Carrara  is  a  sure  warrant  that  all  will 
be  done  which  is  withhi  scope  of  the 
means  afforded.  But  as  the  govem- 
ment  allowance  for  excavations  at 
Salona  is  only  £80  yearljr,  we  can- 
not think  that  the  work  is  likely  to 
proceed  rapidly.  While  we  condemn 
as  barbarous  this  carelessness  on  the 
part  of  the  Austrians,  we  must  bear  in 
mind  that  we  are  open  to  a  retort  of 
the  censure.  We  neglect  altogether 
the  remains  of  Samoa  in  Cephalonia, 
and  nothing  at  all  is  allowed  for  the 
expense  of  operations  there ;  yet 
these  remains  are  very  extensive,  and 
there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that 
their  actual  condition  would  amply  re- 
pay a  diligent  search. 

We  must  stop  here  a  moment  to 
congratulate  Sir  Gardner,  on  ,his  ren- 
contre with  the  sphinx. 

*'  A  captive  when  he  gazet  on  the  light, 
A  sailor  when  the  prize  has  stmck  infigiit,^* 

and  so  forth,  are  the  only  people  who 
may  venture  to  talk  of  Sh*  Gardner's 
delight  at  the  sight  of  a  sphinx,  or  a 
mummy.  With  great  gusto  he  gives 
the  description  of  the  black  granite 
sphinx,  in  Uie  court  of  the  pala(^  near 
the  vestibule ;  and  in  the  drawing 
which  he  has  made  of  the  same  court, 
the  sphinx  is  conspicuous. 

From  Spalato  to  Salona,  is  a  dis- 
tance of  some  three  miles  and  a  half, 
by  a  good  carriage-road.  This  road 
crosses  the  Jader,  or  n  Ghidro^a 
stream  so  famous  for  its  trout,  that  it 
has  been  thought  necessary  seriously 
to  prove  that  it  was  not  for  the  sake 
of  these— not  in  order  that  of  them  he 
mi^ht  eat  his  sod  in  peace  and 
quietness— that  Diocletianretired  from 
the  command  of  the  world. 


Montenegro.  [Feb. 

Salona  is  rich  in  antiquarian  re- 
mains, though  nothing  is  extant  to 
redeem  from  improbability  the  testi- 
monv  of  Porphyrogenitus,  that  Salona 
was  halfthe  size  of  Constantinople.  Of 
its  origin  no  record  exists,  nor  is 
much  known  of  its  history  till  the  time 
of  Julius  Cssar.  Subsequently  to  that 
era  it  was  subject  to  various  fortunes, 
and  bore  various  titles.  At  last,  in 
Christian  times  it  became  a  Bishop's 
see,  and  was  occupied  bv  61  bishops 
in  succession.  Diocletian  was  its 
great  embellisher  and  almost  rebuilder. 
Later  in  tiie  day,  we  find  that  it  was 
from  Salona  that  Belisarius  set  out  in 
544,  when  recaUed  to  the  command  of 
the  army  of  Justinian,  and  intrusted 
with  the  conduct  of  the  war  against 
Totila.  The  town  remained  populous 
and  fortified,  till  destroyed  by  the 
Avars  in  689.  These  ferocious  bar- 
barians having  established  tliemselves 
in  Clissa,  the  terror  of  their  propin- 

n  scared  away  tiie  Salonitans.  The 
ed  inhabitants,  after  a  short  and 
ineffectual  resistance,  fled  to  the 
islands.  The  town  was  pillaged  and 
burnt,  and  from  that  time  Salona  has 
been  deserted  and  in  ruins. 

'^iih  these  historical  fSM^  before  us, 
it  is  interesting  to  observe  the  present 
state  of  the  place,  which  affords  many 
illustrations  of  past  events.  The  positions 
of  its  defences^  repaired  at  various  times, 
may  be  traced :  an  inscription  lately  dis- 
covered by  Profeeaor  Carrara,  shows  that 
its  walls  and  towers  were  repaired  by 
Valentinian  IL,  and  Theodoeius ;  and  the 
ditch  of  Constantianus  is  distinctly  seen 
on  the  north  side.  Here  and  there,  it  has 
been  filled  up  with  earth  and  cultivated  ; 
but  its  position  cannot  be  mistaken,  and 
in  places  its  original  breadth  iha.j  be 
ascertained.  A  very  small  portion  of  the 
wall  remains  on  the  east  side,  and  nearly 
all  traces  of  it  are  lost  towards  the  river: 
but  the  northern  portion  is  well  preser- 
ved, and  the  triangular  front,  or  salient 
angle  of  many  of  its  towers,  may  bo 
traced." 

"  In  the  western  part  of  the  town  are 
the  theatre,  and  what  is  called  the  amphi- 
theatre. Of  the  former,  some  portion  of 
the.  proscenium  remains,  as  well  as  the 
solid  tiers  of  arches,  built  of  square 
stone,  with  bevelled  edges,  about  6i  feet 
diameter,  and  10  feet  afort 

We  have  a  good  description  of  the 
annual  fair  of  Salona.  The  descrip- 
tion will  be  suggestive  of  picturesque 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  Dabnatia  and 

recollections  to  those  who  have  seen 
the  open  air  festivities  celebrated  bj 
the  orthodox— t.  e,  by  the  children  of 
the  Greek  Church,  about  Easter  time. 
We  can  take  it  upon  ourselves  to  re- 
commend highly  the  lambs,  wont  to  be 
roasted  whole  on  these  occasions. 
The  culinary  apparatus  is  rude— con- 
sisting merdy  of  a  few  sticks  for  a  fire, 
and  another  stick  to  be  used  as  a  spit 
— but  the  result  of  their  operations  is 
most  satis&ctory. 

"  All  Spalaio  is  of  coarse  at  the  fidr ; 
and  die  road  to  Salona  is  thronged  with 
carriages  of  every  description,  horsemen, 
and  pedestrians.  The  mixture  of  the 
men's  hats,  red  caps,  and  turbans,  and 
Uie  bonnets  and  Fnmk  dresses  of  the 
Spalatine  ladies,  contrasted  with  the 
costume  of  the  country  women,  presents 
one  of  ^e  most  mngiilar  sights  to  be  seen 
in  Europe,  and  to  a  stranger,  the  language 
adds  in  no  small  degree  to  the  novel^. 
Some  bunnees  is  done  as  well  as  pleasure ; 
and  a  great  number  of  cattle,  sheep,  and 
pigs  are  bou^t  and  sold — as  well  as 
various  stu£&,  trinkets,  and  the  usual 
goods  exhibited  at  fidrs.  Long  before 
mid-day,  the  groups  of  peasants  have 
thronged  the  road,  not  to  say  street,  of 
Salona ;  some  attend  the  small  church, 
ploiareequely  placed  upon  a  green,  sur- 
rounded by  the  small  streams  <^  the 
Oiadro,  and  shaded  with  trees;  while 
others  rove  about,  seeking  their  friends, 
looking  at,  and  looked  at  by  strangers,  as 
they  paai;  and  all  are  mtent  op  the 
amusements  of  the  day,  and  the  prospect 
of  a  feast  , 

"  Eatinff  and  drinkmg  soon  begin.  On 
an  sides  sheep  are  seen  roasting  whole  on 
wooden  spits,  in  the  open  air;  and  an 
entire  flock  is  speedily  converted  into 
mutton.  Small  Imots  of  hungry  friends 
are  formed  in  every  direction:  some 
seated  on  a  bank  beneath  the  trees, 
others  in  as  many  houses  as  will  hold 
them;  some  on  grass  by  the  road-side, 
regardless  of  sun  and  dust — and  a  few 
quiet  fiunilies  have  boats  prepared  for 
their  reception. 

**  In  the  mean  time,  the  hat-wearing 
townspeople  from  Spalato  and  other  places, 
as  they  pace  up  and  down,  bowing  to  an 
oeeasional  acquaintance,  yiew  with  com- 
placent pity  the  primitive  recreations  of 
the  simple  peasantry  ;  and  arm-in-arm, 
civHiaation,  with  its  propriety  and  affeo- 
tatioB,  is  here  strangely  contrasted  with 
the  hearty  laush  of  the  unrefined  Mor- 
Ucohi.*' 

We  do  not  know  the  countiy  where 
men  will  meet  together  and  eat  with- 

TOL,  LXy.--KO.  CCCC. 


Montenegro^ 


209 


out  drinking  also:  at  the  al-fr«sco 
entertainments  of  this  kind  which  we 
have  seen,  the  kegs  of  wine  have  ever 
beeningoodly  proportion  to  the  spitted 
lambs.  And  wherever  a  mob  of  men 
set  to  drinking  together,  they  will  most 
assuredly  take  to  fighting.  The  rows 
at  this  fair  used  to  be  considerable ; 
and,  considering  that  more  wine  is 
said  to  be  consumed  here  on  this  one 
day  than  during  the  whole  of  the  rest 
of  the  year,  we  cannot  be  surprised 
that  fights  should  come  off  worthy  of 
Donnybrook.  At  present,  better  order 
is  preserved  than  of  old,  because  these 
rows  have  been  so  excessive  that  they 
have  enforced  the  attendance  of  the 
police. 

At  this  fair  is  to  be  seen  the  pic- 
turesque coUo  dance  of  the  Morlacchi, 
of  which  our  author  affords  a  capital 

Sendl-sketch,  as  well  as  the  following 
escription : — 

^  It  sometimes  begins  before  dinner, 
but  is  kept  up  with  greater  spirit  after- 
wards. They  call  it  eoUOf  from  being, 
like  most  of  their  national  dances,  in  a 
circle.  A  man  generally  has  one  partner, 
sometimes  two,  but  always  at  his  right 
side.  In  dancing,  he  takes  her  right 
hand  with  his,  wUle  she  supports  herself 
by  holding  his  girdle  with  her  left ;  and 
when  he  hiu  two  partners,  the  one  nearest 
him  holds  in  her  right  hand  that  of  her 
companion,  who,  with  her  left,  takes  the 
right  hand  of  the  man ;  and  each  set 
dances  forward  in  a  line  round  the  circle. 
The  step  is  nide,  as  in  most  of  the  Sla- 
vonic dances,  including  the  polka  and  the 
TodowUtckka  ;  and  the  music,  which  is 
primitive,  is  confined  to  a  three-stringed 
violin." 

Dancing  for  dancing^s  sake,  is  what 
enters  into  no  Englishman's  category 
of  the  enjoyable,  nor  into  many  an 
Englishwoman's  either,  we  should 
thi^  after  the  passage  out  of  her 
teens;  but  that  it  is,  in  sober  earnest, 
an  enjoyment  to  many  people  under 
the  sun,  there  is  no  doubt.  Surely 
there  is  something  wonderM  in  the 
faculty  of  finding  pleasure  in  the  ele- 
phantine manoeuvres  of  the  romatka^ 
or  in  the  still  more  clumsy  gyrations 
of  a  paAjcorftf  performance.  The  colh 
we  readily  believe  to  be  a  picturesque 
dance :  but  such  qualification  is  not 
the  general  condition  on  which  the 
people  of  a  nation  accept  dances  as 
national.  Most  of  these  exhibitia»tt 
in  Greece  and  Eastern  Europe  m^^ 
o 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


filO 


DabmOia  cmd  ^animegro. 


[Feb. 


oondemned  as  gracelesfi  and  niimeaii- 
ing :  as  an  exhibition  of  earnest  torn- 
foolery,  tliey  may  be  accepted  as  w(m- 
derM  ;  and,  at  all  events,  may  safely 
be  pronounced  co-excdlent  wiUi  the 
music  that  incnpires  them. 

In  passmg  from  Salona  to  Tratt,  a 
distance  of  about  thirteen  miles  and  a 
half  to  the  westward,  the  traveller 
passes  by  several  of  the  villages  called 
Castdli.  The  name  ha»  been  given 
them  from  the  drenipstance  of  their 
having  been  built  near  to,  and  under 
the  protection  of,  the  castles  which, 
in  thefifteentfa  and  sixteenth  centuries, 
were  constructed  here  by  some  of  the 
nobles. 

^  *'  The  land  was  granted  to  them  by  the 
Venetianfly  on  condition  of  their  erecting 
places  of  reftige  for  the  peasante  during 
the  wars  with  the  Torks.  A  body  of 
armed  men  li?ed  within  them,  uid,  on 
the  approach  of  danger,  the  flocks  and 
herds  were  protected  beneath  the  walls  ; 
and,  at  harvest  time,  the  peasantry  had  a 
place  of  eecnrity  for  their  crops  witiiin 
range  of  the  castle  gnns." 

The  rights  of  lordship  over  the  vil- 
lages, wbich  used  to  be  exercised  by 
the  nobles  in  virtue  of  the  protection 
afiforded,  have  nearly  all  fallen  into 
disuse.  The  only  relic  of  feudalism 
that  seems  to  survive  is  found  at  Castel 
Camblo,  over  which  two  nobles  still 
possess  certain  rights.  One  of  these 
was  the  hospitable  host  of  Sir  Gardner, 
and  his  friend  Professor  Carrara,  on 
their  passage  to  and  from  Trait 

A  fact  connected  with  the  pecu- 
liarity of  the  pontion  of  this  town 
is,  we  think,  well  worthy  of  notice, 
and  deservedly  recorded  by  our  au- 
thor. The  town  stands  partly  on  a 
peninsula,  and  partly  on  the  island 
of  Bua.  A  fosse,  cut  across  the 
narrow  neck  of  the  peninsula,  has 
completed  its  isolation.  Hils  ditch 
has  proved,  on  occasion,  the  most 
effectual  of  fortifications  to  the  Trali- 
rines.  They  were,  in  1241,  besieced 
by  the  Tartars  in  pursuit  of  Kmg 
Bela  IV.,  who  had  fled  hither  before 
them.  These  impetuous  assailants 
were  unable  to  pass  the  ditch ;  and, 
having  waited  on  the  other  side  till 
food  and  forage  were  exhausted,  th^ 
were  obliged  to  retire.  One  cannot 
read  this  story  without  thinking  of  the 
account  that  Bit  Francis  Head  gives 
of  the  La  Plata  Indians,  whose  habits 


of  wurfare  are  in  many  respects  so  ex- 
actly akin  to  those  of  the  Tartars. 
These  terrific  horsemen  would  be 
scarcely  resistible  b^  their  less  robust 
enemies,  save  for  their  inability  to  cross 
anything  in  the  shi^pe  of  a  ditch.  Oot 
of  the  saddle  they  can  do  nothing, 
and  their  horses  wiU  not  leap ;  so  that, 
if  you  wish  to  be  safe  from  their  in- 
roads, you  have  but  to  sunround  your 
dwellings  with  a  moderate  trench. 
And  very  striking  is  the  story  that 
Sir  Francis  Head  tells  of  the  handfal 
of  men  who,  tmder  such  protection, 
held  out  successfhlly  against  a  host  of 
Indians.  Trati,  however,  has  been 
elaborately  fortified  in  European  fa- 
shion, though  now  the  works  are  ne- 
glected, as  being  a  useless  precaution 
against  dangers  no  longer  existent. 
It  has  also  a  fine  old  ci^edral,  and 
some  pictures  of  pretension. 

After  a  brief  notice  of  the  islands  of 
Brazza  and  Solta — a  notice,  however, 
suffident  for  all  usefiil  purposes— we 
pass  on  to  the  picturesque  neighbour- 
hood of  the  falls  of  the  Eerka.  Sir 
Gardner  speaks  of  the  delav  to  which 
the  passage  by  boat  frt)m  Sebenico  to 
Scardona  Is  subject,  but  does  not  ex- 
actly complain  of  it.  In  fact,  we  can 
easily  understand  that,  for  the  sake  of 
the  passenger,  it  is  expedient  thai 
some  authoritative  note  should  be 
taken  of  his  departure  under  charge 
of  the  particular  boatmen  who  under- 
take his  convoy.  We  never  did  as- 
cend to  Eerka,  but  from  what  we  have 
seen  of  the  dass  of  men  under  whose 
guidance  the  expedition  has  to  be  per- 
formed, we  are  disposed  to  vote  the 
caution  of  the  p<^ice  to  be  anything  but 
superfluous.  Every  now  and  then  one 
hears  dreadfhl  stories  of  the  atrocities 
of  boatmen  in  convenient  parts  of  the 
Mediterranean;  and  there  is  good 
reason  to  be  thankful  that  the  Aus- 
trians  think  it  worth  while  to  be  so 
careful  of  strangers. 

The  people  about  Sebenico,  through 
whose  lands  the  course  of  the  lake 
leads,  are  spoken  of  as  not  paying 
mudi  attention  to  agriculture  or  to 
their  fisheries ;  but  it  seems  that  they 
are  sedulously  bent  on  raising  grapes, 
and  neglect  no  patch  of  ground  at  all 
likely  to  be  avjtilable  for  this  purpose. 
The  lake  of  Scardona  is  considerably 
larger  than  that  of  Sebenico.  On  the 
shore  here  the  Boraana  had  a  settle- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1^9.] 


Dalmaiia  and  M<mUnegro. 


meat,  of  which  Boarcely  any  remaias 
jure  peroeptible.  They  are,  however, 
remaii^able  as  affording  a  manifest 
I»tK)f  of  Ihe  rise  of  the  level  of  the 
Uke,  for  some  of  them  are  under 
water. 

Scardona,  we  are  told,  does  noi  oc- 
cnpy  the  site  of  the  old  Scardon, 
which  was  a  place  of  considerable  im- 
portance nnder  the  empire.  Some  have 
even  imagined  that  the  old  city  stood 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river. 
The  town  at  present  is  small,  bnt  well 
Ihmished  for  the  convenience  of  stran- 
gers. It  boasts  an  inn,  at  which  Sir 
Gardner  put  np  for  one  night  He 
then  proceeded  to  the  falls,  which  are 
distant  from  the  Inn  a  three-qnarters- 
of-an-hour  jonmey.  As  he  intended 
to  ascend  the  river  above  the  falls,  ho 
had  to  send  to  the  monks  of  Vissovaz 
to  ask  for  a  boat,  and  they  readily 
complied  with  his  request  The  falls 
do  not  not  seem  to  have  been  fall  on 
the  occasion  of  this  visit — ^bat,  when 
fan,  the  effect  must  be  striking.  They 
are  divided  into  two  parts,  and  their 
pictoresqoe  effect  is  greatly  enhanced 
by  the  sorronnding  scenery. 

At  a  distance  of  a  few  minutes*  walk 
np  the  river,  above  the  faUs,  the  boat 
was  waiting  to  transport  Sir  Gardner 
to  the  convent  of  Vissovaz.  It  is  to 
this  fraternity  that  we  have  before 
alluded,  as  being  the  sole  mill-owners 
on  the  Kerka.  Their  convent  must 
indeed  be  beautifully  situated,  and 
we  can  quite  enter  into  the  eulogium 
bestowed  on  it.  The  fathers  are  of 
the  Franciscan  order.  The  name  of 
Vlseovaz  is  of  curious  allusion;  and 
as  probably  few  of  our  courteous 
readers  will  be  the  worse  for  a  little 
help  in  the  matter  of  Slavonian  ety- 
mology, we  may  as  well  tell  them 
that  its  import  is  ^*  the  place  of  hang- 
ing." Not  a  very  complimentary  or 
well-omenedname,  certamly, we  would 
think  at  first  sight ;  but  we  see  that 
it  Is  so  when  we  learn  that  the  allu« 
Bion  is  to  the  martyrdom  of  two 
priests,  who  were  hanged  here  by  the 
Turkish  governor  of  Scardona.  By 
the  record  left  of  the  event,  we  cannot 
see  that  the  death  of  these  unfortu- 
nate victims  was  in  any  sense  mar- 
tyidwn:  ibey  were  cruellv  and  un- 
justly.put  to  death,  but  for  a  cause 
entirehr  worldly.  However,  they 
were  ChristianBy  and  their  murderers 


211 

were  Turks ;  and  this  has  been  enough 
to  constitute  a  claim  to  canonisation 
in  more  places  than  at  Vissovaz. 

Sir  Grardner  arrived  at  the  pictur- 
esque,  red-tiled  convent  in  time  for 
dinner ;  but  as  the  day  happened  to 
be  a  fast,  the  fare  providea  was  not 
suffidentiy  tempting  to  induce  a 
wish  to  stay.  He  therefore  was 
preparing,  with  many  thanks,  to 
take  his  leave  of  the  good  fathers, 
and  proceed  on  his  journey,  when 
he  found  himself  brought  up  by 
an  unexpected  difficulty.  He  was 
informed  that  he  could  not  proceed 
except  by  favour  of  the  monks  of  the 
Grreek  convent  of  St  Archangelo,  an- 
other religious  house  still  farther  up 
the  stream.  His  hospitable  enter- 
tainers readily  volunteered  to  send 
in  quest  of  tne  requisite  assistance. 
These  are  the  conditions  of  travelling, 
because  there  are  no  carriages  for  hire 
hereaway,  nor  any  boats  to  let.  The 
Franciscans  had  volunteered  to  do 
what,  when  it  came  to  the  point,  was 
found  to  be  rather  an  awkward  thing. 
No  great  cordiality  subsists  generally 
between  the  Latins  and  the  orthodox. 
Each  charges  the  other  with  destruc- 
tive heresy;  and  doubtless  both  of 
these  great  branches  of  the  church 
esteem  a  Protestant  safe,  by  compari- 
son with  the  arch-heretics  that  they 
each  see  the  other  to  be.  Thus,  though 
dwelling  on  the  confines  of  Christen- 
dom, and  in  a  solitude  that  might 
have  rendered  them  neighbourly,  we 
find  that  veiy  little  intercourse  takes 

Elace  between  the  two  religious  estab- 
shments.  Accordingly,  the  writing 
of  the  letter  was  found  to  be  no  easy 
affair :  and  their  guest  saw  them  lay 
their  heads  together  in  consiUtation, 
after  a  fashion  that  boded  ill  for  the 
prospects  of  his  journey.  They  con- 
fessed themselves  to  be  in  a  fix ;  and 
were  afridd  of  exposing  themselves  to 
some  afiront  if,  contrary  to  their  wont, 
thev  should  open  a  communication 
with  the  Greeks,  asking  of  them  a 
favour. 

"  *  Did  you  ever  go  as  fkr  as  the  con- 
vent f  said  an  old  father  to  a  more 
restless  and  looomotiTe  Franciscan,  and 
a  negative  answer  seemed  to  put  an  end 
to  the  incipient  letter ;  when  one  of  the 
party  enggeited  that  those  Greekf  had 
shown  themselves  verj  dvil  on  some  oc- 
casion, and  the  writer  of  the  epistle  onee 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC'^ 


212 


DaimaUa  and  Montenegro. 


[Feb. 


more  resumed  his  spectacles  and  his  pen. 
<  They  are/  he  obserred,  'after  all,  like  onr- 
seWeSyand  must  be  glsrd  to  see  a  stranger 
who  comes  from  afar;  and  besides,  oar 
letter  may  hare  the  effect  of  commencing  a 
friendly  intercourse  with  them,  which  we 
may  have  no  reason  to  regret.' " 

This  very  sensible  hint  of  the  Fran- 
ciscan philosopher  was  happily  acted 
ont.  The  letter  was  sent,  and  in  dae 
coarse  of  time — i.  e.  In  time  for  a  start 
next  morning— an  answer  arrived  from 
the  Archimandrite.  It  was  to  welcome 
the  stranger  to  their  hospitality,  and 
to  inform  him  that  a  boat  awaited 
him  at  the  falls.  As  the  issne  on 
the  first  intention  was  so  favourable, 
let  as  hope  that  the  other  good  re- 
solts  anticipated  from  the  sending  of 
the  letter  will  have  been  by  this  time 
realised.  At  all  events,  Sir  Gardner 
may  congratalate  himself  on  having 
afforded  occasion  for  the  opening  of 
personal  as  well  as  epistolary  comma- 
nication  between  the  convents,  as  one 
x)f  the  Franciscans  accompanied  him 
in  the  expedition  to  St  Archangelo. 

Mach  praise  is  bestowed  on  the 
beaa^  of  the  Eerka,  and  the  view  of 
the  Falls  of  Boncislap  is  especially 
distingoished.  Sir  Gardner  praises  it 
in  artistic  language ;  and  we  may  be 
allowed  to  regret  that  he  has  not 
added  a  sketch  of  this  scene  to  the 
views  with  which  lus  book  is  embel- 
lished. The  waters  of  the  Eerka 
possess  a  petrifying  quality  that  is 
common  inDalmatia.  Muchoftherock 
has  been  formed  under  the  water,  and 
must  present  a  singular  appearance. 

Near  the  Falls  of  Boncislap  a  depdt 
for  coal  has  been  established,  that,  by 
all  accounts,  would  seem  to  be  any- 
thing but  a  good  speculation.  We 
mention  it  merely  for  the  sake  of  a 
good  story  that  hangs  by  it.  It 
seems  that  the  Austrian  Lloyds*  Com- 
pany patronise  this  coal  beci&use  it  is 
cheap.  It  is  one  reason,  certainly, 
for  buying  it ;  but,  as  the  coal  will  not 
bum,  we  may  doubt  their  wisdom. 
We  do  not  wish  to  spoil  the  market 
of  the  Company  of  i)emis,  but  we 
agree  with  Sir  Gardner,  that  there  are 
reasonable  objections  to  the  using  of 
food  for  the  furnaces  that  will  get  up 
no  steam,  and  must  be  taken  on  board 
in  such  quantities,  as  to  lumber  up 
the  decks.  Besides  this,  hear  how  it 
goes  on  when  it  does  bum : —    . 


"  It  has  also  the  effect  of  cansbg  much 
smoke,  and  the  large  flakes  of  soot  that 
faXL  from  the  chimney  npon  the  awning 
actually  bum  holes  in  it,  till  it  looks  like 
a  sail  riddled  with  grape-shot ;  and  I  re- 
member one  day  seeing  the  awning  on 
fire  from  one  of  these  showers  of  soot ; 
when  the  captain  calmly  ordered  it  to  be 
put  out,  as  if  it  had  been  a  common  oc- 
currence." 

"A  Bussian  consul," — this  is  the 
story : — 

^'A  Bussian  consul,  who  happened  to 
be  on  board,  and  who  was  not  much  ac- 
customed to  the  smoky  doings  of  steamers, 
seemed  to  be  deeply  impr^sed  with  the 
inconyenienoe  of  the  falling  flakes  of  soot. 
His  voice  had  rarely  been  heard  during 
the  voyage,  and  he  appeared  to  shun 
communication  with  his  fellow-passen- 
gers ;  when  one  afternoon,  the  awning 
not  being  up,  he  burst  forth  with  these 
startling  remarks,  uttered  with  a  broad 
I^Yonian  accent^' Qti«  cea  baaieaux  d 
vajieur  sent  sales  /  Par  suite  de  TiuuUadief 
ilya  dix  ans  quejene  me  zuis  paas  lavr€, 
mats  maintenanl  fat  zenH  le  beeain  dt  me 
lawer,  etjeme  zuis  law6ir  " 

This  must  have  been  a  Bussian  of 
the  old  school. 

Arrived  at  the  convent  of  St  Arch- 
angelo, they  had  every  reason  to  be 
content  with  their  hospitable  recep- 
tion. The  Archimandrite  is  praised 
as  being  gentlemanlike,  and  of  mien 
as  though  educated  in  a  European 
capital.  This  is  a  very  unusual  cha- 
racteristic of  any  Greek  ecclesiastic, 
and  what  we  could  predicate  of  but 
one  or  two  out  of  the  numbers  that 
we  have  seen.  Greek  priests  of  any 
kind  are  bad  enough,  but  those  living 
in  convents  seem  generally  to  go  on 
the  principle  of  the  Bussian  consul 
just  mentioned,  and  might  fitly  be 
invited  to  associate  with  him.  All 
honour,  then,  to  Stefano  Ejiezovich, 
and  may  his  example  be  abundantly 
followed  among  his  brethren ! 

There  was  not  much  in  the  Greek 
convent  to  induce  a  long  visit ;  so  the 
next  morning  Sir  Gardner  pushed  on 
to  Eistagne,  in  his  progress  through 
the  countnr.  Here  he  was  a^ain  the 
victim  of  letter- writing,  but  m  a  dif- 
ferent way.  The  sirdar  of  Eistagne 
took  offence  at  the  tone  of  the  letter 
sent  to  him  by  the  Archimandrite,  or- 
dering horses  for  the  next  morning ; 
and  the  luckless  traveller  was  conse- 
quently left  in  the  lurch.     However, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


Dahnatia  and  Montenegro. 


the  monk  did  his  best  to  make  up  for 
the  deficiency.  He  lent  him  his  own 
horse,  and  had  his  baggage  conveyed 
by  some  peasants — an  excellent  ar- 
rangement, saTing  that  the  porters 
iren  female  peasants.  This  is  a  sort 
of  thmg  that  sadly  shocks  our  sense 
of  deoorom,  bnt  which  many  folks 
besides  the  Dalmatians  take  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Sir  Gardner  says 
that  the  custom  of  assigning  the  hjBayy 
burden  to  the  women  is  prevalent 
among  the  Montenegrini ;  it  is  so  also 
among  the  Albanians ;  and  to  a  most 
atrocious  extent  in  the  Peloponnesus. 
In  this  particular  case,  they  were  well 
off  to  get  the  job ;  it  was  to  exchange 
their  task  of  carrying  heavy  loads  of 
water  u^  the  hill  for  that  of  shoulder- 
ing his  liffbt  impedimenta. 

Arrived  at  Kistagne,  he  found  the 
sirdar,  who  had  been  so  disobliging 
at  a  diistance,  much  improved  on  ac- 
quaintance, and  from  lum  he  received 
all  requisite  assistance  for  the  prosecu- 
tion of  his  journey  to  Knin;  and  by 
him  was  guided  in  his  visit  to  the 
B(Hnan  anches,  which  point  out  the 
site  of  the  ancient  city  of  Bumum. 

Knin  is  still  a  place  of  considerable 
strength,  and  has  been  once  upon  a 
time  still  stronger.  It  is  identified 
with  the  andent  Arduba.  The  marshy 
character  of  the  ground  in  its  imme- 
diate neighbourhood  renders  it  an  un- 
healthy place  of  abode ;  but  this  evil 
is  easily  removable  by  a  moderate  at- 
tention to  drainage.  Not  very  far 
from  Knin,  .but  over  the  Turkish  bor- 
der, on  the  other  side  of  Mount 
Gniath,  is  supposed  to  be  situated  the 
gold  mine  that  of  old  conferred  on 
Palmatia  the  title  of  auriferous.  The 
mine  is  said  to  exist  here ;  but  so 
much  mystery  is  observed  on  its  sub- 
ject by  the  Turks  that  nothing  certain 
can  be  affirmed  of  it.  From  v  erlicca 
to  Sign  we  pass  as  quickly  as  may  be, 
merdy  noticing  that  there  is  another 
convent  to  be  visited  en  route^  and 
that  we  have  the  opportunity  of  put- 
ting up  at  the  Han,  as  Sir  Gardner 
did.  These  people  certainlv  have  ad- 
mitted a  great  many  Turkish  words 
into  their  vocabulary :  we  have  Sirdar^ 
and  Han^  and  Jrambasha — to  say 
nothing  of  others.  At  last  we  come 
to  Sign ;  and,  touching  this  place,  we 
must  give  an  extract  from  toe  book. 
An  annual  tilting  festival  has  been 


2ia 

established  here,  in  commemoration  of 
the  brave  defence  maintained  in  1715, 
against  the  Pasha  of  Bosnia  with 
forty  thousand  men. 

**  The  privilege  of  tilting  is  eonflned  to 
natives  of  Sign,  and  its  territory.  Every 
one  is  required  to  appear  dressed  in  the 
ancient  costome,  with  the  Tartar  eap, 
called  kalpak,  surmounted  by  a  white 
heron's  plume,  or  with*  flowers  interlaid 
in  it.  He  is  to  wear  a  sword,  to  carry  a 
lance,  and  to  be  mounted  on  a  good  horse 
richly  caparisoned." 

**  The  opening  of  the  giottra  is  in  this 
manner':  The  footmen,  richly  dressed  and 
armed,  advance  two  by  two  before  the  ca- 
valiers. In  the  usual  annual  exhibitions 
each  cavalier  has  one  footmam;  and  on  ex- 
traordinary occasions,  besides  Uie  footman, 
he  has  tkpadrino  well  mounted  and  equip- 
ped. Afferthe/oofmefi  come  three  persons 
inline— one  carrving  a  shield^  and  the  other 
two  by  his  side  bearing  a  sort  of  ancient 
club  ;  then  a  fair  manage  horse,  led  by 
the  hand,  with  large  housiugs  and  com- 
plete trappings,  richly  ornamented,  fol- 
lowed by  two  cavaliers— one  the  adjutant, 
the  other  the  ensign-bearer.  Next  eomes 
the  Mantro-di-CiimpOy  accompanied  by 
the  imo  j&uMen,  and  followed  by  all  the 
others,  marching  two  and  two.  The  rear^of 
the  procession  is  brought  up  by  the  Ckiauu^ 
who  rides  alone,  and  whose  duty  it  is  to 
maintain  order  during  the  ceremony." 

We  have  a  description  of  a  fair  at 
Sign  that  is  almost  as  suggestive  of 
the  picturesque  as  was  the  account  of 
similar  doings  at  Salona.  Sir  Gardner 
shall  give  his  own  account  of  his  de- 
parture from  the  town. 

**  In  the  midst  of  the  bustle  and  busi- 
ness going  on  at  Sign,  I  found  some  dif- 
ficulty in  getting  horses  to  take  me  on  to 
Spalato;  but  a  letter  to  the  Sirdar  re- 
moved every  impediment,  and,  after  a 
few  hours*  delay,  the  animals  being 
brought  out,  I  prepared  to  start  fh>m  the 
not  very  splendid  inn.'  '  Can  you  ride 
in  that !'  asked  the  ostler,  pointing  to  a 
huge  Turkish  saddle  that  nearly  concealed 
tiie  whole  animal,  vrith  stirrups  that 
might  pass  for  a  pair  of  coal  scuttles  ; 
and  finding  that  I  was  accustomed  to  the 
use  as  well  as  sight  of  that  un-£uropean 
horse-fhmiture,  he  seemed  well  satisfied 
— observing,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  was 
fortunate,  as  there  was  no  other  to  be 

had I  was  glad  to  take  what 

I  could  get,  and  my  only  question  in  re- 
turn was,  whether  the  horse  could  trot ; 
which  being  settled,  I  posted  off,  leaving 
my  guide  and  baggage  to  come  after  me — 
fbr,  thanks  to  the  Austrian  police,  there 
is  no  fear  of  robbers  appropriatin-  ^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


214 


Daimatia  and  Montenegro. 


[Feb. 


portmanteaa  in  IHlmatia :  the  interest- 
ing days  of  adTentnre  mnd  the  Haidok 
banditti  hare  passed,  and  the  Morlaoohi 
hare  ceased  to  corety  or  at  least  to  take 
other  men's  goods." 

And  now  we  make  a  resolnte  halt, 
and  detennine  to  pass  sub  siientio  all 
that  intervenes  between  this  part  of 
the  book  and  the  coming  into  the 
country  of  the  Montenegrini.  Unless 
we  act  thus  discreetly,  we  shall  never 
contrive  to  compress  all  we  have  to 
say  into  due  limits ;  and  even  now  we 
hardly  know  how  this  desirable  result 
is  to  be  effected.  What  we  thus 
leave  as  fallow-ground  for  the  reader 
will  yidd  to  his  research  a  history  of 
the  coast  and  islands  between  Spalato 
and  Cattaro.  The  notice  of  Ragnsa 
is  especially  and  deservedly  full,  and 
presents  an  admirable  condensation  of 
Ragusan  history. 

But  it  is  high  time  for  us  to  get 
amongst  the  children  of  the  Black 
Mountain.  Among  things  excellent 
it  is  permitted  to  institute  compari- 
son without  disparagement  to  any  of 
them :  and,  in  virtue  of  this  license, 
we  are  free  to  say  that  this  part  of 
Sir  Gardner's  book  shines  forth  as 
inter  minora  sidera.  The  subject  itself 
is  of  deep  intrinsic  Interest ;  and  he 
has  treated  it  as  we  well  knew  that 
he  would.  A  picture  is  given  of  the 
actual  condition  of  a  scion  of  the 
Christian  stock  that  must  astonish 
those  who,  by  this  book,  first  learn  to 
think  of  the  Montenegrini ;  and  must 
delight  those  who,  having  heard  some- 
what of  them,  or  h^)ly  even  paid  them 
a  flying  visit,  have  looked  in  vain  for 
some  accurate  statement  of  detail  to 
help  out  their  personal  observations. 
The  Montenegrini  are  descended  from 
the  old  Servian  stock,  and  still  look  to 
modem  Servia  with  affection,  as  to 
their  mother  oointrv.  Hiither  also  we 
find  them,  by  Sir  Gardner's  account, 
retiring,  when  forced  by  poverty  to 
emigrate  from  their  own  territory. 
Among  them  the  Slavonian  hmgnage 
is  preserved  in  unusual  purity.  The 
present  population  is  about  100,000 ; 
and  the  number  of  fighting  men 
amounts  to  20,000— a  number  which, 
OB  occasion  of  need,  would  be  greatly 
augmented  by  the  calling  out  of  the 
veterans.  Li  fact  every  individual 
nan  of  the  natkn,  whose  arm  has 
power  to  wield  a  weapon,  is  a  warrior; 


and  the  very  women  are  ready  to  as- 
sist in  defence.  On  the  Turiush  bor- 
der, as  is  well  known,  a  constant 
system  of  bloody  reprisals  is  going 
on ;  and  the  endeavours  of  the  Yla- 
dika  to  reduce  their  hostilities  to 
civilised  fashion  have  hitherto  flailed 
of  success.  They  are  sustained  at 
the  highest  pitch  of  confident  daring 
by  the  successful  war  which  they 
have  so  lon^  been  able  to  carry  on 
against  their  powerful  neighbours. 
One  is  glad  of  the  opportunity  of 
giving,  on  the  authority  of  Sir  Gard- 
ner, some  of  the  stories  of  their  prow- 
ess;  for  to  retail,  without  the  autho- 
rity of  some  such  padrino,  the  tales 
current  in  Cattaro,  would  be  to  win  the 
reputation  of  talkinglike  MendezPinto. 
In  Judging  the  Montenegrini,  we 
should  give  charitable  consideration 
to  their  circumstances.  War  is  a 
sjrstem  of  violence ;  and  with  them, 
unhappily,  war  is  a  permanent  con- 
dition of  existence.  The  treachery 
and  cruelty  of  the  Turks — are  these 
such  recent  developments  that  we  need 
make  any  doubt  of  them? — ^have 
worked  out  cruel  consequences  in  the 
character  of  the  Montenegrini.  They 
believe  a  Turk  to  be  utterly  without 
honesty  and  good  fiuth  —  one  witli 
whom  it  is  impossible  to  hold  terms — 
and  such,  probably,  is  about  the  right 
estimate  of  someof  their  Tuikish  neigbr 
hours.  Who,  for  instance,  that  knows 
anything  about  them,  has  any  other 
opinion  of  the  Albanians?  Are 
Kaffirs  much  more  hopeless  subjects  ? 
The  Montenegrini  are  far  from  tiie 
commission  of  the  horrid  cruelties 
that  areof  everyday  occurrence  among 
the  j^banians.  Theur  imperfect  ap- 
I»reciation  of  Christianity  allows  theoa 
to  behold  in  revenge  a  virtue ;  and 
lienoe  the  acts  of  vK)lenoe  which  are 
quoted  to  their  dispraise.  Their  ma- 
rauding expeditions  are  but  according 
to  the  usages  of  war;  and  if  th<By 
sometimes  break  through  the  restric- 
tions of  a  truce,  it  would  seem  to  be 
because  they  really  do  not  under- 
stand what  a  truce  is.  We  think 
^at  a  v^  apt  f^logy  for  the 
Montenegrini  is  found  in  the  speech  of 
a  German  traveller  quoted  by  Sir 
Gardner.  He  had  been  mentioning 
several  occurrences  of  Eng^  and 
Scotch  hustory,  and  spokB  in  allnsioa 
to  them. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQI^ 


1849.] 


Dabmstktimd  MonUMgro. 


215 


<"  *  What  tidnk  yoa,'  he  obMrred,  *  of 
«he  state  of  flodety  in  thoee  times  I  Were 
the  border  foraye  of  the  EagUsh  and 
Sooteh  more  exenaable  than  thoee  of  the 
Monteaegnns  t  And  how  much  more 
nateral  ie  the  onforgiTinif  hatred  of  the 
Montenegrins  against  the  Turks,  the 
enemies  of  their  country,  and  their  foith, 
than  the  relentless  stnfe  of  Highland 
clans,  with  those  of  their  own  race  and 
Teligion !  Has  not  many  an  old  castle  in 
other  parts  of  Europe,  witnessed  scenes 
as  bad  as  any  enacted  by  this  people  t 
I  do  not  wish  to  exculpate  the  Monte- 
negrins; but  theirs  is  still  a  dark  age, 
«od  some  allowance  must  be  made  for 
iheir  uneiTilised  condition*' " 

The  character  of  the  present  VUdika 
affords  good  hope  that  an  improTe- 
ment  ^fnll  take  place  among  the 
people ;  for  he  eviaently  has  devoted 
mX\  his  energies  to  their  amelioration. 
Sir  Gardner  entered  their  territory, 
by  what  we  belieTC  to  be  the  only 
route — that  is  to  say  from  Cattaro— 
whence  he  took  letters  of  Introdnc- 
tion  from  the  Anstrian  goyenKn*  to 
the  Vladika. 

We  shall  best  illnstrate  the  condi- 
tion of  the  Montenegrini  by  quoting 
«ome  of  Sir  Gardner's  aoconnts. 

*'  Four  Montenegrins,  and  their  sister, 
aged  twenty-one,  going  on  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  shrine  of  St  Basilio,  were  waylaid 
by  seren  Turks,  in  a  rocky  defile,  so 
narrow  that  they  could  only  thread  it 
one  by  one;  and  hardly  had  they  entered 
between  the  precipices  Uiat  bordered  it 
on  either  side,  when  an  unexpeeted  dis- 
charge of  fire-anns  killed  one  brother, 
and  deepeiately  wounded  another.  To 
retrace  their  steps  waa  impossible  with- 
out meeting  certain  and  shameful  death, 
aiaee  to  turn  their  backs  would  give  their 
enemy  the.  opportunity  of  destroying 
them  at  pleasure. 

•*  The  two  who  were  unhurt,  therefore, 
adraneed  and  returned  the  fire,  killing 
two  Turks — ^while  the  wounded  one, 
supporting  himself  against  a  rock,  fired 
also,  and  mortally  injured  two  others, 
but  was  killed  himself  in  the  act.  His 
eister,  taking  his  gun.  loaded  and  fired 
simultaneously  with  her  two  brothers, 
but,  at  the  same  instant,  one  of  them 
dropped  down  dead.  The  two  surriring 
Turks  then  rushed  fhilously  at  the  only 
remaining  Montenegrin — who,  however, 
laid  open  the  skull  of  one  of  them  with 
his  yatagan,  before  receiring  his  own 
death-blow.  The  hapless  sister,  who  had 
all  this  time  kept  up  a  constant  fire, 
«tood  for  an  instant  irresolute;  when 


suddenly  assnndag  an  air  of  terror  and 
supplication,  she  entreated  for  mercy ; 
but  the  Turk,  enraged  at  the  death  of 
his  companions,  was  brutal  enough  to 
take  adyantage  of  the  unhappy  girl'a 
agony,  and  only  promised  her  life  at  the 
price  of  her  honour.  Hesitating  at  first, 
she  pretended  to  listen  to  the  villain's 
proposal ;  but  no  sooner  did  she  see  him 
thrown  off  his  guard,  than  she  buried  in 
his  body  the  knife  she  carried  at  her 
girdle.  Although  mortally  wounded,  Uie 
Turk  endeavoured  to  make  the  most  of 
his  failing  stren^^th,  and  plucking  the 
dagger  from  his  side,  staggered  towards 
the  oonrageous  girL — who,  driven  to 
despair,  threw  herself  on  the  relentless 
foe,  and  with  superhuman  energy  hurled 
him  down  the  neighbouring  precipice,  at 
the  very  moment  when  some  ^p- 
herds,  attracted  by  the  continued  firing, 
arrived  just  too  late  for  the  rescue." 

Fancy  the  tone  that  mnst  be  given 
to  their  lives  by  the  constant  neces- 
sity of  being  ready  for  encounters 
such  as  this.  They  never  lay  aside 
their  arms ;  but  in  the  field,  or  by  the 
wayside,  are  armed  and  alert.  One 
hand  ma^  be  allowed  to  the  imple- 
ment of  tillage,  but  the  other  must  be 
reserved  for  the  weapon  of  defence. 

On  many  occasions,  Montenegrin 
courage  has  prevailed  against  Mlds 
far  greater  than  in  the  above  case — 
indcKsd  such  odds  as,  but  for  authenti- 
cation of  facts,  would  be  incredible. 
In  the  year  1840,  ^  seventy  Montene- 
grins, in  the  open  field,  withstood  the 
attack  of  several  thousand  Turks; 
and  having  made  breastworks  with  the 
bodies  of  their  fallen  foes,  maintabied 
the  unequal  conflict  till  night ;  when 
forty  who  survived  forced  their  way 
through  the  hostile  army,  and  escaped 
with  their  lives."  Another  astonishing 
achievement  was  thesnccessfhl  d^enoe 
of  a  house  held  bjr  seven-aad-twenty 
Montenegrins,  against  a  body  of  aboii 
six  thousand  Albanians.  Of  this  lagt 
action,  trophies  are  preserved  by  the 
Vladika  in  his  palace  at  Tzetiiu^  end 
there  Sir  Gardner  saw  them. 

We  cannot  wonder  that  the  effect 
OB  their  minds  of  these  astonishinff 
successes,  should  be  an  nnboonded 
confidence  in  their  superiority  over 
the  Turks.  Sir  Gardner  Wilkinsoa 
found  them  imoressed  with  the  idM, 
that  bread  ana  arms  were  the  only 
needfiil  requisites  to  enable  them  to 
drive  the  Turks  out  of  Albania  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


216 


Dabnatia  and  Montenegro. 


[Feb- 


ovina.  It  seems  certain  that, 
in  their  rencontres  with  these  ene- 
mies, they  dismiss  all  ordinary  con- 
siderations of  prudence.  The  spirit 
of  their  feeling  with  regard  to  the 
Turks  is  thus  portrayed : — 

'^  It  is  not  the  courage^but  the  onxelty 
of  the  Turks  which  inspires  him  (the 
Montenegrin)  with  hatred  ;  and  the  suf- 
ferings inflicted  upon  his  country  by  their 
inroads  makes  him  look  upon  them  with 
feelings  of  ferocious  yengeanoe. 

''These  savage  sentiments  are  kept 
alive  by  the  barbarous  custom,  adopted 
by  both  parties,  of  cutting  off  the  heads 
of  the  wounded  and  the  dead  ;  the  con- 
sequences of  which  are  destructive  of  all 
the  conditions  of  fair  warfare,  and  pre- 
clude the  possibility  of  peace.  The  bitter 
remembrance  of  the  past  is  constantly 
revived  by  the  horrors  of  the  present ; 
and  the  love  of  revenge,  which  strongly 
marks  the  character  of  the  Montenegrin, 
makes  him  insensible  to  reason  or  justice, 
and  places  the  Turks,  in  his  opinion,  out 
of  the  pale  of  human  beings.  He  dreams 
only  of  vengeance  ;  he  cares  little  for  the 
means  employed ;  and  the  man  who 
should  make  any  excuse  for  not  perse- 
cuting those  enemies  of  his  country  and 
his  faith,  would  be  treated  with  ignominy 
and  coatempt.  Even  the  sanctity  of  a 
truce  is  not  always  sufficient  to  restrain 
him  ;  and  the  hatred  of  the  Turk  is  para- 
mount to  all  ordinary  considerations  of 
honour  or  humanity.'* 

This  cutting  off  of  heads  is  not 
p^nliar  to  the  Montenegrins.  The 
Turks  are,  in  this  respect,  just  as  bad, 
and  Sir  Gardner  found,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  visit  to  Mostar,  that,  in 
point  of  this  barbarism,  there  is  not  a 
pin  to  choose  between  them.  The 
Turks,  however,  exceed  in  cruelty. 
It  appears,  on  the  evidence  of  the 
letter  of  the  Vladika,  given  in  the 
second  volume,  that  they  (the  Turks) 
impale  men  alive ;  whereas  the  Mon- 
tenegrins are  chargeable  with  no 
wanton  cruelty.  Indeed,  they  do  not 
restrict  the  performance  of  this  ope- 
ration to  the  case  of  enemies ;  but,  as 
an  act  of  Mendship,  decapitate  any 
comrade  who  may  so  be  wounded  in 
action  as  to  have  no  other  means  of 
avoiding  capture  by  the  enemy.  "You 
are  very  brave,"  said  a  well-meaning 
Montenegiin  to  a  portly  Russian  offi- 
cer, who  was  unable  to  keep  up  with 
his  detachment  in  its  retreat, — ''  you 
are  very  brave,  and  must  wish  that  I 


should  cut  off  your  head:  say  a  prayer, 
and  make  the  sign  of  the  cross." 

Life,  passed  amidst  every  hardship, 
and  threatened  by  constant  and  deadly 
peril,  ought,  we  suppose,  according  to 
all  rule,  to  be  short  m  duration.  But 
we  find  that  these  people  are  remark- 
able for  longevity.  A  family  is  men- 
tioned, in  one  of  the  villages,  which 
reckoned  six  generations,  there  and 
then  extant.  The  head  of  the  family 
was  a  great-great-great-grandfather. 

The  Vladika  received  his  visitor 
most  courteously,  as  he  always  does 
those  who  have  the  privilege  of  being 
presented  to  him.  He  afforded  to  Sir 
Gardner  every  facilitv  for  seeing  the 
country,  and  engaged  his  secretuy  to 
draw  up  for  him  a  prdcis  of  Monte- 
negrin history.  We  will  condense 
some  of  its  more  important  facts. 
The  supremacy  in  things  spiritual  and 
temporal  has  not  been  very  long' 
vested,  as  it  at  present  is,  in  the  per- 
son of  the  Vladika.  The  two  chieftain- 
ships were  of  old  distinct,  and  the 
figment  of  a  separate  temporal  autho- 
rity was  continued  till  comparatively 
lately :  the  year  1832  is  mention^ 
as  the  epoch  at  which  the  office  of 
civil  chief  was  definitely  suppressed. 
The  present  family  (Petrovicn)  have 
possessed  the  dignity  of  the  Vladikate 
since  the  dose  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  The  reigning  Vladika-;- 
this  man  of  magnificent  presentment 
— this  brave,  intellectual,  and  athletic 
ruler  of  an  indomitable  race  —  is 
nephew  of  the  late  Vladika,  who  has 
been  canonised,  although  but  few 
years  have  passed  since  his  death. 
The  prince-bishop  is  not  theoretically 
absolute  in  power,  as  the  form  of  a 
republic  is  kept  up :  the  general 
assembly  has  the  right  of  deliberation, 
nnder  the  presidency  of  the  Vladika. 
But  this  restriction  of  power  is 
pretty  nearly  nominal  only  :  we  give 
Sir  Gardner*s  account  of  the  native 
Diet. 

**  In  a  semicircular  recess,  formed  by 
the  rocks  on  one  side  of  the  plain  of 
Tzetini^,  and  about  half  a  mile  to  the 
southward  of  the  town,  is  a  level  piece  of 
grass  land,  with  a  thicket  of  low  poplar 
trees.  Here  the  diet  is  held,  from  which 
the  spot  has  roceired  the  name  of  mali 
^r  (the  small  assembly.)  When  any 
matter  is  to  be  discussed,  the  people  meet 
in  this  their  Runimede,  or  '*  meadow  of 
council,"  and  partly  on  the  level  space, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Dahnatia  and  Montenegro. 


217 


partly  on  the  rookB^  xeoeiye  from  the 
Vladik*  notice  of  the  question  proposed. 
The  doiation  of  the  discossion  is  limited 
to  a  certain  time,  at  the  expiration 
of  which  the  assemhly  is  expected  to 
oome  to  a  decision ;  and  when  the 
monastery  bell  orders  silence,  notwith- 
standing the  most  animated  discussion,  it 
is  instantly  restored.  The  Metropolitan 
asks  again  what  is  their  decision,  and 
whether  they  agree  to  his  proposal  or  not. 
The  answer  is  always  the  same  :  *'  Budi 
po  to  oyema,  Vladika,''-^**  Let  it  be  as 
then  wishest,  V^adika." 

Montenegro  first  secured  its  Inde- 
pendence about  a  generation  or  two 
before  the  time  of  the  famous  Scan- 
derbeg,  on  the  breaking  np  of  the 
kingdom  of  Servia.  Since  that  time 
they  haye  constantly  been  subject  to 
the  inroads  of  the  Turks,  who>  claiming 
them  as  tributaries,  have  continued 
to  invade  their  countiy  every  now 
and  then  with  savage  crueltv.  More 
than  once  they  have  carried  fire  and 
sword  to  Tzetini^  but  have  never 
been  able  to  hold  their  ground.  The 
Montenegrins  sought  the  protection  of 
Bussia  in  the  time  of  Peter  the  Great, 
and  still  continue  to  be  sub^dised  by 
Russia.  At  the  desire  of  Peter,  they 
invaded  the  Turkish  territory,  and 
were  subjected  to  reprisals  on  a  grand 
scale.  At  one  time  60,000  Turks,  at 
another  120,000,  broke  into  Monte- 
negro. The  first  invasion  was 
gloriously  repulsed ;  but  the  second, 
combining  treachery  with  violence, 
was  successful.  Great  damage  was 
done  to  the  country ;  but  the  invaders 
were  at  last  obliged  to  quit,  on  the 
breaking  out  of  war  between  Turkey 
and  Venice.  The  Montenegrins  then 
returned  to  their  desolate  homes,  and 
have  since  been  unintermitting  in 
their  diligence  to  pay  off  old  scores. 
They  co-operated  with  the  Austrians 
and  Russians,  when  they  had  the 
opportunity  of  such  assistance ;  and 
when  thev  stood  alone,  they  did  so 
nobly  and  bravely.  The  last  great 
expedition  of  the  Turks  was  in  the 
time  of  the  late  Yladika.  The  Pasha 
of  Scutari,  with  an  enormous  force, 
invaded  the  countiy ;  and  the  result 
of  the  expedition  was  that  30,000 
Turks  were  killed,  and  among  them 
the  Pasha  of  Albania,  whose  head 
now  serves  as  a  trophy  of  victory  to 
decorate  Tzetini^ 

The  capital  of  the  Yladika   has 


been  described  before— for  instance,  in 
the  pages  of  this  Magazine ;  so,  with 
one  brief  extract  concerning  it,  we 
will  follow  Sir  Gardner  in  his  progress 
through  the  country. 

^On  a  rock  immediately  above  the 
convent  is  a  ronnd  tower  pierced  with 
embrasures,  but  without  cannon,  on  which 
I  counted  the  heads  of  twenty  Turks 
fixed  upon  stakes  round  the  parapet — the 
trophies  of  Montenegrin  victory;  and  be- 
low, scattered  upon  the  rock,  were  the 
fhigments  of  other  skulls, which  had  fallen 
to  pieces  by  time, — a  strange  spectacle  in 
a  Christian  country,  in  Europe,  and  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  a  conyent  and  a 
bishop's  palace  !  '* 

And,  as  we  said  before,  when  he 
got  to  Mostar,  in  Herzegovina,  he 
found  a  spectacle  of  the  same  shock- 
ing kind.  He  did  allow  his  horror  at 
this  sight  to  evaporate  ineffectually ; 
but  in  earnest  tried  to  interpose  his 
good  ofilces  to  prevent  a  continuance 
of  these  doings.  He  talked  to  the  two 
people  mainly  concerned — ^i.  e,  to  the 
Vizur  of  Herzegovina  and  to  the  Yla- 
dika. He  also,  at  Constantinople, 
endeavoured  to  effect  the  making  of 
an  appeal  to  the  highest  Turkish  au- 
thority. His  correspondence  with  the 
Yladika  on  the  subject  is  evidence  of 
his  zeal ;  but  no  positive  good  seems 
to  have  been  the  result  of  his  inter- 
cession. 

The  road  leading  from  the  capital 
to  Ostrok  is  described  as  being  very 
bad  at  first,  and  bad  beyond  descrip- 
tion as  it  recedes  from  the  capital. 
The  Yladika  kindly  sent  with  Sir 
Gardner  one  of  his  guards  and  an  in- 
terpi^eter.  The  par^  passed  by  seve- 
ral villages,  and  arrived  at  Mishke, 
the  prindpal  village  of  the  Cevo  dis- 
trict, where  they  put  up  for  the  night 
at  the  house  of  the  principal  senator 
of  the  province.  Here  some  amuse- 
ment was  afforded  by  Sir  Gardner^s 
proceeding  to  sketch  tiie  domestic 
party. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  a  scene 
occurred,  which  sets  forth  their  social 
condition  as  graphically  as  the  artist's 
pencil  has  their  personal  appearance. 
A  party  of  friends  came  in  to  have  a 

3 met  pipe,  and  to  plan  a  foray  over 
ie  border. 

"On  inquiry, I  found  the  expedition 
was  to  take  place  immediately.  **  Is  there 
not,"  I  asked,  **  a  truce  at  this  moment 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


218 


DcJmatia  and  M<mieneffro. 


[Feb. 


between  too  mnd  the  Turks  of  Hene- 
goyinftf'  They  laughed,  and  seemed 
much  amnsed  at  my  sornples.  ''We 
don't  mind  that/'  said  a  stern  swarthy 
man,  taking  his  pipe  firom  his  month^and 
sha^ng  his  head  to  and  fro; ''they  are 
Tnrks  "—and  all  agreed  that  the  Turks 
were  fkir  game.  "  Besides,"  they  said, 
^'  it  is  only  to  be  a  phmdering  ezcnrsion;" 
and  they  eridently  eonsidered  that  any 
one  reftising  to  join  in  a  marauding  expe- 
dition into  Torkey,  at  any  time,  or  in  an 
open  attack  during  a  wur,  would  be  un- 
worthy the  name  of  a  brare  man.  They 
seemed  to  treat  the  matter  like  boy  sin  "the 
good  old  times,"  who  robbed  orchards  ; 
the  courage  it  showed  being  in  proportion 
to  the  risk,  and  scruples  of  consdenee 
were  laughed  at  as  a  want  of  spirit." 

In  a  freshly-decapitated,  head,  af- 
^ed  to  a  stake  at  Mostar,  he  shortly 
afterwards  recognised  the  features  of 
one  of  these  very  men. 

On  the  next  day  he  proceeded  to 
Ostrok,  and  foond  occasion  to  admire 
the  scenery  by  the  way,  especially  the 
vale  of  Oranido,  distant  from  Mlshke 
abontfonr  hours.  From  the  vale  of 
Oranido  to  Ostrok  is  a  jonmey  of 
about  the  same  time.  At  Ostrok  he 
underwent  a  grand  reception,  and 
fully  won  the  hearts  of  his  new  friends 
by  proposing  a  ride  to  the  Turkish 
frontier,  and  affording  them  by  the 
way  an  exhibition  of  Memlook  riding. 
On  the  frontier  is  constantly  maintain- 
ed a  guard  of  Montenegrins,  to  g^ve 
timely  warning  of  any  suspicious 
movement  among  the  Turks ;  and  so 
well  do  they  execute  this  office  that 
no  Turk  can  approach  the  border 
without  being  shot  at.  Near  this 
border  it  was  that,  some  little  time 
ago,  in  1843,  an  affair  took  place 
which  does  not  tell  well  for  the  Mon- 
tenegrin!; and  which  seems  for^the  pre- 
sent to  preclude  hope  of  amicable  ar- 
rangement with  the  Turks.  A  depu- 
tation of  twenty-two  Turks,  returning 
fixMn  Ostrok,  were  attacked  by  the 
people,  and  nine  of  them  killed.  This 
breach  of  £uth  is,  to  their  minds, 
excused  by  the  suspicion  of  meditated 
treachery  on  the  part  of  the  Tnrks. 
But  it  Is  a  sad  affiur ;  and  the  only 
eircnmstance  which  goes  in  mitiga- 
tion of  its  guilt  IS,  that  the  Yladika 
took  precautions  against  its  occur- 
rence.    He  sent  an  armed  guard  to 


protect  the  deputation,  bat  fiieir  de- 
fence proved  insufficient. 

The  Archimandrite  of  Ostrok  is  the 
person  who  holds  the  place  of  second 
dignity  in  the  government.  He  ranks 
next  to  the  Yladika  ;  and  we  are  glad 
to  find,  bv  Sir  Gardner's  account,  that 
he  cordially  co-operates  with  the  Yla- 
dika in  his  plans  of  amelioration.  Here 
also  was  met  the  celebrated  priest  and 
warrior,  Ivan  Knezovich,  or  Pope  Yo- 
van — a  man  who,  in  this  nation  of 
brave  men,  is  renowned  as  the  bravest. 
There  are  two  convents  at  Ostrok,  of 
which  one  fulfils  also  the  function  of 
powder  magazine  and  store  depot.  Its 
position  is  very  remarkable ;  and  cer- 
tainly it  does  bear  a  strong  family 
likeness  to  Megaspelion.  The  same 
quality  of  not  being  within  reach  of 
any  missile  from  above  belongs  to  both 
of  them,  and  has  proved  the  saving  of 
both. 

The  return  to  Tzetini^  was  by  a 
different  route,  which  took  Sir  Gaixl- 
ner  within  near  vi^w  of  the  northern 
end  of  the  lake  of  Scutari.  The  island 
of  Yranina,  situated  at  this  extremity 
of  the  lake,  is  likely  to  afford  the  next 
ostensible  ground  for  an  outbreak.  It 
belonged  to  Montenegro,  but,  a  few 
years  ago,  was  treacherously  seized 
by  the  Albanians,  who  effected  a  sur- 
prise in  time  of  peace.  Remon- 
strances and  hard  blows  have  equally 
failed  to  promote  a  restoration,  et  ad- 
hue  subjtuUce  lis  est.  Throughout  the 
course  of  his  journey,  Sir  Gardner  ex- 
perienced much  and  genoine  kindness 
from  the  rude  people  of  the  coantry ; 
they  brought  him  presents  of  such 
'  things  as  they  had  to  offer,  and  would 
accept  no  compensation.  When  at  last 
he  bade  them  farewell,  and  returned 
to  the  haunts  of  civilisation,  it  was 
evidently  with  kindly  recollections  of 
them,  and  with  the  best  of  good-will 
towards  them.  He  was  able  to  give 
a  satisfactory  account  of  his  impres- 
sions to  the  Yladika,  who  inquired 
thus,—"  What  do  you  think  of  the 
peojAe?  Do  they  appear  to  jon  the 
assassins  and  barbarians  some  people 
pretend  to  consider  them  ?  I  hope  you 
fapnd  them  all  well-behaved  and  civil 
— they  are  poor,  but  that  does  not 
prevent  their  beiuig  hospitable  and 
generous.** 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S49.]  Modem  Biogirqihif.^BeaUie'i  Life  of  Can^beli. 


219 


MODERN  BIOORAPBT. 


BBATHIS  LIFB  OF  CAMPBELL. 


Thx  ancients,  who  liyed  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  fiuigs  and  feelers  of 
the  printiDg  press,  had,  in  one  respect, 
a  decided  advantage  orer  ns  nnlncky 
modems.  They  were  not  beset  by 
the  terrors  of  biomphy.  No  hideous 
suspicion  that,  uter  he  was  dead  and 
gone-^after  the  wine  had  been  poured 
upon  the  hissing  embers  of  the  pyre, 
and  the  ashes  consigned,  by  the  hands 
of  weeping  friends^  to  the  oblivion  of 
the  funereal  urui^-some  industrious 
gossip  of  his  acquaintance  would  in- 
continently sit  down  to  the  task  of 
laborious  compilation  and  collection 
of  his  literary  scrap8,reTer  crossed, 
like  a  sullen  shadow,  the  imagination 
of  the  Greek  or  the  Latm  poet.  Ho- 
mer, though  Arctinus  was  his  near  re« 
lative«  comd  unbosom  himself  without 
the  fear  of  having  his  frailties  post* 
hnmouslv  exposed,  or  his  amours 
blazoned  to  the  world.  Lucius  Yarius 
mnd  Plotius  Tucca,  the  literary  exe- 
cutors of  Virgil,  never  dreamed  of 
applying  to  PoUio  for  the  I  O  Us 
wbidi  he  doubtless  held  in  the  hand- 
writing of  the  Mantuan  bard,  or  to 
Horace  fbr  the  confidential  notes 
suggestive  of  Falemian  inspbration. 
Socrates,  indeed,  has  found  a  liberal 
reporter  in  Plato  ;  but  this  is  a  par- 
donable exception.  The  son  of  So- 
phroniscns  did  not  write ;  and  there- 
fore it  was  incumbent  on  his  pupil  to 
preserve  fbr  posterity  the  fragments  of 
nis  oral  wisdom.  The  ancient  authors 
rested  their  reputation  upon  theur  pub- 
lished works  alone.  They  knew,  what 
we  seem  to  forget,  that  the  poet, 
apart  from  his  genius,  is  but  an  ordi- 
nary man»  and,  in  many  cases,  has 
received,  along  with  that  gift,  a  larger 
share  of  propensities  and  weaknesses 
than  his  fellow-mortals.  Therefore 
it  was  that  they  insisted  upon  that 
right  of  domestic  privacy  which  is 
ooromon  to  us  all.  The  poet,  in  his 
public  capacity  as  an  author,  held 
himself  responsible  for  what  he  wrote ; 
but  he  had  no  idea  of  allowing  the 
whole  worid  to  walk  into  his  house. 


open  his  desk,  read  his  love-letters, 
and  criticise  the  state  of  his  finances. 
Had  Yarius  and  Tucca  acted  on  the 
modem  system,  the  ghost  of  Yirgil 
would  have  haunted  them  on  their 
death-beds.  Only  think  what  a  le- 
gacy might  have  been  ours  if  these 
respectable  gentlemen  had  written  to 
Cremona  for  anecdotes  of  the  poet 
while  at  school  I  No  doubt,  in  some 
private  nook  of  the  old  farm-house  at 
Andes,  there  were  treasured  up, 
through  the  infinite  love  of  the  mo- 
ther, tablets  scratched  over  with 
verses,  composed  by  young  Master 
Maro  at  the  precocious  age  of  ten. 
We  may,  to  a  certainty,  calculate — 
for  matemal  fondness  always  has  been 
the  same,  and  Yirgil  was  an  oply 
child — that,  in  that  emporium,  themes 
upon  such  topics  as  ^^  Virtus  est  sola 
nobUitas  "  were  religiously  treasured, 
along  with  other  memorials  of  the 
dear,  dear  boy  who  had  gone  to  col- 
lege at  Naples.  Modem  Yarius  would 
remorselessly  have  printed  these: 
ancient  Tucca  was  more  discreet. 
Then  what  say  yon  to  the  college 
career?  Would  it  not  be  a  nice  thing 
to  have  all  the  squibs  and  feuds,  the 
rows  and  rackettings  of  the  jovial 
student  preserved  to  us  precisely  as 
they  were  penned,  projected,  and 
perpetrated  ?  Have  we  not  lost  a  great 
deal  in  bemg  defrauded  of  an  account 
of  the  manner  in  which  he  singed  the 
wig  of  his  drunken  old  tutor,  Par« 
thenius  Nicenus,  or  the  scandalously 
late  hours  which  he  kept  In  company 
with  his  especial  chums?  Then  somes 
the  period,  darkly  hinted  at  by  Do- 
natus,  during  which  he  was,  somehow 
or  other,  connected  with  the  imperial 
stable ;  that  is,  we  presume,  upon  the 
turf.  What  would  we  not  give  for 
a  sight  of  Yirgil^s  betting-book  1  Did 
he  back  the  field,  or  did  he  take 
tiie  odds  on  the  Emperor's  bay 
mare.  Alma  Yenus  Genetrix?  How 
stood  he  with  the  legs?  What  sort 
of  reputation  did  be  maintain  in 
the  rmg  of  the  Roman  Tattersall? 


L^andLetteretfThonuuCamphM.    Edited  by  William  Bbaiii^  M.D^  one  of 
bis  Ezeentors.    3  vols.    London :  Jf ooum,  IMS, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Modem  Biography.^BeattU'B  Life  qf  CampbeU.  [Feb. 


220 

Was  he  ever  posted  as  a  defaulter  ? 
Tocca !  you  should  have  told  us 
this.  Then,  when  sobered  down,  and 
in  high  favour  with  the  court,  where 
is  the  private  correspondence  between 
him  and  MsBcenas,  the  President  of 
the  Roman  Agricultural  Society, 
touching  the  compilation  of  the 
Greorgics?  The  excellent  Equestrian, 
we  know,  wanted  Virgil  to  construct 
a  poem,  such  as  Thomas  Tnsser  after- 
wards wrote,  under  the  title  of  a  ^^Hon- 
dreth  Good  Points  of  Husbandfie,^^ 
and,  doubtless,  waxed  warm  in  his 
letters  about  draining,  manure,  and 
mangel-wurzel.  What  sacrifice  would 
we  not  make  to  place  that  correspon- 
dence in  the  hands  of  Henry  Stephens! 
How  the  author  of  the  Book  of  the 
Farm  would  revel  in  his  exposure  of 
the  crude  theories  of  the  Minister  of 
the  Interior  I  What  a  formidable 
phalanx  of  facts  would  he  oppose  to 
Mqpcenas*  misconceptions  of  guano! 
Through  the  sensitive  delicacy  of  his 
executors,  we  have  lost  the  record  of 
Virgil^s  repeated  larks  with  Horace : 
the  pleasant  little  supper-parties  cele- 
brated at  the  villa  of  that  dissipated 
rogue  Tibullus,  have  passed  firom  the 
memory  of  mankind.  We  know 
nothing  of  the  state  of  his  finances, 
for  they  have  not  thought  fit  to  pub- 
lish his  banking-account  with  the 
firm  of  Lollius,  SpursBna,  and  Com- 

Cany.  Their  duty,  as  they  fondly 
elieved,  was  fulfilled,  when  they  gave 
to  the  world  ^the  glorious  but  un- 
finished iBneid. 

Under  the  modem  system,  we  con- 
stantly ask  ourselves  whether  it  is 
wise  to  wish  for  greatness,  and 
whether  total  oblivion  is  not  prefer- 
able to  fame,  with  the  penalty  of 
exposure  annexed.  We  shudder  at 
the  thoughts  of  putting  out  a  book, 
not  from  fear  of  anything  that  the 
critics  can  do,  but  lest  it  should  take 
with  the  public,  and  expose  us  to  the 
danger  of  a  posthumous  biography. 
Were  we  to  awake  some  fine  morn- 
ing, and  find  ourselves  famous,  our 
peace  of  mind  would  be  gone  for  ever. 
Mefcy  on  us!  what  a  quantity  of 
foolish  letters  have  we  not  written 
during  the  days  of  oujr  youth,  under  the 
confident  impression  that,  whcfn  read, 
they  would  be  immediately  committed 
to  the  flames. '  Madrigals  innumerable 
recur  to  our  memory;  and,  if  these 


were  published,  there  would  be  no  rest 
for  us  in  the  grave !  If  any  misguided 
critic  should  say  of  us,  "  The  works 
of  this  author  are  destined  to  descend 
to  posterity,"  our  response  would  be 
a  hollow  groan.  If  convinced  that 
our  biography  would  be  attempted, 
from  that  hour  the  friend  of  our  bosom 
would  appear  in. the  light  of  a  base 
and  ignominious  spy.  How  durst  we 
ever  unbosom  ourselves  to  him,  when, 
for  aught  we  know,  the  wretch  may 
be  treasuring  up  our  casual  remariu 
over  the  fifth  tumbler,  for  immediate 
registration  at  home?  Constitution- 
ally we  are  not  hard-hearted ;  but, 
were  we  so  situated,  we  own  that  the 
intimation  of  the  decease  of  each  eariy 
acquaintance  would  be  rather  a  relief 
than  otherwise.  Tom,  our  intimate 
fellow- student  at  college,  dies.  We 
may  be  sorry  for  the  family  of  Thomas, 
but  we  soon  wipe  away  the  natural 
drops,  discovering  that  there  is  balm 
in  Gilead.  We  used  to  write  him 
letters,  detailing  minutely  our  inward 
emotions  at  the  time  we  were  dis- 
tractedly in  love  with  Jemima  Higgin- 
botham ;  and  Tom,  who  was  sdways 
a  methodical  dog,  has  no  doubt  doc- 
queted  them  as  received.  Tom*s  heirs 
will  doubtless  be  too  keen  upon  the 
scent  of  valuables,  to  care  one  farthing 
for  rhapsodising:  therefore,  unless 
they  are  sent  to  the  snuff-merchant, 
or  disseminated  as  autographs,  our 
epistles  run  a  fair  chance  of  perishing 
by  the  flames,  and  one  evidence  of 
our  weakness  is  removed.  A  member 
of  the  club  meets  us  in  George  Street, 
and,  with  a  rueful  longitude  of  coun- 
tenance, asks  us  if  we  have  heard  of 
the  death  of  poor  Harry?  To  the 
eternal  disgrace  of  human  nature,  be 
it  recorded,  that  our  heart  leaps  up 
within  us  like  a  foot-ball,  as  we  hypo- 
critically have  recourse  to  our  cam- 
bric Harry  knew  a  great  deal  too 
much  about  our  private  history  just 
before  we  joined  the  Yeomanry,  and 
could  have  told  some  stories,  little 
flattering  to  our  posthumous  renown. 
Are  we  not  right,  then,  in  holding 
that,  under  the  present  system,  cele- 
brity is  a  thing  to  be  eschewed? 
Why  is  it  that  we  are  so  chary  of 
receiving  certidn  Down-Easters,  so 
different  firom  the  real  American 
gentlemen  whom  it  is  our  good  for- 
tune to  know  f  Simply  because  Silas 


L^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


Modem  Biogrc^hy.-^BeatHe'a  Life  of  Campbell. 


S21 


Fixings  will  take  down  your  whole 
conversation  in  black  and  white,  de- 
liberately  alter  it  to  snit  his  private 
purposes,  and  Transatlantlcally  retail 
It  as  a  specimen  of  your  Ufe  and 
opinions.  And  is  it  not  a  still  more 
horrible  idea  that  a  Silas  may  be  per- 
petually watching  you  in  the  shape 
of  a  pretended  friend  ?  If  the  man 
woula  at  once  declare  his  intention, 
yon  mi£^t  be  comparatively  at  ease. 
Even  in  that  case  yon  never  could 
love  him  more,  for  the  confession  im- 
plies a  disgusting  determination  of 
outliving  you,  or  rather  a  hint  that 
your  health  is  not  remarkably  robust, 
which  would  irritate  the  meekest  of 
mankind.  But  you  might  be  enabled, 
through  a  strong  effort,  to  repress 
the  outward  exhibition  of  your  wrath ; 
and,  if  high  religious  principle  should 
deter  you  from  mixing  stiychnia  or 
prussic  acid  with  the  wine  of  your 
volunteering  executor,  you  may  at 
least  contrive  to  blind  him  by  cau- 
tiously maintaining  your  guard. 
Were  we  placed  in  such  a  trying 
position,  we  should  utter,  before  our 
intending  Boswell,  nothing  save  senti- 
ments which  might  have  flowed  from 
the  lips  of  the  TiBnerable  Bede.  What 
letters,  full  of  morality  and  high  feeling, 
would  we  not  indite  I  Not  an  invita- 
tion to  dinner—not  an  acceptance  of 
a  tea  and  turn-out,  but  should  be 
flavoured  with  some  wholesome  apo- 
thegm. Thus  we  should  strive, 
through  our  later  correspondence,  to 
efface  the  memory  of  the  earlier, 
which  it  is  impossible  to  recall, — not 
without  a  hope  that  we  might  throw 
upon  it,  if  posthumouslv  produced,  a 
tolerable  imputation  of  forgery. 

In  these  times,  we  repeat,  no  man 
of  the  least  mark  or  likehhood  is  safe. 
The  waiter  with  the  bandy-legs,  who 
hands  round  the  negus-tray  at  a 
blue-stocking  coterie,  Is  in  all  proba- 
bility a  leadinff  contributor  to  a  fifth- 
rate  periodica ;  and,  in  a  few  days 
after  you  have  been  rash  enough 
to  accept  the  insidious  beverage, 
M^Tavish  will  be  correcting  the  proof 
of  an  article  in  whidi  your  appear- 
ance and  conversation  are  described. 
Distrust  the  gentleman  in  the  plush 
terminations ;  he,  too,  is  a  penny-a- 
liner,  and  keeps  a  commonplace-book 
in  the  pantry.  Better  pve  up  writ- 
ing at  once  than  live  in  such  a  per- 


petual state  of  bondage.  What 
amount  of  present  fame  can  recom- 
pense you  for  being  shown  up  as  a 
noodle,  or  worse,  to  your  children's 
children?  Nay,  recollect  this,  that 
you  are  implicating  your  personal, 
and,  perhaps,  most  innocent  friends. 
Bob  accompanies  you  home  from  an 
insurance  society  dinner,  where  the 
champagne  has  been  rather  super- 
abundant, and,  next  morning,  you,  as 
a  bit  of  fun,  write  to  the  Fresident 
that  the  watchman  had  picked  up 
Bob  in  a  state  of  helpless  inebriety 
fh>m  the  kennel.  The  President,  after 
the  manner  of  the  Fogies,  duly  docquets 
your  note  with  name  and  date,  and 
puts  it  up  with  a  parcel  of  others, 
secured  by  red  tape.  You  die.  Your 
literary  executor  writes  to  the  Presi- 
dent, stating  his  biographical  inten- 
tions, and  requesting  all  documents 
that  may  tend  to  l£row  light  upon 
your  personal  history.  Preses,  in 
deep  ecstasj  at  the  idea  of  seeing  his 
name  in  pnnt  as  the  recipient  of  your 
epistolary  favours,  immediately  trans- 
mits the  packet ;  and  the  consequence 
is,  that  Robert  is  most  unjustly 
handed  down  to  posterity  in  the 
character  of  a  habitual  drunkard, 
although  it  is  a  fact  that  a  more 
abstinent  creature  never  went  home 
to  his  wife  at  ten.  If  you  are  an 
aqthor,  and  your  spouse  is  aUing, 
don't  ^ve  the  details  to  your  intimate 
friend,  if  you  would  not  wish  to  pub- 
lish them  to  the  world.  Drop  all 
correspondence,  if  you  are  wise,  and 
have  any  ambition  to  stand  well  in 
the  eyes  of  the  coming  generation. 
Let  your  conversation  be  as  curt  as 
a  Quaker's,  and  select  no  one  for  a 
friend,  unless  you  have  the  meanest 
possible  opinion  of  his  capacity. 
Even  in  that  case  you  are  nardly 
secure.  Perhaps  the  best  mode  of 
combining  philanthropy,  society,  and 
safety,  is  to  have  nobody  in  the 
house,  save  an  old  woman  who  is  so 
utterly  deaf  that  you  must  order 
your  dinner  by  pantomime. 

One  mode  of  escape  suggests  itself, 
and  we  do  not  hesitate  to  recommend  it. 
Let  every  man  who  underiies  the  terror 
of  the  peine  forte  et  dure,  compile  his 
own  autobiography  at  the  ripe  age  of 
forty-flve.  Few  people,  in  this  coun- 
try, begin  to  establish  a  permanent 
reputation  before   thirty;    and   we 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Modem  Biography. — BeatUe^s  Life  of  CampMEL 


L 


222 

allow  them  fifteen  years  to  complete 
it.  Now,  sapposing  yonr  existence 
should  be  [nrotractea  to  seventy,  here 
are  clear  fiye-and-twenty  years  re- 
maining, which  may  be  profitably  em- 
ployed in  antobiography,  by  which 
means  yon  secure  three  vast  advan- 
tages. In  the  first  place,  yon  can 
deal  with  yonr  own  earlier  history 
as  yon  please,  and  provide  against 
the  subsequent  production  of  inconve- 
nient documents.  In  the  second  place, 
you  defeat  the  intentions  of  your  ex- 
cellent friend  and  gossip,  who  will 
hardly  venture  to  start  his  vdumes  in 
competition  withyour  own.  In  the  third 
place,  yon  leave  an  additional  copy- 
right as  a  legacy  to  your  children,  and 
are  not  haunted  in  your  last  moments 
\sf  the  agonising  thought  that  a  stran- 
ger in  name  and  blood  is  preparing  to 
make  money  by  your  decease.  It  is, 
of  course,  unnecessary  to  say  one  word 
regarding  the  general  tone  of  your 
memoirs.  If  yon  cannot  contrive  to 
block  out  such  a  fancy  portrait  <^ 
your  intellectual  self  as  shall  throw  all 
others  into  the  shade,  you  may  walk 
on  fearlessly  through  life,  for  your  bio- 
mphy  never  wUl  be  attempted. 
Goethe,  the  most  accomplished  literary 
fox  of  our  age,  perfectly  understood 
the  value  of  these  maxims,  and  fore- 
stalled his  friends,  by  telling  his  own 
story  in  time.  The  consequence  is, 
that  his  memory  has  escaped  unharm- 
ed. Little  Eckermann,  his  amanuen- 
sis in  extreme  old  age,  did  indeed 
contrive  to  deliver  himself  of  a  small 
Boswellian  volume ;  but  this  publica- 
tion, bearing  reference  merely  to  the 
dicta  of  Goethe  at  a  safe  period  of 
life,  could  not  injure  the  departed  poet 
The  repetition  of  the  early  history, 
and  the  publication  of  the  early  docu- 
ments, are  the  points  to  be  especially 
guarded. 

We  beg  that  these  remarks  may  be 
considered,  not  as  strictures  upon  any 
individual  example,  but  as  bearing 
npon  the  general  style  of  modem  bio- 
graphy. This  is  a  gossiping  world, 
m  which  great  men  are  the  excep- 
tions; and  when  one  of  these  ceases 
to  exist,  the  public  becomes  damorons 
to  learn  the  whole  minntiar  of  his  pri- 
vatelifo.  That  is  a  depraved  taste^  and 
one  which  ought  not  to  be  ^ratified. 
The  author  is  to  be  judged  by  we  works 
whi(^  he  voluntarily  surrenders  to  the 


[Feb, 


public,  not  by  the  tenor  of  his  private 
history,  which  ought  not  to  be  irrever- 
ently exposed.  Thus,  in  compiluig 
the  life  of  a  poet,  we  maintain  that  a 
litwary  executor  has  purely  a  literary 
function  to  pedlnrm.  Out  of  the  mass- 
of  materials  which  he'may  fortnit(Mialy 
collect,  his  duty  is  to  sdect  sndi  por- 
tions as  may  illustrate  the  public 
doings  of  the  man:  he  may,  without 
transgressing  the  boundaries  of  pro- 
priety, inform  us  of  the  drcumstanoes 
which  suggested  the  idea  of  any  par- 
ticular work,  the  difficulties  which 
were  overcome  by  the  author  in  the 
course  of  its  composition,  and  even 
exhibit  the  correspondence  relative 
thereto.  These  are  matters  of  liter- 
ary history  which  we  may  ask  for, 
and  obtain,  without  any  breach  of  the 
conventionsd  rules  of  society.  What- 
ever refers  to  public  life  is  pnblic,  and 
maybeprintea:  whatever  refers  solely 
to  domestic  existence  is  iMriviUe,  and 
ought  to  be  held  sacrea.  K  very 
little  reflection,  we  tlunk,  will  demon- 
strate the  propriety  of  this  distinction. 
If  we  have  a  dear  and  valued  friend, 
to  whom,  in  the  hours  of  adversity  or 
of  joy,  we  are  wont  to  communicate 
the  thoughts  which  lie  at  the  bottom 
of  our  soul,  we  write  to  him  in  the 
full  conviction  that  he  will  regard  these 
letters  as  addressed  to  himself  alone. 
We  do  not  insult  him,  nor  wrong  the 
holy  attributes  of  friendship  so  much, 
as  to  warn  him  against  commnnicat- 
ing  our  thou^ts  to  any  one  ehie  in 
the  world.  We  never  dream  that  he 
will  do  so,  else  assuredly  those  letters 
never  would  have  been  written.  If 
we  were  to  discover  that  we  had  so 
grievously  erred  as  to  repose  confi- 
dence in  a  person  who,  the  moment 
he  received  a  letter  penned  in  a  pajr- 
oxysm  of  emotion  and  revealing  a 
secret  of  our  existence,  was  capid)le 
of  exhibiting  it  to  the  cirde  of  his 
acquaintance,  of  a  surety  he  should 
never  more  be  troubled  with  any  of 
our  correspondence.  Would  any  man 
dare  to  print  such  documents  auring 
the  life  of  the  writer?  We  need  not 
pause  fi>r  a  reply :  there  can  be  but 
one.  And  wky  is  this?  Because 
these  communicattons  bear  (m  their 
fiice  the  stamp  of  the  strictest  privacy 
-—because  they  were  addressed  to, 
and  meant  for  the  eye  of  but  one 
hunan  bdng  in  the  universe— because 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Modem  Biogrtg>hy.'^Beattie^8  Lffe  of  Campbdi. 


ther  betray  the  emotkms  of  a  sonl 
which  asks  qrmpathy  from  a  friend, 
with  only  less  reyerence  than  it  im- 
plores comfort  from  its  God  I  Does 
death,  then,  free  the  friend  and  the 
confidant  from  all  restraint?  If  the 
knowledge  that  his  secret  had  been 
divulged,  his  agonies  exposed,  his 
weaknesses  surrendered  to  the  vulgar 
gaze,  conld  have  pained  the  lii^ig 
man — \a  nothing  dne  to  his  memory, 
now  that  he  is  laid  beneath  the  tmf, 
now  that  his  voice  can  nevermore  be 
raised  to  npbraid  a  violated  confi- 
dence? Many  modem  biographers, 
we  regret  to  say,  do  not  appear  to  be 
inflneneed  by  any  such  oonsideration. 
They  never  seem  to  have  asked  them- 
selves the  question—- Would  my  friend, 
if  he  had  been  compilmg  his  own  me- 
mdrs,  have  inserted  such  a  letter  for 
publication— does  it  not  refer  to  a 
mattereminently  private  and  personal, 
and  never  to  be  communicated  to  the 
world?  Instead  of  applyhig  this  test, 
they  print  everything,  and  rather 
plume  themselves  on  their  impartiality 
in  suppresdng  nothing.  They  thus 
exhibit  the  life  not  on^  of  the  author 
but  of  the  man.  Literary  and  per- 
sonal history  are  blended  tOfi;ether. 
The  senator  is  not  only  exhibited  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  but  we  are 
courteously  invited  to  attend  at  the 
aootmcAemenl  of  his  wiib. 

What  title  has  any  of  ns,  in  the 
Skbetraet,  to  write  the  private  history 
of  his  next-door  neighbour  ?  Be  he 
poet,  lawyer,  physician,  or  divine,  his 
private  sayings  and  doings  are  his  pro- 
perty, not  that  of  a  gaping  and  cunous 
public.  No  man  dares  to  say  to  another, 
**  Come,  my  good  fellow  I  it  is  full 
time  that  the  world  should  know  a 
little  about  your  domestic  concerns. 
I  have  been  keepoig  a  sort  of  note- 
book ot  your  proceedings  ever  since 
we  were  at  sdiool  together,  and  I  in- 
tend to  make  a  few  pounds  by  ex- 
hibithig  you  hi  your  true  colours. 
You  recollect  when  you  were  in  love 
with  old  Tomnoddy^s  daughter?  I 
have  written  a  capital  account  of  your 
interview  with  her  that  fine  forenoon 
in  the  Botanical  Qardensl  True, 
she  jilted  yon,  and  went  off  with 
young  Heavystem  of  the  Dragoons, 
but  the  pablic  wont  relish  the  scene  a 
bit  the  less  on  that  account  Hienl 
have  got  some  letters  of  yours  from 


223 

our  mutual  friend  Fitzjaw.   How  very 
hard-up  you  must  have  been  at  the 
time  when  you  supplicated  him  for 
twenty  pounds  to  keep  you  out  of  jail! 
You  were  rather  severe,  the  other  day 
when  I  met  you  at  dinner,  upon  your 
professional  brother  Jenkinson ;  but  I 
daresay  that  what  you  said  was  all 
very  true,  so  I  shall  publish  that  like- 
wise.    By  the  way — how  is   your 
wife  ?    She  had  a  lot  oi  money,  had 
she  not  ?    At  all  events  people  say 
so,  and  it  is  shrewdly  surmised  thiut 
you  did  not  marry  her  for  her  beauty. 
1  don't  mean  to  say  that  /  think  so, 
but  such  is  the  on  dit^  and  I  have  set 
it  down  accordingly  in  my  journal. 
Do,  pray,  tell  me  about  that  quarrel 
between  you   and  your  mother-in- 
law!     Is  it  true  that  she  threw  a 
joint-stool  at  your  head  ?    How  our 
friends    will    roar  when   they    see 
the   details  in  print!"    Is  the  case 
less  flagrant  if  the   manuscript   is 
not  sent  to  press,  until  our  neighbour 
is  deposited  in  his  coffin?    We  can- 
not percdve  the  difference.    If  the 
feelings  of  living  people  are  to  be 
taken  as  the  criterion,  only  one  of  the 
domestic  actors  is  removed  from  the 
stage  of  existence.    Old  Tomnoddy 
still  lives,  and  may  not  be  abundantly 
jpratified  at  the  fact  of  his  daughter's 
infidelity  and  elopement  being  pro- 
claimed.     The    intimation    of  the 
garden  scene,  hitherto  unknown  to 
Heavystem,   may   fill    his   warlike 
bosom  with  jealousy,  and  ultimately 
occasion  a  separation.    Fitzjaw  can 
hardly  compladn,  but  he  will  be  very 
furious  at  finding  his  refusal  to  accom- 
modate a  friend  appended  to  the  sup- 
plicating letter.    Jenkinson  is  only 
sorry  that  the  libeller  is  dead,  other- 
wise he  would  have  treated  him  to  an 
action  in  the  Jury  Court  The  widow 
believes  that  she  was  made  a  bride 
solely  for  the  sake  of  her  Califomian 
attractions,  and  reviles  the  memory 
of  her  spouse.    As  for  the  mother-in- 
law,  now  ^radui^y  dwindling  into 
dotage,  her  feelings  are 
great   consequence    to 
being.    Nevertheless,  i 
noxious  paragraph  in  t 
rcMid  to  her  by  a  shrill 
panion,  nature  makes 
rally,  her  withered  fran 
aj^tation,  and  she  fina 
ward  in  a  fit  of  hopeless 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Modem  Biogrij^.^BeaUi^B  Life  of  Can^phdl, 


224 

Such  is  a  feeble  pictnre  of  tbe  re- 
sults that  might  ensne  from  private 
biography,  were  we  all  permitted, 
without  reservation,  to  parade  the 
lives  and  domestic  drcamstances  of 
our  neighbours  to  a  greedy  and  gloat- 
in^  world.  Not  but  that,  u  our 
neighbour  has  been  a  man  of  sufficient 
distinction  to  deserve  commemoration, 
we  may  gracefully  and  skilfully  nar- 
rate 2dl  of  him  that  is  worth  the  know- 
ing. We  may  point  to  his  public  ac- 
tions, expatiate  on  his  achievements, 
and  recount  the  manner  in  which  he 
guned  his  intellectual  renown;  but  fur- 
ther we  ought  not  to  go.  The  confi- 
dences of  the  dead  should  be  as  sacred 
as  those  of  the  living.  And  here  we 
may  observe,  that  there  are  other 

Earties  quite  as  much  to  blame  as  the 
iographers  in  question.  We  allude 
to  the  friends  of  the  deceased,  who 
have  unscrupulously  furnished  them 
with  materials.  Is  it  not  the  fact 
that  in  very  many  cases  they  have 
divulged  letters  which, .  during  the 
writer's  lifetime,  they  would  have 
withheld  from  the  nearest  and  dearest 
of  their  kindred?  In  many  such 
letters  there  occur  observations  and 
reflections  upon  living  characters,  not 
written  in  malice,  but  still  sudi  as 
were  never  intended  to  meet  the  eyes 
of  the  parties  criticised;  and  these 
are  forthwith  published,  as  racy  pas- 
sages, likely  to  gratifv  the  appetite  of 
a  coarse,  vulgar,  and  mordinate  curio- 
sity. Even  this  is  not  the  worst. 
Survivors  may  grieve  to  learn  that 
the  friend  whom  they  loved  was  cap- 
able of  ridiculing  or  misrepresenting 
them  in  secret,  and  his  memory  may 
suffer  in  their  estimation ;  but,  put 
the  case  of  detailed  private  conversa- 
tions, which  are  constantly  foisted 
into  modem  biographies,  and  we  shall 
immediately  discover  that  the  inevit- 
able tendency  is  to  engender  dislikes 
among  living  parties.  Let  us  sup- 
pose that  three  men,  all  of  them  pro- 
fessional authors,  meet  at  a  dinner 
party.  The  conversation  is  very  lively, 
takes  a  literaiT  turn,  and  the  three 
gentlemen,  with  that  sportive  freedom 
which  is  very  common  in  a  societj 
where  no  treachery  Is  apprehended, 
pass  some  rather  poignant  strictures 
upon  the  writings  or  habits  of  their 
contemporaries.  One  of  them  either 
keeps  a  journal,  or  is  in  the  habit  of 


[Feb. 


writing,  for  the  amusement  of  a  con- 
fidentiid  friend  at  a  distance,  any 
literary  gossip  which  may  be  current, 
and  he  commits  to  paper  the  heads  of 
the  recent  dialogue.  He  dies,  and  his 
literary  executor  immediately  pounces 

rn  the  document,  and,  to  tiie  confti- 
i  of  the  two  living  critics,  prints  it. 
Every  literary  brother  whom  Uiev  have 
noticed  is  of  course  their  enemy  for  U/Ib. 
If,  in  private  society,  a  snob  is  dis- 
covered retailing  conversations,  he  is 
forthwith  cut  without  compunction. 
He  reads  his  detection  in  the  calm, 
cold  scorn  of  your  eye;  and,refening 
to  the  mirror  of  his  own  dim  and  dirty 
conscience,  beholds  the  reflection  of  a 
hound.  The  biographer  seems  to  con- 
sider himself  exempt  from  such  social 
secresy.  He  shelters  himself  under 
the  plea  that  the  public  are  so  deeply 
interested,  that  they  must  not  be  de- 
prived of  any  memorandum,  anecdote, 
or  jotting,  told,  written,  or  detailed 
by  the  gifted  subject  of  their  memoirs. 
Therefore  it  is  not  a  prudent  thing  to 
be  familiar  with  a  man  of  genius.  He 
may  not  betray  your  confidence,  but 
you  can  hardly  trust  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  his  chronicler. 

Such  are  our  deliberate  views  upon 
the  subject  of  biography,  and  we 
state  them  altogether  independent  of 
the  three  bulky  volumes  which  are 
now  lying  before  us  for  review. 

We  cordiallv  admit  that  it  was  right 
and  proper  that  a  life  of  Campbell 
should  be  written.  Although  he  did 
not  occupy  the  same  commanding 
position  as  others  of  his  renowned 
contemporaries  —  although  his  wri- 
tings have  not,  like  those  of  Scott« 
Byron,  and  Southey,  contributed 
powerfully  to  give  a  tone  and  idio- 
svncrasy  to  the  general  literature  of 
the  age — Campbell  was  nevertheless 
a  man  of  rich  genius,  and  a  poet  of 
remarkable  accomplishment.  It  would 
not  be  easy  to  select,  from  the  works 
of  any  other  writer  of  our  time,  so 
many  brilliant  and  polished  gems, 
without  fiaw  or  imperfection,  as  are 
to  be  found  amongst  his  minor  poems. 
Criticism,  in  dealing  with  these  ex- 
quisite lyrics,  is  at  fault.  If  some- 
times the  suspicion  of  a  certain  effemi- 
nacy haunts  us,  we  have  but  to  turn 
the  page,  and  we  arrive  at  some  mag- 
nificent, bold,  and  trumpet-toned  ditty, 


Digitized  by 


Google 


1849.] 


Modem  Biography. ^BeaUU^ 8  Life  of  Can^^beSL 


appealing  directl^r  from  the  heart  of 
the  poet  to  the  imagination  of  his 
andiencef  and  proving,  beyond  all 
cont^st^  that  power  was  his  glorious 
attribute.  Trae,  he  was  nneqnal ; 
and  towards  the  Latter  part  of  his  ca- 
reer, exhibited  a  mark^  failing  in  the 
qualities  which  originallY  sectved  his 
renown.  It  is  almost  impossible  to 
belieye  that  the  Pilgrim  of  Gkncoe, 
or  even  Theoibrict  was  composed  by 
the  author  of  the  Pleatures  of  Hope 
or  Gertrude;  and  if  you  place  tiie 
RUter  Bonn  beside  Hohenlinden  or  the 
Battle  ofiheBalticy  you  cannot  fail  to 
be  struoL  with  the  singular  diminu- 
tion of  power.  Campbell  started 
from  a  high  point— walked  for  some 
time  along  level  or  undulating  ground 
— and  then  began  rapidly  to  descend. 
This  is  not,  as  some  idle  critics  have 
maintained,  the  common  course  of 
genius.  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Shak- 
q)eare,  Milton,  Dryden,  Scott,  Byron, 
and  Wordsworth,  are  remarkable  in- 
stances to  the  contrary.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  promise  of  their 
youth,  their  matured  performances, 
eclipsing  their  earlier  efforts,  show 
us  that  genius  is  c^>able  of  almost 
boundless  cultivation,  and  that  the 
fire  of  the  poet  does  not  cease  to 
bum  less  brightly  within  him,  be- 
cause the  sable  of  his  haur  is  streaked 
with  gray,  or  the  furrows  deepening 
on  his  brow.  Sir  Walter  Scott  was 
upwards  of  thirty  before  he  began  to 
compose  in  earnest:  after  tiiurty, 
Campbell  wrote  scarcely  anything 
which  has  added  permanently  to  his 
reputation.  Extreme  sensitiveness, 
an  over-strained  and  fastidious  de- 
sire of  polishing,  and  sometimes 
the  pressure  of  outward  circum- 
staoces,  may  have  combined  to  damp 
his  early  udour.  He  evidently  was 
defident  in  that  resolute  peotina- 
city  of  labour,  through  whidi  alone 
great  results  can  be  achieved.  He 
aUowed  the  b^t  years  of  his  life  to  be 
frittered  away,  in  pursuits  which 
could  not  secure  to  him  either  addi* 
tional  flune,  or  tJie  more  substantial 
rewards  of  fortune :  and,  though  far 
from  being  actually  idle,  he  was  only 
indolently  active.  Campbell  wanted 
an  object  in  life.  Thus,  though  gifted 
with  powers  which,  diiected  towards 
one  ix>int,  were  capable  of  the  highest 
concentration,  we  find  him  scattering 
VOL.  ixv.— HO.  cocc. 


225 

these  in  the  most  desultory  and  care- 
less manner ;  and  surrendering  scheme 
after  scheme,  without  malung  the 
vigorous  effort  which  was  necessary 
to  secure  their  completion.  This  is  a 
fault  by  no  means  uncommon  in  liter- 
ature, but  one  which  is  highly  dan- 
gerous. No  work  requiring  great 
mental  exertion  should  be  undertaken 
rashly,  for  the  enthusiasm  which  has 

grompted  it  rapidly  subsides,  the 
ibour  becomes  distasteful  to  the  wri- 
ter, and  unless  he  can  bend  himself 
to  his  task  with  tiie  most  dogged 
perseverance,  and  a  determination  to 
vanquish  all  obstacles,  the  result  will 
be  a  fragment  or  a  failure.  Of  this  we 
find  two  notable  instances  recorded 
in  the  book  before  us.  Twice  in  his 
life  had  CampbeJl  meditated  the  con- 
struction of  a  great  poem,  and  twice 
did  he  relinquish  the  task.  Of  the 
Queen  of  the  North  but  a  few  lines 
remain:  of  his  favourite  projected 
epic  on  the  subject  of  Wsdlace, 
nothing.  Elegant  trifles,  sportive 
verses,  and  playful  epigrams  were, 
for  many  years,  the  last  fruits  of  that 
genius  wmch  had  dictated  the  Pka- 
sures  ofHope^  and  rejoiced  the  mari- 
ners of  England  with  a  ballad  worthy 
of  the  theme.  And  yet,  so  powerful 
is  early  assodation^so  universal  was 
the  recoffuition  of  the  transcendanfc 
genius  of  the  boy,  that  when  Camp- 
bell sank  Luto  the  grave,  there  was 
lamentation  as  though  a  great  poet 
had  been  stricken  down  in  his  prime, 
and  all  men  felt  that  a  brilliant  light 
had  gone  out  among  the  luminaries 
of  the  age.  Therefore  it  was  seemly 
that  his  memory  should  receive  that 
homage  which  has  been  rendered  to 
others  less  deserving  of  it,  and  that 
his  public  career,  at  least,  should  be 
traced  and  given  to  the  world. 

It  was  Campbell's  own  wish  that 
Dr  Seattle  should  undertake  his  bio- 
graphy. Few  perhaps  knew  the  mo- 
tives which  led  to  this  selection ;  for 
the  assiduity,  care,  and  filial  attach- 
ment, bestowed  for  years  by  the 
warm-hearted  physidan  upon  the 
poet,  was  as  unostentatious  as  it  was 
honourable  and  devoted.  Not  from 
the  pages  of  this  biograi>hy  can  the 
reader  form  an  adequate  idea  of  the 
extent  and  value  of  such  disinterested 
friendship :  indeed  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say,  that  the  rare  and  exemplary 
p 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Modem  BmgrofJ^-^BmiMs  L^^ComfMl. 


226 

kindA688  of  Dr  BefttUe  was  the  diief 
eonBoUtioa  of  Campbell  dimag  the 
later  peitod  of  hia  exiateiice.  It 
was  theref<»e  natural  that  the  dying 
poet  should  have  confided  this  trust 
to  one  of  whose  affection  he  was 
assured  by  so  many  rare  and  signal 
proo&;  andttis  wi&akindlyfeeliaff 
to  the  anthor  that  we  now  approach 
the  consideration  of  the  l^ierary  merits 
of  the  book. 

The  admira^n  of  Dr  Beattte  for 
the  genins  of  Campbell  has  in  some 
respMts  led  him  astray.  It  is  easy  to 
see  at  a  glance  that  his  measure  of 
admiration  is  not  of  an  ordinary  kind, 
bat  so  excessive  as  to  lead  lum  be* 
yond  all  limit  He  seems  to  hare 
regarded  Campbell  lurt  merely  as  a 
great  poet,  bat  as  the  great  poet  of  the 
age ;  and  he  as  unwilling,  sBsthetically, 
to  admit  any  material  diminution  of 
his  powers.  He  still  clings  with  a 
certain  fkith  to  Tkeodric ;  and  declines 
to  perceive  any  palpable  fiulure  even 
in  the  Pilgrim  of  Olencoe,  Yerees 
and  fragments  which,  to  the  casual 
reader,  convey  anything  but  ^k»  im- 
pression of  excellence,  toe  liberally 
distributed  throuffhontthe  paces  of  the 
third  volume,  and  oomttiettted  on  with 
evident  rapture.  He  seems  to  think 
that,  in  the  case  of  his  author,  it  may 
be  said,  ^*^  NikU  tetigit  quod  non 
omaoitf^  and  accordingly  he  is  slow 
to  suppress,  even  where  suppression 
would  have  been  of  positive  advan- 
tage. In  sh(Mrt,  he  is  too  fhll  of  his 
subject  to  do  it  justice.  In  tiie  hands 
of  a  skUfhl  and  less  biassed  artisan, 
the  materials  which  occi^y  these 
three  volumes,  extending  to  neariy 
fourteen  hundred  pa^es  of  print,  might 
have  been  condensed  into  one  highly 
interesting  and  popular  vdume.  We 
should  not  then,  it  is  true,  have  been 
£ftvoured  with  specimens  of  Camp- 
bell's college  exeit^ises,  with  the 
voluminous  chronides  of  his  iamOy, 
with  verses  written  at  the  age  of  ele- 
ven, or  with  oorrespondenoe  pmiy 
domestic;  but  we  firmly  believe 
that  the  reading  public  would  have 
been  gratefhl  to  Dr  Beattie,  had  he 
omitted  a  great  deal  of  matter  con- 
nected with  the  poet's  earlier  career, 
which  is  of  no  interest  whatever.  The 
CampbellB  of  Kiman  wete,  we  doubt 
not,  a  highly  respectable  sept,  and  per- 
formed their  dnty  as  kirk-^lders  for 


[Feb. 


many  generations  blamelesfl^  la  the 
parish  of  (Hassary.  But  it  was  not 
necessary  on  that  account  to  trace 
their  descent  firom  ^  Black  Kni|^  of 
Lochawe,  or  to  ^ve  the  parlacular 
histoiy  of  the  fiumly  for  more  than  a 
century  and  a  halt  Gtllespio-le- 
Camile  may  have  been  a  fine  €bUow  in 
his  day ;  but  we  utterly  deny,  in  the 
teeth  of  aU  the  Campbells  and  Eem- 
btes  in  the  wcnrld,  that  he  had  a  drop 
^  Norman  blood  in  his  veins.  It  is 
curious  to  find  the  poet,  at  a  snbse- 
quent  period,  engaged  in  a  ccnresponr 
dence,  as  to  the  common  ancestor  of 
these  names,  with  one  of  the  Eembles, 
who,  as  Mrs  Botler  somewhere  tri- 
uni^iantly  avers,  were  descended  fixmi 
the  kyrds  of  Can^o-bello.  Where 
that  favoured  region  mi^  be,  we  know 
not ;  bat  this  we  know,  that  in  Gaelic 
Cktmbetd  signifies  lofy-mmd^  and 
hence,  as  is  tiie  custom  with  primittve 
nations,  the  origin  of  the  name.  And 
let  not  the  sons  of  Diannid  be  of- 
fended at  this,  or  esteem  their  Tories 
less,  since  the  gallant  Camerons  owe 
tilieir  name  to  a  similar  confi>rmation 
of  the  nose,  and  the  Douglases  to 
l^eir  dark  complexion.  Having  put 
this  little  matter  of  family  etymology 
right,  let  us  return  to  Dr  Mattie. 

The  first  volume,  we  maintain,  is 
terribly  overioaded  by  trivial  details, 
and  spedmens  of  the  kind  to  which 
we  have  alluded.  We  need  not  enter 
into  these,  except  in  so  fkr  as  to  state 
that  Thomas  Campbell  was  the  young- 
est child  of  most  respectable  par^ts : 
that  his  &ther,  havmg  been  unfortu- 
nate in  business,  was  so  reduced  in 
circumstances,  that,  whilst  attending 
Glasgow  College,  tiie  young  student 
was  compelled  to  have  recourse  to 
teaching;  that  he  acquitted  himself 
adnuraUy,  and  to  the  satisfiicdon  of 
all  his  professors  in  the  literaiy 
classes ;  and  that,  for  one  vacation  at 
least,  he  resided  as  private  tutor  to  a 
fiunily  in  the  island  of  Mull.  He 
was  then  about  eighteen,  and  had 
already  exhibited  symptoms  of  a  rare 
poetical  talent,  particulariy  hi  transla* 
tions  firom  the  Greek.  Dr  Seattle's 
leal  as  a  biographer  may  be  gathered 
fimn  the  folk^dng  statement  ^^ 

'*  I  M^^lied  last  year  to  the  Bev. 
Dr  M'AHhmr,  of  Oafaiian  in  Mnll, 
raqnestingfaim  4oihvoir»e  with  s«eh 
tradltioiial  partieolan  wi^anitng  tiio 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


IBtf.] 


M$derm  Biognphf.-'BwaU't  lift  of  CampbeB. 


poei  M  might  still  be  cmteni  am<mg 
tbe  old  inliabitaiitsj  b«t  I  regret  to 

Sr  thftt  noihiiig  of  ioterest  has  re- 
ted.  'In  the  ooime  of  my  in- 
qmries,'  he  sajs,  'I  have  met  nith 
only  two  iadiyidiials  who  had  sees 
IfrCampbeU  while  he  was  im  Midi, 
and  the  araonnt  of  tiieir  infoniiatioa 
is  merely  that  he  was  a  very  preUy 
yMmg  mem.  Those  who  must  have 
been  personally  aoyiainted  with  him 
in  this  country,  haye,  like  himself^ 
descended  into  the  tomb ;  so  that  no 
aothentie  anecdotes  of  hmi  can  now 
be jfoeored  in  this  quarter.* " 

Tlure  is  a  mmplicity  in  this  which 
has  amnsed  ns  greatly.  Campbell,  in 
tiioee  di^rst  was  censpioooos  for  no- 
thing—«t  least,  for  no  aooompllsh- 
meat  which  oonld  be  iq^preciated  in 
tiiat  distant  island.  In  aU  probability 
two-Uiirds  of  the  hihabitants  of  the 
parish  were  Campbells,  who  expired 
m  ntter  ignoranoeof  the  art  of  writing 
their  names ;  so  that  to  ask  for  literary 
anecdotes,  at  the  distance  of  half  a 
caitmy,  was  ratiier  a  wori^  of  ssper- 


-For  two  3reaiB  more,  Campbdl  led 
« life  of  great  nneertainty.  He  was 
natnraUy  aTsrse  to  the  drudgery  of 
teaching— an  employ  meat  whi^  nerer 
can  be  congenial  to  a  poeticai  and 
creadTe  nature.  He  had  no  decided 
pedflection  for  any  of  the  learned  pro- 
lenioiis;  for  thongh  he  alternately 
betook  himsdf  to  the  ttndy  of  law, 
physic,  aad  dirhu^,  it  was  hardly 
widi  a  serious  porpose.  He  visited 
Edinbmrgh  in  seardi  of  literary  em- 

eoyment,  was  for  some  time  a  derk 
a  writer^i  office,  and,  throns^  the 
kindness  of  ttie  late  Dr  Andenon, 
editor  of  a  eoHedtai  of  the  British 
poets,— A  man  who  was  ever  eager  to 
admowledffe  and  enconraffe  gemns,— 
he  reoeiFed  his  first  introdnction  to  a 
boctoeHiag  finn.  From  tikem  he  re- 
ceived some  Httle  employment,  bnt 
not  of  a  natore  suited  to  Mb  taste; 
and  we  soon  aAerwards  find  him  hn 
(»asgow,  meditating  tiie  estahliA- 
ment  of  a  magaEke— «  scheme  wfaidi 
proved  ntteriy  abortive. 

In  the  mean  time,  however,  he  had 
not  been  idle.  At  the  age  of  twen^ 
the  peelfcal  instinct  is  active,  and, 
even  tiioai^  no  audience  can  be  iMmd, 
the  rnnse  will  fovee  its  way.  Camp- 
bell had  aUeady  fennshited  two  plays 


227 

of  JBscfayltis  and  Euripides— an  exer- 
cise which  no  doubt  developed  largely 
his  powers  of  versification— and,  fur- 
ther, had  begun  to  compose  orighial 
l^c  verses.  In  the  foreign  edition  of 
his  works,  there  is  inserted  a  poem 
called  the  Dirse  of  Wallace,  written 
about  this  period,  which,  with  a  very 
little  concentration,  mi^  have  been 
rendered  as  perfect  as  any  of  his  later 
compositions.  Li  spirit  and  energy  it 
is  assuredly  inf(nior  to  none  of  them. 
"  But,"  says  Dr  Beattie,  "the  fasti- 
dious author,  who  tiionght  it  too 
rhapsodical,  never  bestowM  a  careftil 
revision  upon  it,  and  perdsted  in  ex- 
duding  it  firom  ail  t&e  London  edi- 
tions." We  hope  to  see  it  restored 
to  its  proper  place  in  the  next :  in 
the  mean  time  we  select  the  following 
noble  stanaas  :— 

**  Th«y  li|^kt«d  the  tapers  at  dead  of  night, 

And  chaonted  their  holiest  hymn : 
But  her  brow  and  her  hoeom  irere  damp  with 
aftignt, 
Her  eje  was  all  sleepleas  and  dim! 
And  the  Lady  of  BUerslie  wept  for  her  lord. 
When  a  death-watch  heat  in  h^r  lonely 
room, 
When  her  cnrtain  had  shook  of  its  own 


And  tiM  ivren  had  flapped  at  her  window 
baard| 
To  tell  of  her  warrior^s  doom. 

***  Now  sing  je  the  death-song,  and  londl  j  pray 
Forthe  soul  of  my  knight  so  dear  I 

And  call  me  a  widow  this  wretched  day, 
Since  the  warning  of  Goo  is  here. 

For  a  nightmare  re&  on  my  straocled  sleep; 
The  lord  of  my  bosom  is  doomed  to  die  I 

His  Tdorous  heart  ^ey  have  wounded  dera, 

And  the  blood-ied  tears  shaU  Uf   conntiy 

For^^SseeofEUenlieP 
«  Yet  knew  not  his  coontry,  that  omfnoos 


Ere  die  kmd  matin-bell  was  1     ^ 
That  the  tnunpet  of  death,  from  an  English 
tower. 

Had  the  diige  of  her  champion  song. 
When  his  dnngeon-light  looked  dim  and  red 

On  the  highborn  blood  of  a  martyr  sliiB| 
No  anthem  waa  sw«  al  Us  lowly  deatlikM— 
No  weeping  waa  tlMce  when  iUt  bosom  Ued, 

And  hit  neart  was  rent  in  twain. 

*<0h!  it  was  not  thns  when  his  ashen  spear 
Was  tnw  to  tiiat  knif^  Ibrlom, 

And  hosts  of  a  thouand  wen  aeatteved  Ilk* 
deer 
At  tha  blast  of  a  hanter*s  horn  t 

Whm  le  9tr9i0  o'er  Oe  wnok  </eaok  totUr 

WitkSSp^^kairtd  ckftfi  efhk  miiH 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Modem  Biograf^.^Beaitie^s  Life  of  Campbell. 


[Feb. 


For  his  hnoe  woi  not  tkivered  om  helmet  or 

And  the  stoord  that  ttasfit  for  archangel  to 
wield 
Wat  light  in  his  terrible  hand  f 

<'  Yet,  bleedingand  bound,  though  the  Wallace 
-wight 
For  his  long-loved  eountrj  die, 
The  hngle  ne*er  sungjto  a  braver  knight 

Than  WUliam  of  Ellertlie ! 
But  the  day  of  his  triumphs  shall  never  depart; 
His  head,  unentombed,  shall  with  glory  be 
palmed — 
From  its  blood-streaming  altar  his  spirit  shall 

start; 
Though  the  raven  has  fed  on  his  mouldering 
heart, 
A  nobler  was  never  embalmed  !  ^ 

Nothing  can  be  finer  than  the  lines 
we  have  quoted  in  Italics,  nor  per- 
haps did  Campbell  himself  ever  match 
them.  Local  reputations  are  dearlj 
cherished  in  the  west  of  Scotland,  and 
even  at  this  early  period  our  poet  was 
denominated  "  the  Pope  of  Glasgow." 

Again  Campbell  migrated  to  Edin- 
burgh, but  still  with  no  fixed  deter- 
mination as  to  the  choice  of  a  profes- 
sion :  his  intention  was  to  attend  tiie 
public  lectures  at  the  University,  and 
also  to  push  his  connexion  with  the 
booksellers,  so  as  to  obtain  the  means 
of  livelihood.  Failing  this  last  resource, 
he  contemplated  removing  to  America, 
in  which  country  his  eldest  brother 
was  permanently  settled.  Fortu- 
nately for  himself,  he  now  made  the 
acquaintance  of  several  young  men 
who  were  destined  afterwards  to 
attract  the  public  observation,  and  to 
>7in  great  names  in  different  brandies 
of  literature.  Among  these  were 
Scott,  Brougham,  Leyden,  Jeffi^y, 
Dr  Thomas  Brown,  and  Grahame,  the 
author  of  The  Sabbath,  Mr  John 
Richardson,  who  had  the  good  fortune 
to  remain  through  life  the  intimate 
friend  both  of  Scott  and  Campbell, 
was  also,  at  this  early  period,  tiie 
chosen  companion  of  the  latter,  and 
contributed  much,  by  his  judicious 
counsels  and  criticisms,  to  nerve  the 
poet  for  that  successfhl  effort  which, 
shortly  afterwards,  took  the  world  of 
letters  bv  storm.  Dr  Anderson  also 
continued  his literair  superintendence, 
and  anxiously  watched  over  the  pro- 
gress of  the  new  poem  upon  which 
Campbell  was  now  engaged.  At 
lengtii,  in  1799,  the  Pleaeures  of 
J7<>pe  appeared. 

Rarely  has  any  volume  of  poetry 


met  with  such  rapid  success.  Campbell 
had  few  living  rivals  of  established 
reputation  to  contend  with ;  and  the 
freshness  of  his  thought,  the  extreme 
sweetness  of  his  numbers,  and  the 
fine  taste  which  pervaded  the  whole 
composition,  fell  like  magic  on  the  ear 
of  the  public,  and  won  their  immediate 
approbation.  It  is  true  that,  as  a 
speculation,  this  volume  did  not  prove 
remarkably  lucrative  to  the  author: 
he  had  disposed  of  the  copyright 
before  publication  for  a  sum  of  sixty 
pounds,  but,  through  the  liberality  of 
the  publishers,  he  received  for  some 
years  a  further  sum  on  the  issue  of 
each  edition.  The  book  was  certainly 
worth  a  great  deal  more ;  but  many 
an  author  would  be  gUd  to  suirender 
all  daim  for  profit  on  his  first  adven- 
ture, could  he  be  assured  of  such 
valuable  popularity  as  Campbell  now 
acquired.  He  presently  became  a 
lion  in  Edmburgh  society ;  and,  what 
was  far  better,  he  secured  the  coun- 
tenance and  friendship  of  such  men  as 
Dugald  Stewart,  Henir  Mackenzie, 
Dr  Gregory,  the  Rev.  Archibald  Ali- 
son, and  Telford,  the  cdebrated  en- 
gineer. It  is  pleasant  to  know  that 
the  friendships  so  formed  were  inter- 
rupted only  by  death. 

Campbell  had  now,  to  use  a  com- 
mon but  familiar  phrase,  the  ball  at 
his  foot,  but  never  did  there  live  a 
man  less  capable  of  appreciating  op- 
portunity. At  an  age  when  most 
young  men  are  students,  he  had  won 
fame — ^fame,  too,  in  such  measure  and 
of  such  a  kind  as  secured  him 
against  reaction,  or  the  possibility  of 
a  speedy  neglect  following  upon  so 
rapid  a  success.  Had  he  deliberately 
followed  up  his  advantage  with  any- 
thing like  ordinary  diligence,  fortune 
as  well  as  fame  would  have  been  his 
immediate  reward.  Like  Aladdin,  he 
was  in  possession  of  a  talisman  which 
cotdd  open  to  him  the  cavern  in  which 
a  still  greater  treasure  was  contained ; 
but  he  shrunk  from  the  labour  which 
was  indispensable  for  the  effort.  He 
either  could  not  or  would  not  summon 
up  suffident  resolution  to  betake  him- 
self to  a  new  task ;  but,  under  the 
pretext  of  improving  his  mhid  by 
travel,  gave  way  to  his  erratic  pro- 
pensities, and  departed  for  the  Conti- 
nent with  a  slender  purse,  and,  as 
usual,  no  fixity  of  purpose. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Modem  Biography. -^Beattie^s  Life  of  Campbell, 


We  confess  that  the  portion  of  his 
correspondence  which  relates  to  this 
expedition  does  not  appear  to  us  re- 
markablj  interesting.  He  resided 
chiefly  at  Batisbon,  where  his  time 
appears  to  have  been  tolerably  equally 
divided  between  writing  lyrics  for  the 
Morning  Chronicle,  then  under  the 
superintendence  of  Mr  Perry,  and 
squabbling  with  the  monks  of  the 
Scottish  CouTent  of  Saint  James. 
Some  of  his  best  minor  poems  were 
composed  at  this  period ;  but  it  will 
be  easily  comprehended  that,  from  the 
style  of  theur  publication  in  a  fugitive 
form,  they  could  add  but  little  at  the 
time  to  his  reputation,  and  certainly 
they  did  not  materially  improve  his 
finances.  With  a  contemplated  poem 
of  some  magnitude — the  Queen  of  the 
North — he  made  little  progress ;  and, 
upon  the  whole,  this  year  was  spent 
uncomfortably.  After  his  return  to 
Britain,  he  resided  for  some  time  in 
Edinburgh  and  London,  mixing  in  the 
best  and  most  cultivated  society,  but 
sorely  straitened  in  circumstances, 
which,  nevertheless,  he  had  not  the 
courage  or  the  patience  to  improve. 

A  quarto  edition  of  the  Pleamres, 

grinted  by  subscription  for  his  own 
enefit,  at  length  put  him  in  funds, 
and  probably  tempted  him  to  marry. 
Then  came  the  real  cares  of  life, — an 
increased  establishment,  an  increasing 
family:  new  mouths  to  provide  for, 
and  no  settled  mode  of  livelihood. 
Of  all  literary  men,  Campbell  was 
least  calculated,  both  by  habit  and 
incUnation,  to  pursue  a  profession 
which,  with  many  temptations,  was 
then,  and  is  still,  precarious.  He  was 
not,  like  Scott,  a  man  of  business  habits 
and  unflagging  industnr.  His  im- 
pulses to  write  were  short,  and  his 
fastidiousness  interfered  with  his  im- 
pulse. Booksellers  were  slow  in  oiTer- 
mg  him  employment,  for  they  could 
not  depend  on  his  punctuality.  Those 
who  have  frequent  dealings  with  the 
trade  know  how  much  depends  upon 
the  observance  of  this  excellent  virtue ; 
but  Campbell  never  could  be  brought 
to  appreciate  its  full  value.  The 
printing-press  had  difficulty  in  keep- 
ing pace  with  the  pen  of  Scott:  to 
wait  for  that  of  Campbell  was  equiva- 
lent to  a  cessation  of  labour.  There- 
fore it  is  not  surprising  that,  about 
this  period,  most  of  his  negotiations 


failed.  Proposals  for  an  edition  of 
the  British  Poets,  a  large  and  expen- 
sive work,  to  be  executed  jointly  by 
Scott  and  Campbell,  fell  to  the  ground : 
and  the  bard  of  Hope  gave  vent  to  his 
feelings  by  execrating  the  phalanx  of 
the  Bow. 

At  the  very  moment  when  his  pros- 
pects appeared  to  be  shrouded  in  the 
deep^t  gloom,  Campbell  received  in- 
timation that  he  had  been  placed  on 
the  pension-list  as  an  annuitant  of 
£200.  Never  was  the  royal  boun^ 
more  seasonably  extended ;  and  this 
high  recognition  of  his  genius  seems 
for  a  time  to  have  inspired  him  with 
new  energy.  He  commenced  the  com- 
pilation of  the  Specimens  of  Bri- 
tish Poets;  but  his  indolent  habits 
overcame  him,  and  the  work  was  not 
given  to  the  public  until  Airteen  years 
after  it  was  undertaken.  No  wonder 
that  the  booksellers  were  chary  of 
staking  their  capital  on  the  faith  of 
his  promised  performances  I 

Ten  years  after  the  publication  of 
the  Pleasures  of  Hope,  Gertrude  of 
Wyoming  appeared.  That  exquisite 
little  poem  demonstrated,  in  the  most 
conclusive  manner,  that  the  author's 
poetical  powers  were  not  exhaustedby 
his  earlier  effort,  and  the  same  volume 
contained  the  noblest  of  his  immortal 
lyrics.  Campbdl  was  now  at  the 
highest  point  of  his  renown.  Critics 
may  compare  together  the  longer 
poems,  and,  according  as  their  taste 
leans  towards  the  didactic  or  the 
descriptive  form  of  composition,  may 
differ  m  awarding  the  palm  of  excel- 
lence, but  there  can  be  but  one  opinion 
as  to  the  lyrical  poetry.  In  this  re- 
spect Campbell  stands  alone  among 
his  contemporaries,  and  since  then  he 
has  never  been  surpassed.  LochieTs 
Warning  and  the  Batde  of  the  Baltic 
were  among  the  pieces  then  published ; 
and  it  woiSd  be  difficult,  out  of  the 
whole  mass  of  British  poetry,  to  select 
two  specimens,  by  the  same  author, 
which  may  fairly  rank  with  these. 

A  new  literary  field  was  shortly 
after  this  opened  to  Campbell.  He  was 
engaged  to  deliver  a  course  of  lectures 
on  poetry  at  the  Boyal  Institution  of 
London,  and  the  scheme  proved  not 
onlysuccessful  but  lucrative.  In  after 
years  he  lectured  repeatedly  on  the 
belleslettresatLiverpoolyBirminghamy 
and  other  places,  and  the  celebrity  ^^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


iso 


Modem  Biogrophy.'^Beaitk'i  Ltfe  of  CampML 


[Feb. 


Ids  name  alm^scommiiddd  acrowdof 
Hsteners.  \¥e  learn  from  Dr  Beattie, 
that  at  tiro  periods  of  his  life  it  was  pro- 
posed to  biinff  him  forward  as  a  candi- 
date, dther  for  the  chair  of  Rhetoric 
or  that  of  History  in  the  Univeraity  of 
Edinburgh;  bnt  he  seems  to  have 
reooUed  from  the  Idea  of  the  labour 
necessaiy  fbr  the  preparation  of  a 
thorough  academical  comrse,  a  task 
which  his  extreme  natural  fastidions- 
ness  would  doubtless  have  rendered 
doubly  irksome.  Several  more  years, 
a  portion  of  which  time  was  spent  on 
the  Continent,  passed  over  without  any 
remarkable  result,  until,  at  the  age  of 
forty-three,  Campbell  entered  upon 
the  duties  of  the  editorship  of  the  New 
MofnAfy  Maaaxine, 

He  held  this  situation  fbr  ten  years, 
aod  resigned  it,  according  to  his  own 
account,  '^  because  it  was  utterly  im- 
possible to  continue  the  editor  without 
interminable  scrapes,  together  with  a 
law-suit  now  and  then."  In  the  in- 
terim, however,  certain  important 
events  had  taken  place.  In  the  first 
place,  he  had  published  Theodnc—v^ 
poem  which,  in  spite  of  a  most  lauda- 
tory critique  in  the  Edinburgh  Remew^ 
left  a  painfU  impression  on  the  pub- 
lic mind,  and  was  generally  considered 
as  a  symptom  either  that  the  rich 
mine  of  poesy  was  worked  out,  or 
that  the  genius  of  the  author  had 
been  employed  in  a  wrong  direction. 
In  the  second  place,  he  took  an  active 
share  in  the  foundation  of  the  London 
University.  He  appears,  indeed,  to 
have  been  the  originator  of  the  scheme, 
and  to  have  managed  the  preliminary 
details  with  more  than  common  skiU 
and  prudencOw  It  was  mainly  through 
his  exertions  that  it  did  not  assume 
the  aspect  of  a  mere  sectarian  insti- 
tution, bigoted  In  its  prindplee  and 
chrcurascribed  in  its  sphere  of  utility. 
Shortly  after  this  academical  experi- 
ment, he  was  elected  Lord  Bect<Mr  of 
the  Glasgow  University.  Whatever 
abstract  vahie  may  be  attached  to 
such  an  honour— and  we  are  aware 
that  very  coniUcthig  oi^ions  have 
been  expressed  upon  the  point— this 
distfaiction  was  one  of  the  most  grati- 
fying of  all  the  tributes  which  were 
ever  rendered  to  Campbell.  Hefom^ 
himself  preferred,  by  the  students  of 
that  university  where  his  first  aspira- 
tions after  fnne  had  been  roused,  to 


(me  of  the  first  orators  and  statesmen 
of  the  age ;  and  his  warm  heart  over- 
flowed with  delight  at  the  kindly  com- 
pliment. He  resolved  not  to  accept 
the  office  as  a  mere  sinecure,  but 
strictly  to  perform  those  duties  which 
were  prescribed  by  ancient  statute,  but 
which  had  fallen  into  ab^anoe  by  the 
carelessness  of  nominal  Bectors.  He 
entered  as  warmly  into  the  feeHngs, 
and  as  cordiaUy  supported  the  interests 
of  the  students,  as  if  the  academical 
red  gown  of  Glasgow  had  been  stOl 
firesh  upon  his  shoulders;  and  such 
being  tiit  case,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  he  was  sdmost  adored  by  h& 
youthfhl  constituents.  This  portion 
of  the  memoirs  is  very  interesting :  it 
displays  the  character  of  Campbell  in 
a  most  amiable  light;  and  the  coldest 
reader  cannot  fail  to  peruse  with  plea- 
sure the  records  of  an  ovation  so 
truly  gratifying  to  the  sensibilities  of 
the  kSid  and  affectionate  poet.  For 
three  years,  during  which  unusual 
period  he  held  the  office,  his  corre- 

rndence  with  the  students  never 
jged;  and  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
the  university  ever  possessed  a  better 
Rector. 

In  1881  he  took  xsp  the  Polish  cause^ 
and  founded  an  association  in  London, 
which  for  many  years  was  the  main 
support  of  the  unfortunate  exiles  who 
sought  refbge  in  Britain.  The  public 
svmpathy  was  at  that  time  largely  ex- 
cited in  their  favour,  not  only  by  the  gal- 
lant struggle  which  they  had  made  for 
regaining  their  ancient  independence, 
but  firom  the  subsequent  severities  per- 
petrated by  the  Russian  government. 
Campbell,  from  his  earliest  years,  had 
denounced  the  unprincipled  partition 
of  Poland ;  he  watched  the  progress 
of  the  revolution  with  ni  anxiety 
almost  amounting  to  fiinaticism ;  and 
when  the  outbreak  was  at  last  put 
down  by  the  strong  hand  of  power, 
his  passion  exeeedea  aU  bounds.  Day 
and  night  his  thoughts  were  of  Poland 
only :  in  his  correspondence  he  hardly 
touched  upon  any  other  theme ;  ana, 
carried  away  by  his  zeal  to  serve  the 
exiles,  he  neglected  his  usual  avoca* 
tions.  The  mind  of  Campbell  was 
naturally  of  an  impulsive  cast :  but 
the  fits  were  rather  violent  than  en- 
durhig.  This  psychological  tendency 
was,  perhaps,  his  most  serious  misfbr- 
tune,  since  it  invariably  prevented 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


164t.] 


Modern  Bwffrtq^.-SmxiHe'i  L^  0/  CaugMl. 


]um  tcom  matmnrng  the  most  impor- 
tftnt  projects  he  eooceired.  Unless 
the  sdieme  was  such  as  could  be  exe- 
cuted withn4>idit7,  he  was  i^t  to  halt 
in  theprogreas. 

He  next  became  engaged  in  a  new 
magazine  ^ecnlaticm — The  Metros 
pobkm — which,  instead  of  torning 
ont,  as  he  anticipated,  a  mine  of 
wealth,  veryneariy  involyed  him  in 
serious  pecnniary  responsibility  After 
this,  his  public  careergradoally  be- 
came less  marked.  Tke  last  poem 
which  he  pnUished,  The  Pilgrim  of 
Glemcoey  exhibited  few  ^mptoms  of 
tiie  fire  and  energy  oonspicaoiis  in  his 
ea^  efforts.  "  Hiis  work,"  sajs  Dr 
Beaitie,  '^in  one  or  two  instances  was 
▼eiy  favoorably  reviewed— in  others, 
the  tone  of  criticism  was  cold  and 
aostere ;  bnt  neith^  praise  nor  cen- 
sue  conld  induce  the  pnblic  to  judge 
for  themselyes;  and  silence,  more  fatal 
in  such  cases  than  censure,  took  the 
poem  for  a  time  under  her  wing.  The 
poet  himself  expressed  little  surprise 
at  th^  ^>athj  with  which  his  new 
-Folume  had  been  reoeiyed ;  but  what- 
ever indifference  he  felt  for  the  influ- 
ence it  might  have  upon  his  reputa- 
tion, he  could  not'  feel  indifferent  to 
the  more  immediate  effect  which  a 
tardj  or  greatly  diminished  sale  must 
have  upon  his  prospects  as  a  house- 
holder. '  A  new  poem  fix>m  the  pen 
of  Campbell,'  he  was  told,  ^  was  as  good 
as  a  bill  at  sight;'  but,  from  some 
error  in  the  drawing,  as  it  turned  out, 
H  was  not  negotiable;  and  the  ex- 
penses into  wMch  he  had  been  led,  by 
tmsi^g  too  much  to  popular  favour, 
were  now  to  be  defrayed  from  other 
sources."  It  ought,  however,  to  be 
remarked,  that  he  had  now  arrived  at 
his  great  climacteric.  He  was  sixty- 
four  years  of  age,  and  his  constitution, 
never  very  robust,  began  to  exhibit 
iqnnptoms  of  decay.  Dr  Beattie,  who 
had  long  watched  him  with  affection- 
ate solicitude,  in  the  double  character 
of  physician  and  friend,  thus  notes  his 
obmrvadoQ  of  the  change.  ^^  At  the 
breakfast  or  dinn^  table — ^particulariy 
when  surrounded  by  old  friends — he 
was  generally  animated,  friU  of  anec- 
dote, and  always  projecting  new 
schemes  of  benevolence.  But  still 
there  was  a  visible  change  in  his  con- 
versation :  it  seemed  to  flow  less  freely: 
it  required  an  effort  to  support  it;  ana 


2dl 

on  tofucs  in  which  he  once  felt  a  keen 
intereiBt,  he  now  said  but  little,  or  re- 
mained dlent  and  thou^tftO.  The 
change  in  his  outward  appearance  was 
still  more  observable  ]  he  walked  with 
a  feeble  st^,  complained  of  constant 
chilliness ;  whHe  his  countenance,  un- 
less when  he  entered  into  conversation, 
was  strongly  marked  with  an  expres- 
sion of  languor  and  anxiety.  The 
sparkling  iutelligenee  that  once  ani- 
mated his  features  was  greatly  ob- 
scured; hequoted  his  favourite  authors 
with  hesitation-— because,  he  told  me^ 
he   often  could   not  recollect  their 


The  remainder  of  his  life  was  spent 
in  comparative  seclusion.  Long  be- 
fore thlsperiod  he  was  left  a  sc^itary 
man.  His  wife,  whom  he  loved  with 
deep  and  ^during  affection,  was  taken 
away— one  of  his  sons  died  in  child- 
hood, and  the  other  was  stricken  with 
a  malady  which  proved  incurable. 
But  the  kind  offices  of  a  nephew  and 
niece,  and  the  attentions  of  many 
friends,  amongst  whom  Dr  Beattie 
will  always  be  remembered  as  the 
chief,  soothed  the  last  days  oi  the 
poet,  and  supplied  those  duties  which 
could  not  be  rendered  by  dearer  hands. 
He  expured  at  Boulogne,  on  15th 
June  1844,  his  age  being  sixty-seven, 
and  his  body  was  worthUy  interred  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  with  the  honours 
of  a  public  ftmeral. 

*Neyer,**  eayi  Beattie,  •since  the 
death  of  Addison,  it  was  remaTked,  had 
the  obseqaies  of  any  literary  man  been  at- 
tended by  cironmstanoei  more  hononiable 
to  the  national  feeling,  and  more  exprei- 
siye  of  oordial  respect  and  hoaagei  than 
those  of  Thomas  CanpbelL 

**  Soon  after  noon,  the  procession  began 
to  moye  from  the  Jerosalem  Chamber  ta 
Poet's  Comer,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
passed  slowly  down  the  long  lofty  aisle— 

*  Throogh  breaUting  staines,  them  miheeded 

things  ; 
Throufh  rows  of  'warriors,  and  through  wallcs 

of  kings.* 

On  each  side  the  pillared  ayennes  were 
lined  with  spectators,  all  watching  the 
solemn  pageant  in  reyerential  silence,  and 
mostly  in  deep  mourning.  The  Rev. 
Henry  Milman,  himself  an  eminent  poet, 
headed  the  procession  ;  while  the  serrice 
for  the  dead,  answered  by  the  deep-toned 
organ,  in  sounds  like  distant  thnnder, 
produced  an  effeot  of  indescribable  so- 
lemnity.  One  only  fSseling  seemed  to  per- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Modem  Biography. ^Beattie^ 8  Life  of  CampbelL 


232 

vade  the  assembled  spectators,  and  was 
visible  on  eyeiy  face — a  desire  to  express 
their  sympathy  in  a  manner  snitable  to 
the  occasion.  He  who  had  celebrated 
the  glory  and  enjoyed  the  foyonr  of  his 
country  for  more  than  forty  years,  had 
come  at  last  to  take  his  appointed  cham- 
ber in  the  Hall  of  Death — to  mingle  ashes 
with  those  illustrious  predecessors,  who, 
by  steep  and  difficult  paths,  had  attained 
a  lofty  eminence  in  her  literature,  and 
made  a  lasting  impression  on  the  national 
heart." 

We  observe  that  DrBeattie  haa, 
very  properly,  passed  over  with  little 
notice  certain  statements,  emanating 
from  persons  who  styled  themselves 
the  friends  of  Campbell,  regarding  his 
habits  of  life  daring  the  latter  portion 
of  his  years.  It  is  a  misfortane  inci- 
dental to  almost  all  men  of  genins, 
that  they  are  snrronnded  by  a  fry  of 
small  literary  adnlators,  who,  in  order 
to  magnify  themselves,  make  a  prac- 
tice  of  reporting  every  circnmstance, 
however  trivial,  which  falls  under 
their  observation,  and  who  are  not 
always  very  scmpnlons  in  adhering  to 
the  truth.  Campbell,  who  had  the 
full  poetical  share  of  vanity  in  his 
composition,  was  peculiarly  liable  to 
the  attacks  of  such  insidious  worship- 
pers, and  was  not  sufficiently  careful 
m  the^  selection  of  his  associates. 
Hence  imputations,  not  involving  any 
question  of  honour  or  morality,  but 
implying  frailty  to  a  considerable  de- 
gree, have  been  openly  hazarded  by 
some  who,  in  their  own  persons,  are 
no  patterns  of  the  cardinal  virtues. 
Such  statements  do  no  honour  either 
to  the  heart  or  the  judgment  of  those 
who  devised  them :  nor  would  we  have 
even  touched  upon  the  subject,  save 
to  reprobate,  in  the  strongest  manner, 
these  breaches  of  domestic  privacy, 
and  of  ill-judged  and  unmerited  con- 
fidence. 

A  good  deal  of  the  correspondence 
printed  in  these  volumes  is  of  a  trifling 
nature,  and  interferes  materially  with 
the  conciseness  of  the  biography.  We 
do  not  mean  to  say  that  anything 
objectionable  has  been  included,  but 
there  are  too  many  notes  and  epistles 
upon  familiar  topics,  which  neither 
illustrate  the  peculiar  tone  of  Camp- 
bell's mind,  nor  throw  any  Ught  what- 
ever upon  his  poetical  history.  But 
the  correspondence  with  his  own  fa- 
mily is  highly  interesting.    Nowhere 


[Feb. 


does  Campbell  appear  in  a  higher  and 
more  estimable  point  of  view,  than  in 
the  character  of  son  and  brother. 
Even  in  the  hours  of  his  darkest  ad- 
versity, we  find  him  sharing  his  small 
and  precarious  gains  with  his  mother 
and  sisters ;  and  they  were  in  an  equal 
degree  the  participators  of  his  better 
fortunes.  His  fondness  and  consi- 
deration for  his  wife  and  children  are 
most  conspicuous;  and  many  of  his 
letters  regarding  his  boy,  when  '^  the 
dark  shadow"  had  passed  across  his 
mind,  are  extremely  affecting.  Hiose 
who  have  a  taste  for  the  modem  style 
of  maundering  about  children,  and  the 
perverted  pictures  of  infancy  so  com- 
mon in  our  social  literature,  may  not, 
perhaps,  see  much  to  admure  in  the 
tbUowing  extract  from  a  lett^  by 
Campbell,  announcing  the  birth  of  hte 
eldest  child :  to  us  it  appears  a  pore 
and  exquisite  picture : — 

^This  little  gentleman  all  this  while 
looked  to  be  so  proud  of  his  new  station  in 
society,  that  he  held  up  his  blue  eyes  and 
placid  little  fkce  with  perfect  indifference 
to  what  people  about  him  felt  or  thought. 
Our  first  interriew  was  when  he  lay  in 
his  little  crib,  in  the  midst  of  white  mus- 
lin and  dainty  lace,  prepared  by  Matilda's 
hands,  long  before  the  stranger's  arrival. 
I  Terily  believe,  in  spite  of  my  partiality, 
that  lovelier  babe  was  never  smiled  upon 
by  the  light  of  heaven.  He  was  breath- 
ing sweetly  in  his  first  sleep.  I  durst 
not  waken  him,  but  ventured  to  give  him 
one  kiss.  He  gave  a  faint  murmur,  and 
opened  his  little  azure  lights.  Since  that 
time  he  has  continued  to  grow  in  grao^ 
and  stature.  I  can  take  him  in  my  arms; 
but  still  his  good  nature  and  his  beauty 
are  but  provocatives  to  the  affection 
which  one  must  not  indulge  :  he  cannot 
bear  to  be  hugged,  he  cannot  yet  stand  a 
worrying.  Oh  1  that  I  were  sure  he 
would  live  to  the  days  when  I  could  take 
him  on  my  knee,  and  feel  the  strong 
plumpness  of  childhood  waxing  into  vi- 
gorous youth.  My  poor  boy  I  shall  I  have 
the  ecstasy  to  teach  him  thoughts  and 
knowledge,  and  reciprocity  of  love  to  me  I 
It  is  bold  to  venture  into  ihturity  so  far  I 
at  present  his  lovely  little  face  is  a  com- 
fort to  me ;  his  lips  breathe  that  fragraooe 
which  it  is  one  of  the  loveliest  kindnesses 
of  Nature  that  she  has  given  to  infants — 
a  sweetness  of  smell  more  delightftil  than 
all  the  treasures  of  Arabia,  what  ador- 
able beauties  of  God  and  Nature's  bounty 
we  live  in  without  knowing  I  How  few 
have  ever  seemed  to  think  an  inflmt  beau- 
tiful t  Bttttomethereseemitobeabeauty 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Modem  Biograpky.'^BeaUie^s  Life  of  Campbell. 


tn  the  earliest  dawn  of  inftinoy  which  is 
not  inftrior  to  the  attractions  of  child- 
hood, especially  when  they  sleep.  Their 
looks  excite  a  more  tender  train  of  emo- 
tions. It  is  like  the  tremnlous  anxiety 
which  we  feel  for  a  candle  new  lighted, 
which  we  dread  going  out." 

The  sensibility,  too,  which  be  nni- 
formly  exhibited  towalrds  those  who 
had  shown  bim  kindness,  especially 
his  older  and  earlier  friends,  is  ex- 
ceedinf^y  pleasing.  In  writing  to  or 
speaking  of  the  Rev.  Archibald  Alison 
and  Dugald  Stewart,  his  tone  is  one 
of  bearttelt,  and  almost  filial,  affection 
and  reverence;  and  amongst  all  the 
beneyolent  actions  performed  by  those 
great  and  good  men,  there  were  few 
to  which  they  conld  revert  with  more 
pleasure  than  to  their  seasonable  pa- 
tronage of  the  young  and  sanguine 
poet.  With  his  literary  contempora- 
ries, also,  he  lived  upon  good  terms, — 
a  circumstance  rather  remarkable,  for 
Campbell,  notwithstanding  his  good- 
nature, was  sufBcienUy  touchy,  and 
keenly  alive  to  satire  or  hostile  criti- 
cism. Excepting  an  early  quarrel 
with  John  L^yden,  on  the  score  of 
some  reported  misrepresentation,  a 
temporary  fend  with  Moore,  which 
was  speedily  reconciled,  and  a  short 
and  xmacrimonious  disruption  from 
Bowles,  we  are  not  aware  that  he 
ever  differed  with  any  of  his  gifted 
brethren.  He  was  upon  the  best 
terms  with  Scott ;  and  Dr  Beattie  has 
given  US  several  valuable  specimens 
of  their  mutual  correspondence.  With 
Rogers  he  was  intimate  to  the  last ; 
and  even  the  sarcastic  and  dangerous 
Byron  always  mentioned  him  with 
expressions  of  regard.  Let  us  add, 
moreover,  that,  whenever  he  had  the 
power,  he  was  ready,  even  in  instances 
where  his  own  intei:est  might  have 
counselled  otherwise,  to  lend  a  help- 
ing hand  toothers  who  were  struggling 
for  literary  reputation.  This  generous 
impulse  was  sometimes  carried  so  far 
as  to  injure  him  in  his  editorial  capa- 
city ;  for,  although  fastidious  to  a  de- 
gree as  to  the  quality  of  his  own 
writings,  it  was  always  with  a  sore 
heart  tbat  he  shut  the  door  in  the 
face  of  a  needy  contributor. 
The  querulousness  with  which  Camp- 
bell complains  throughout,  of  the  cruel 
treatment  which  he  met  with  at  the 
hands  of  the  publishers,  would  be 


2S3 

amusing,  if  it  were  not  at  the  same 
time  most  unjust  He  acknowledges, 
in  a  letter  written  to  Mr  Richardson, 
so  late  as  1842,  that  the  sale  of  his 
poems,  for  a  series  of  years  before,  had 
yielded  him,  on  an  average,  £500  per 
annum :  not  a  bad  annuity,  we  think, 
as  the  proceeds  of  a  couple  of  volumes! 
We  happen  to  know,  moreover,  that 
by  the  fii-st  publication  of  Gertrude 
Campbell  made  upwards  of  a  thousand 
pounds;  and,  unless  we  are  grievously 
misinformed,  he  received  from  ^bt 
Murray,  for  the  copyright  of  the  Spe^ 
cimenSf  a  similar  sum,  bemg  double 
the  amount  contracted  for.  We  have 
already  mentioned  the  publication  of 
a  subscription  edition  of  the  Pleasures 
of  Hope^  "  which,"  says  Dr  Beattie, 
*'*'  with  great  liberality  on  the  part  of  the 
publishers,  was  to  be  brought  out  for 
his  own  exclusive  benefit."  We  should 
not  have  alluded  to  these  matters, 
which,  however,  we  believe,  are  no 
secrets,  but  for  the  publication  by  Dr 
Beattie  of  some  very  absurd  expres- 
sions used  and  reiterated  by  Campbell. 
Such  phrases  as  the  following  con- 
stantly occur:  ^^  They  are  the  greatest 
ravens  on  earth  with  whom  we  have  to 
deal — liberal  enough  as  booksellers  go 
— but  still,  you  know,  ravens,  croakers, 
suckers  of  innocent  blood,  and  living 
men*s  brains."  Nor,  in  the  opinion 
of  Campbell,  were  these  outranges  con- 
fined merely  to  the  living  subjects,  for 
he  says,  in  reference  to  tne  older 
tenants  of  Parnassus,  ^*  Poor  Bards ! 
you  are  all  ill  used,  even  after  death, 
by  those  who  have  lived  upon  your 
brains.  And  now,  having  scooped 
out  those  brains,  they  drmk  out  of 
them,  like  Yandsls  out  of  the  skulls 
of  the  severed  and  slain,  served  up  by 
a  Gothic  Ganymede!"  Further,  in 
speaking  of  Napoleon,  he  says,  "  Per- 
haps in  my  feelings  towards  the  Gallic 
usurper  there  may  be  some  personal 
bias;  for  I  must  confess  that,  ever 
since  he  shot  the  bookseller  in  Ger- 
many, I  have  had  a  warm  side  to  him. 
It  was  sacrificing  an  offering,  by  the 
hand  of  genius,  to  the  manes  of  tbe 
victims  immolated  by  the  trade ;  and 
I  only  wish  we  had  Nap  here  for  a 
short  time,  to  cut  out  a  few  of  our  own 
cormorants."  The  fact  is,  that  so  far 
from  Campbell  being  ill-used  by  the 
toade,  they  behaved  towards  him  with 
uncommon  liberality.    It  is  true  that, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Modem  Biogrqpk^.'-Bettitit^i  I4fk  ^  Ckmpbdl. 


284 

in  several  instances,  they  liesitated  in 
making  high  terms  for  work  not  yet 
ccmmienoed,  with  a  man  who  was  no- 
toriously deficient  in  pnnctoality  and 
perseveranoe;  n(Mr  are  they  to  be 
blamed,  when  we  consider  the  nunber 
ci  his  sdiemes,  and  the  yery  few  in- 
stances in  which  these  were  brought 
to  maturity. 

On  the  whole,  then,  though  we 
cannot  bestow  unqualified  praise  upon 
Dr  Beattie,  for  the  manner  in  which 
he  has  compiled  these  Tolumes,  we 
Shan  state  that  we  have  passed  no 
unprofitable  hours  in  their  perusal. 
We  rise  fixmi  them  with  full  i^pre- 
dation  of  the  many  excellent  points 
in  the  poet's  character,  with  an  aug- 
mrated  regard  for  his  memory  on 
account  of  the  yirtues  so  eminently 
diE^yed,  and  with  no  lessened  reve- 
rence for  the  man  in  ccmsequence  of 
the  admitted  foibles  firom  which  n(me 
of  the  human  famUy  are  exempt. 
The  book  may  be  practically  useful  to 
those  who  aspire  to  literary  eminence, 
and  who  are  apt  to  rely  too  confi- 
dently and  implicitly  on  the  powers 
with  which  they  are  naturally  gifted. 
So  long  as  Campbell  was  under  re- 
straint—so long  as  he  was  subjected 
to  the  wholesome  discipline  of  the 
University,  and  forced^into  the  race  of 
emulation,  we  find  that  his  genius 
was  largely  and  rapidly  developed. 
He  was  not  a  mere  philological  scholar, 
though  his  attainments  in  Greek  might 
have  put  many  a  pedant  to  the  blush ; 
but  he  improved  his  sense  of  beauty 
and  his  taste  by  the  contemplation  of 
the  Attic  flowers ;  and,  without  in- 
juring his  style  by  any  aflfectation 
of  antiquity  unsuited  to  the  tone  of 


JTtt. 


his  age,  he  adorned  it  by  many  of  the 
graces  whidi  are  presented  by  the 
ancient  models.  At  Glaflgow  he 
worked  hard  and  won  merited  hon- 
ours. But  afterwards,  by  abandoning^ 
himself  to  a  desultoiy  course  of  study 
and  of  composition,  by  never  acting 
upon  the  wise  and  sure  plan  of  keep- 
ing one  object  only  steadily  in  view, 
and  persevering  in  spite  of  aU  diffi- 
CttMefl  until  that  point  was  attained, — 
he  failed  in  realising  the  high  expec- 
tations which  were  jurtifiM  by  hia 
early  promise.  Aa  it  is,  Campbell's 
name  is  ranked  high  in  the  roll 
of  the  British  poets ;  but  assuredl j 
he  would  have  occupied  a  still  mwe 
exalted  place,  and  also  have  avoided 
much  of  that  anxiety  which  at  timea 
clouded  his  existence,  if  he  had  used 
his  fine  nataral  gifts  with  but  a 
portion  of  the  energy  and  determi- 
nation of  his  great  compatriot,  Scott. 
In  conclusion  let  us  remark,  that 
however  Dr  Beattie  may  have  erred 
on  the  side  of  prolixity,  by  including 
in  the  compass  of  the  memoirs  some 
trifling  and  irrelevant  matter,  he  ia 
more  than  concise  whenever  it  ia 
necessary  to  allude  to  his  own  rela- 
tionship with  Campbell  He  haa 
made  no  parade  whatever  of  his  inti- 
macy with  the  poet ;  and  no  stranger, 
in  perusing  these  volumes,  could  dis- 
cover that  to  Beattie  Campbell  waa 
substantially  indebted  for  many  dis- 
interested acts  of  Mendship,  which 
contributed  largely  to  the  comfort  of 
his  declining  years.  This  modesty  ia 
a  rare  feature  in  modem  biography ; 
and,  when  it  does  occur  so  remark- 
ably as  here,  we  are  bound  to  mention 
it  with  special  honour. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1^9.] 


neSngUsk  Unhenkies tmd their lUJbrm. 


235 


TBS  ENGLISH  XTNIYSBSITISS  AND  THSIB  BSFOBMfl. 


Aix  over  Europe,  of  lale,  we  lisve 
been  heariag  a  great  deal  of  nnhrerai- 
lies  and  students.  Tke  trendwr-cap 
bas  claimed  a  right  to  take  its  part  in 
the  moyements  whieb  make  or  mar 
the  destJirieB  of  nations,  by  the  side 
of  itaned  casque  and  priaBtty  tiara. 
Whether  it  was  the  beer  of  the 
German  bnrsclnn  that  '^  decocted 
thehr  cold  l^ood  to  sndi  valiant  heat," 
or  whether  their  practice  in  make-be- 
beve  dnels  had  imparted  a  savage 
appetite  fi>r  foeman's  blood  in  some 
BKH«  genuine  combat,  or  whether 
Hchte's  metaphysics  had  fairiy  mud- 
dled their  brains  into  ddirinm,  cer- 
tain it  is  that  they  have,  wheresoever 
they  could  find  an  qiportnnity,  been 
foremost  in  the  cause  of  demc^tion 
and  disorder,  vied  with  and  encou- 
raged the  lowest  of  the  rabble  in 
lawless  aggressicms,  exulted  in  the 
glow  of  uasing  houses,  and  cried 
havoc  to  rapine  and  murder. 

It  is  carious  that,  while  all  this  has 
been  going  on  in  Europe,  the  atten- 
tion of  the  public  should  have  been  so 
much  occupied  by  the  condition  of  our 
English  universities.  Still  more  cu- 
rious is  it,  perhaps,  that  so  large  a 
portion  of  the  attention  thus  dhn^ted 
should  have  assumed  an  objurgatory 
tone,  as  if  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
were  not  duly  performing  their  func- 
tions, as  if  they  were  of  a  character 
suited  only  to  bysone  ages,  as  if,  in 
short,  they  were  doing  nolbing.  True 
enough,  in  one  sense,  they  were 
**  domg  nothing."  Th^^  was  no 
academical  legion  formed— none,  at 
least,  that  we  heard  of— fai  Christ- 
church  Meadows  or  Trinity  Walks ; 
no  bodv  of  sympathising  students 
marched  to  London,  with  the  view  of 
taking  part  in  the  democratic  exhibi- 
tions of  the  10th  of  April,  If  Cuffisy 
is  to  be  President  of  the  British  Re- 
public, he  must  search  for  the  body- 
guard of  democracy  elsewhere  than  cm 
the  banks  of  the  Cam  and  the  Isis. 
No  doubt  this  excellent  result  is  attri- 
butable, in  a  great  measure,  to  the 
loyalty  of  the  professional  and  middle 
classes,  from  which  our  university 
students   principally  spring.     Their 


feelings  will  naturally  be  akin  to  those 
of  their  relations  and  frioids.  Bat 
when,  in  so  man^  other  instances,  we 
see  the  academic  population  taking 
the  lead  in  the  work  of  revolution, 
beyond  any  spirit  which  exists  among 
fteir  kindred,  and  urged  on  by  a 
democratic  madness  of  purely  acade- 
mic growth,  we  cannot  help  holding 
tluit  some  credit  on  behalf  of  the  lov- 
ahy  of  English  students  is  due  to  tho 
institutions  by  the  influence  of  which 
th^are  surrounded. 

We  are  inclined  to  think  that  the 
public  have  not  been  sufficientJhr  alive 
to  this  not  unimportant  difference 
between  Oxford  and  Heidelberg — 
Cambridge  and  Vienna.  Certes,  but 
little  account  was  taken  of  the  peace- 
M  bearing  of  our  academic  popula- 
tion. On  the  contrary,  much  super- 
dliois  wordiness  has  been  lavished, 
more  or  less  to  the  discredit  of  cap 
and  gown,,  by  portions  of  the  London 
press  in  the  lead,  and,  as  a  necessary 
consequence,  by  provincial  journalists 
ad  Ubitum,  This  talk,  current  now 
for  iome  years,  was  all  concentrated 
and  endued  with  new  vigour  by  a 
movement  of  tiie  Universi^  of  Cam- 
bridge itself.  The  people  who  stop 
your  way  by  talking  of  "  iMt)gres8," 
and  deal  out  dark  rhodomontade  on 
the  subject  of  *^  enlightenment,"  were 
all  set  agog  by  what  they  thought 
a  symptom  of  capitula^n  in  the 
strongholds  of  the  Ancient.  All  our 
old  imbecile  friends,  the  cant  phrases 
of  twenty  and  thirty  years  ago,  started 
up  as  fresh  as  paint,  reiuly  to  go 
through  all  the  lumdling  they  had  be- 
fore endured.  We  heard  of,  "keep- 
ing alive  ancient  prejudices,"  "  cleav- 
ing pertinaciously  to  obsolete  forms," 
"following  a  monastic  rule,"  "for- 
getting the  world  outside  their  college 
walls,"  and  multifarious  twaddle  of  this 
sort^  till  the  Pope  fled  from  Rome, 
or  some  other  little  revolution  occurred 
to  withcbraw  the  attention  of  the  pub- 
lic from  this  set  of  phrases  to  another, 
no  doubt  not  less  forcible  and  original. 
Others,  again,  took  a  friendly  tone  and 
spoke  apologetically:  it  was  a  great 
thing  to  get  any  move  at  all  from  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


236 


The  English  Universities  and  their  Reforms. 


[Feb. 


UDiYersity:  those  who  took  the  lead 
in  her  management  were  not  men  who 
mixed  with  the  world  at  large,  and 
allowance  most  be  made  if  they  did 
not  altogether  march  with  the  times. 
^^  The  world  at  large  "  is  an  expres- 
sion of  Tery  doubtM  import:  "all 
think  thehr  little  set  mankind :"  bnt 
when  the  resident  fellows  of  colleges 
are  oharired  with  not  duly  mixing  with 
the  wond  at  large,  we  cannot  help 
thinking  that  those  who  nse  the  phrase 
are  ignoring  the  existence  of  the  Did- 
cot  Junction  and  Eastern  Coonties 
Railway,  and  borrowing  their  ideas  of 
academic  life  from   the  time  when 
Hobson   travelled   "  betwixt   Cam- 
bridge and  the  Boll."    As  far  as  our 
observation  goes,  we  should  say  that 
there  is  no  class  of  persons  who  have 
better  opportunities  of  taking  an  ex- 
tended view  of  diflferent  phases  of 
social  being,  or  who  are  more  disposed 
to  take  advantage  of  those  opj^rtu- 
nities.    A  fellow  of  a  college  is  not 
engaged  much  more  than  half  the  year 
in  university  business ;  for  four  months, 
at  the  very  least,  he  generally  bas  it 
in  his  power  to  expatiate  where  he 
will,  from  May  Fair  to  Mesopotamia; 
he  has  no  household  ties  to  detain  him, 
and  if  he  does  not  rub  off  the  lexico- 
graphic rust,  and  the  mathematical 
mouldiness,  which  he  may  have  con- 
tracted during  his  labours  of  the  term, 
he  must  be  possessed  of  a  local  at- 
tachment almost  vegetable:  some  few 
instances  of  which  secluded  existence 
still  linger  in  quiet  nooks  of  our  halls 
and  colleges,  but  which  are  no  more 
the  types  of  their  class  than  Parson 
TruUiber  is  a  representative  of  the 
country  clergy,  or  the  stage  Diggoir 
of  the  English  yeoman.    But  the  self- 
complacency  of  Cockneyism  is   the 
most  unshaicen  thing  in  this  revolu- 
tionary age.    It  is  ^rfectly  ready  to 
lecture  the  parson  on  the  teaching  of 
Greek,  or  the  Yorkshire  farmer  on  the 
fattening  of  bullocks.    All  the  distri- 
butive machinery  in  the  world  does 
not  diminish,  it  would  seem,  the  ab- 
sorption of  intelligence  by  the  Yfsid  of 
Cheap. 

We  are  not,  however,  surprised  that 
the  conclusions,  on  which  we  have  re- 
marked, should  be  those  arrived  at  by 
the  large  class  of  small  observers 
whose  phraseology  we  have  quoted. 
The  bustling  man  of  business,  who 


takes  his  day-ticket  to  Oxford  or 
Cambridge,  is  of  course  struck  by  see- 
ing a  number  of  usages,  for  the  origi- 
nid  of  which,  if  he  inquire,  he  is 
referred  back  to  hoar  medi«vid  times 
— times  which  his  Cockney  guides  dis- 
pose of  by  some  such  phrase  as  crass 
ignorance,  or  feudal  barbarism.  He 
IS  naturally  surprised  at  such  things ; 
be  never  saw  anything  like  it  before ; 
they  don't  do  so  in  ^undng  Lane,  or 
even  in  Gower  Street.  He  can  hardly 
be  expected  to  view  these  matters  in 
their  relation  to  the  system  of  which 
they  form  a  part ;  he  can  hardly  be 
expected  to  realise  in  them  the  sym- 
bols through  which  the  genius  loci 
finds  an  utterance  and  exerts  an 
agency;  and  so  he  ^^oes  smiling  home 
in  his  railway  carnage,  and  perhaps 
buys  a  number  of  Fundi  by  the  way, 
and  thinks  that  there  is  more  practical 
wisdom  in  that  periodical  than  is  em- 
bodied in  the  great  monuments  of 
William  of  Wykeham  or  Lady  Mar- 
garet. 

Nevertheless,  while  we  rebut  these 
vague  general  charges  of  a  blind  im- 
passibiuty  to  the  influences  of  the 
time,  we  are  far  from  denying  that  a 
tendency  to  cling  to  ancient  ideas  and 
observances  is  a  characteristic  of  the 
universities.    This  tendeney  is  a  pro- 
perty of  all  corporate  institutions, 
and  is  commonly  the  reason  of  their 
foundation.    They  are  to  perpetuate 
to  a  future  time  a  feeling  or  design  of 
the  present ;  to  form  a  nucleus,  round 
which  the  thoughts  and  principles  of 
one  age   congregate,  and   are   thus 
handed  down  to  another  in  a  preserv- 
ed and  ciystallised  form.   Changes  of 
ideas  pass  upon  them  of  necessity, 
through   the   individual  liability  of 
their    constituent    members   to  be 
affected  by  the  current  of  the  passing 
time;   but  these  changes  take  place 
rather  by  a  gradual  fusion  of  the  old 
into  the  new,  than  by  those  sudden 
transitions  to  which  the  popular  and 
prevailing  opinions  are  so  often  sub- 
jected.    And  it  may  fairly  be  sup- 
posed that,  by  means  of  this  property, 
corporations  are  more  likelv  to  adopt 
ana  amalgamate  into  their  framework 
that  which  is  most  permanent  and 
genuine,  out  of  lUl  that  the  ever- 
changing  tide  of  time  casts  upon  the 
shore. 
Perhaps,  too,  this  tenacity  of  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Ig49.]  ^^  EngHsh  UnwerstHes  and  their  Refbrms, 

bygone  will  more  natnrallj  be  found 
to  be  a  characteristic  of  the  nniversi- 
ties,  than  of  other  corporations.  The 
spots  which  they  occnpy  are  holy 
gronndi  finnght  with  historic  memo- 
ries of  the  great  and  wise  of  former 
days.  The  ffenma  2oa  is  a  mighty 
advocate  in  behalf  of  antiquity  :— 

**  As  th«  ghoit  of  Homer  clings 
Bound  BeuoMder'S  yrutinf^  springs  ; 
As  dlTinost  Shakspean^s  nufht 
Fills  AT(m  Mid  the  world  with  light ;  ^ 

— 60  we  may  not  well  pass  unaffected 
by  the  congregation  of  priest,  and 
poet,  and  sage,  whose  recollections 
consecrate  the  banks  of  our  academic 
rivers.  As  we  go  beneath  '^  Bacon's 
mansion,"  or  about  MUton's  mulberry 
tree;  as  we  kneel  where  Newton 
knelt,  or  dine  in  halls  where  the  por- 
traits of  Erasmus,  and  Fisher,  and 
Taylor,  look  down  upon  us,— these  are 
not  times  and  places  for  the  dogma- 
tism and  anrogance  of  ^*  the  nineteenth 
century"— for  bragging  of  our  advance 
and  illumination,  or  sneering  at  ^^the 
good  old  times."  This  is  in  accord- 
ance with  the  law  of  our  nature ;  but 
these  recollections,  and  the  lessons 
which  they  teach,  are  not,  if  rightly 
laid  hold  of,  such  as  to  induce  a  mere 
blind  attachment  to  the  skeletons  of 
dead   notions   and  practices.     And 

although  it  may,  perhaps  must,  hap- 
pen that,  at  any  given  time,  there  may 

be  found  relics  adhering  to  the  system, 

whose  vitality  and  meaning  have  been 

vrithdrawn  by  time,  and  left  them 

dry  and  sapless,  yet  we  will  venture 

to  assert  that,  if  a  dogged  adherence 

to  antiquated  forms  could  fairly  be 

charged  on  the  univendties,  they  could 

never  have  maintained  their  greund 

amidst  themighty  historical  transmutSr 

tions  that  have  passed  overtheurheads. 

Civil  wars  and  popular  tumults  have 

raged  around  tnem ;  the  throne  has 

yielded  to  violence  and  to  intrigue ; 

the  Church  has  admitted  modifica- 
tions, both  of  her  doctrine  and  her  dis- 
cipline ;  and,  more  than  all,  the  still 

more  important,  though  ulent  and 

gradual  chiuages — changes  to  which 

the  striking  and  sidient    events  of 

history  are  but  the  indexes  and  visible 

signs— changes  of  thought  and  rule  of 

action — ^have  risen   and  sunk,  and 

ebbed  and  flowed,  and  still  these  stable 

monuments  of  the  piety  and  munifi- 
cence of  men  whose  names  are  almost 


287 

unknown,  remain  unshorn  of  their 
andent  vigour,  and  intimately  en- 
twined with  our  social  system. 

But  it  is  time  that  we  should  come 
to  particulars,  and  make  known  to 
our  readers,  as  briefly  as  we  can,  the 
nature  of  the  alterations  recently  in- 
troduced at  Cambridge,  which  have 
ddled  forth  so  much  objurgatory  com- 
mendation from  quarters,  whidi  were 
commonly    considered    to   entertain 
tolerably  destructive  views  in  regard 
to  the  universities.    We  say  objurga- 
tory commendation,  because  the  faint 
praise  of  a  "  move  in  the  right  direc- 
tion" Was  generally  more  or  less  coupled 
with  vigorous  denunciation  of  the  an- 
tiquated obstinacy  which  had  so  long 
kept  in  the  wrong.     And  here  we 
must  premise  the  statement  of  certain 
qualities  of  the  age  in  which  we  live, 
which  will   have  fallen    under   the 
notice   of    all    observers.     Perhaps 
the  most  distinguishing  feature  of  our 
time   is  the  principle  which   forms 
the  life  and   soul  of  retail  trade — 
the   principle   which    sets   men   to 
busy  themsdves   about   small    and 
Immediate  returns  for  outlay ;  which 
looks  more  to  the  gains  across  the 
counter,  thui  to  the  advantage  which 
is  general,  or  distant,  or  future.    In  a 
word,  practicality  is  the  rulins  passion 
of  our  dtij.    As  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, education,  among  other  things, 
has  been  subjected  to  this  huckstering 
test.    People  have  asked,  what  is  the 
market  vuue  of  this  or  that  branch 
of  learning?    Will  it  get  a  boy  on  in 
the  wcnrld?    Will  it  enable  him  to 
provide  for  himself  soon?     Will  the 
returns   for  the    expenditure  I  am 
going  to  make  be  quick  and  certain? 
Cowper  represents  the  fiither  of  a  son 
intended  for  the  church  as  speculating 
on  his  young  hopeful's  prospects  after 
the  following  fashion  :— 

«*  L«t  reverend  chorls  his  ignorance  rehuke, 
Who  starve  upon  a  dogVeared  Pentateuch, 
The  parson  knows  enough  who  knows  a  duke.'* 

In  these  days  the  acquaintance  of  a 
duke  is  not  of  the  same  relative  value 
as  it  was  when  Cowper  wrote ;  but 
this  sort  of  worldly-wise  calculation 
is  more  prevalent  than  ever,  and  the 
cry  of  the  largest  class  of  the  public 
is— give  us  such  knowledge  as  will  pay. 
Those  who  took  this  eommerdal  view 
of  educati(m  derived  no  small  encour- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


238 


The  English  Umiotr»kk»  md  thmr  Btforms. 


[Feb. 


Agement  firom  the  drcimiBtaiioe  that 
Prince  Albert,  the  learned  field-mar- 
shal, and  warlike  chancellor  of  Gam- 
bridge  UniverBity,  had  interfered 
to  promote  the  cnltore  of  modem 
langoa^  in  these  venerable  pre- 
cincts of  Eton,  where  for  many  a 
year  Henry*s  holy  shade  had  watched 
the  growth  of  an  ednoation  of  less  ob- 
vious utility.  How  was  young  Tho- 
mas or  William  "  the  better  off'  fw 
being  aide  to  con  "  the  tale  of  Troy  di- 
vine?^* But  teach  him  to  mince  « little 
Erench,  simper  a  little  Italian,  snarl  a 
little  German,  and  there  he  is  at  once 
accomplished  f(»*  an  oitaM^  a  cor- 
respondent, or  a  bagman— profitable 
walks  oflife  all  of  them.  Andthesame 
notions  mounted  still  higher  in  the  as- 
cendant, when  thesenate  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Cambridge  apparently  evinced 
a  desire  to  examine  the  requirements 
of  that  body  by  the  same  standard. 

The  first  step  of  this  kind  was  taken 
about  three  years  ago.  Most  of  our 
readers  are  aware  that,  at  Cambridge, 
those  candidates  for  a  degree  who  do 
not  aspire  to  honours  are  said  to  go 
out  in  the  poU;  this  being  the  abbre- 
viated term  to  denote  those  who  were 
classically  designated  ol  froXXot.  Now 
the  qualifications  required  for  attain- 
ing this  poll  degree  consisted  of  an 
acquaintance  with  a  part  of  Homer, 
a  part  of  Virgil,  a  part  of  the  Greek 
Testament,  and  Faiey^s  Evidences  of 
Chrietiamty,  over  and  above  the  ma- 
thematics, of  which  we  shall  spe^ 
presently.  By  what  curious  Infelicity 
the  recondite,  and,  in  many  particu- 
lars, inexplicable  language  of  Homer 
has  been  so  commonly  selected  for 
beginners  in  Greek  at  school,  and, 
as  in  this  case,  forj^those  who  were  not 
expected  to  appear  as  accomplished 
scholars— we  need  not  here  stop  to 
inqmre.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the 
university,    in    this    initial   reform, 

ousted  Homer  and  Yirgil  from  tiie 
^ ,...^  .1....-  ^^^^  ^^ 

be  varied 
This  was 
It  least  as 
n  we  have 
('abetter 
I  to  have 
I,  and  sl- 
ice of  his 
lisforlmie 
tftingthis 


oonrse,  did  not  substitute  a  work  of 
some  one  of  the  logical  or  phUosi^hi- 
cal  authors  current  in  the  English 
language,  for  the  shallow  and  ^an- 
siUe  book  of  Paley's  above  mentioned 
—with  regard  to  which  it  would  be 
diBlfflilt  to  Bay  whether  it  te  worae 
chosen  aa  a  model  of  reasoning,  or  aa 
a  proof  of  Christian  facts. 

The  mathematical  portion  of  this 
course  consisted  of  Euclid,  algeln^ 
and  trigonometiT,  the  student  being 
thus  tratned  in  the  model  processes  <^ 
pure  mathematical  reasoning  left  us 
by  the  first,  and  also  bron^t  ac- 
quainted with  the  elementary  opera- 
tions of  analysis.  As  a  matter  of 
mental  training,  the  most  valnaUe 
portion  of  this  curriculum  was  the 
ioiowledge  acquhed  of  the  geometrical 
processes  employed  by  Euclid,  as 
nmiliarlsing  the  mind  of  the  stud^t 
with  the  severest  forms  of  reasoning,  * 
and  the  steps  wheret>y  indubitable 
verily  is  attamed.  Hiis  p<Miion,  how- 
ever, was  most  especially  selected  for 
cnrtaihnent  by  the  reforms  to  which 
we  are  dludlng*  In  the  stead  of  the 
requirements  t£us  displaced,  a  motley 
amount  of  elementuy  propositiona 
in  statics,  dynamics,  and  hvdrostatica, 
were  subst&iuted— usefol  mformatioa 
enough  as  instances  of  the  simpler 
applications  of  the  analytical  ma* 
chinery  of  matiiematics,  but  compara- 
tiyehr  worthless  as  an  exercise  of  the 
mind*  Country  clergj^men,  whose 
forgotten  mathematics  loomed  grandly 
on  their  minds  through  the  mist  m 
years,  were  confounded  with  disap- 
pointment at  beholding  thdr  sons,  ut 
whom  tiiey  expected  to  find  philoso- 
phers, return  to  them  with  an  examin- 
ation paper,  apparently  rather  calcu- 
lated to  unfoldthemysteriesofen^eeF- 
ing,  well-sinking,  uid  carpentering. 

This  object— the  practicability  and 
immediate  utility  of  the  studies  pur- 
sued, in  preference  to  the  superiority 
of  m^tal  traimng  derivable  firom 
them-Hseems  to  be  simply  that  which 
has  dictated  the  recent  imiovations  of 
1848.  The  princij^e  which  entered 
into  both  measures  may  eadly  be 
traced  in  tiie  prevalent  phases  of 
literature  and  adenoe  thsovghout  the 
public  «t  large.  A  few  years  ago, 
everjr  one  foncied  hhnself  a  philoso- 
pher. Littie  volumes,  cabinet  oydo- 
pndias  and  the  like,  swarmed  on  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Tke  EmffHih  Ufwermiiet  ami  thcar  Be/krms. 


bookseUfln*  aMyes,  oontainiag  a 
sdiBg  of  disjoiiited  and  bald  scientific 
fiMto,  inYolTing  bo  trath  and  azpres- 
sire  of  no  law,  but  more  or  leas 
adrohlj  anaaged  vnder  boy  era!  heads, 
wiih  a  Mttoami  air.  The  man  of  bosi- 
iieM--tfae  i^prentice— the  boarding- 
fldiool  ]B]S0--4ook  it  into  their  iMads 
tiiiat  a  rml  road  was  tiins  opened  to 
all  brandies  of  nsefid  and  entertaining 
knowledge, — that  the  acqnhrements  S 
Bacon  ware  ^  in  this  wondeifol  age" 
breacht  withm  the  reach  of  every  one 
who  had  an  occasional  honr  or  two  in 
the  daj  to  spare  from  lAOTe  mechanical 
emplojments ;  and  that  the  progress 
from  ignoraooe  to  philosophy  was  as 
mwch  ^cilitated  by  these  little-book 
contriTaaoes,  as  the  joamey  from  Lon- 
don to  BkmiBgkam,  by  the  mshing 
railw^r-train,  was  an  adraiice  apon 
the  week's  tdl  of  onr  forefialier&  in 
'  accomplishing  the  same  space.  Much 
of  this  mania  for  desaltcry  knowledge 
has  evaporated,  but  its  inflnencea  are 
still  distinctly  to  be  traced  am<mg  ns. 
It  is  not  svrarising  that  those  infln- 
ences  Atonla  in  some  measure  hare 
affected  the  nniTersities.  In  aeoord- 
aaoe  with  the  popnlar  notions  afloat, 
the  Cambridge  te^^tors  Mowed  np 
the  alteration  which  we  have  been 
describing  by  the  adoption  of  their 
recent  seasues,  by  which  ti^y 
effected  an  extensi<m  of  tiieir  field  of 
^  hoiKXirs  "  similar  to  that  which  they 
had  already  accomplished  in  the  qua- 
lifications  for  the  ordinary  degree. 
To  the  old  ^triposes,**  or  classes  of 
honovB  in  mathematics  and  classics, 
tiMy  have  now  added  two  more— 
namefy,  one  in  moral  sdences  and 
one  in  natural  sciences. 

Befbre,  however,  we  xdfot  air^  oon* 
jectores  as  to  the  probable  effect  of 
these  yet  untried  changes,  we  must 
remind  om*  readers  of  a  certain  cha- 
racteristic  of  tiie  Cambridge  system, 
which  is  important  in  ffltHiiating  the 
intemal  relations  of  the  late  retoms. 
The  academic  life  d  Cambridge  dr- 
calates  through  two  ooncnrrent  sys- 
tems, which  we  may  term  tiie  imi- 
versity  and  the  coUe^^ate  ssrstem. 
Tlw  mdversity  is  one  cmoration,  and 
eadi  indhrldoal  ocdlege  is  idtogetiier 
another.  The  union  between  the  two 
mtems  mi^dit  be  dissolved  without 
dilBealty.  li  tiie  unifendty  were  to 
abandon  her  aacieat  seat,  and  take 


239 

vp  some  new  abode,  as  she  did  for  a 
time  at  Northampton  some  centuries 
ago,  the  colleges  mi^t  still  remain 
as  places  of  education,  with  but  Uttie 
modification  of  their  present  <^anc- 
ter.  The  older  system— the  university 
—  has  had  its  functions  gradually 
absorbed  in  a  great  measure  by  the 
collegiate.  The  earliest  form  in  which 
Cambridge  appears,  £mly  seen  in 
hoar  antiquiir,  is  that  of  a  congre|;a- 
tion  of  stndeats,  commonly  livmg 
together  for  mutual  convenience  in 
hostels,  governed  bv  a  code  of  statutes, 
and  enokmed  with  the  privilege  of 
cranting  degrees.  Then  came  the 
Kmaders  of  collegee,  with  their  noble 
endowments,  and  reared  edifices,  in 
which  societies  ai  these  students 
Aonld  live  together  under  a  common 
rule,  and  f<nin  distinct  corporations 
by  themselves,  for  purposes  connected 
with,  and  auxiliary  to,  those  of  the 
university.  The  latter  body  has  from 
time  immemorial  matricafaited  only 
tiioee  who  were  already  members  <tt 
some  one  or  other  of  the  colleges ;  but 
there  probably  was  a  time  at  which  a 
student  in  tiie  university  was  not 
necessarily  a  member  of  any  college, 
until  by  degrees  these  foundations 
absorbed  into  their  composition  the 
whde  ci  the  academic  population. 
By-aad-by,  the  principal  part  of  the 
functions  of  teaching  also  lapsed  into 
the  hands  of  the  colleges.  In  the  old 
times,  the  univernty  discharged  this 
dn^  by  means  of  the  public  readings 
or  lectures  by  tiie  newly  admitted 
masters  of  arts,  (termed  regents^)  and 
by  the  keq>inff  of  acts  and  opponendes 
— ^being  certam  vivd  voce  di^utatioaa 
—by  the  students.  To  this  imrtenH 
comprehending  the  mi^  stumes  of 
the  pUoe,  was  superadded,  by  indi- 
vidual endowment  or  ro^  benefi- 
cence, tiie  collateral  information  on 
special  subjects  given  by  the  profes- 
sors. The  colleges  were  altogether 
subsidiary  to  this  mode  of  instruction 
—the  praistice  being  that  every  stutoit 
who  airoUed  hfanself  hi  the  ranks  of 
a  particular  college,  must  do  so  under 
tlM  charge  of  some  one  of  the  fbUows 
of  the  college,  who  became  a  kind  of 
private  tutor  to  hfan.  Hence  arose 
college  tutors ;  and  as  their  lectures, 
given  in  eadi  separate  college,  were 
found  to  be  the  most  efficient  aids  ia 
prosecuting  the  university  studies,  the 


Digitized  by 


Google 


77ie  English  Universities  and  their  JRtfarms, 


240 

roadings  of  the  masters  of  arts  gradu- 
ally fdl  altogether  into  disuse,  and 
the  vivd  voce  exercises  of  the  students 
have  nearly  done  so. 

Possibly,  along  with  the  transfer  of 
the  functions  of  lecturing  from  the 
nniyersity  regents  to  the  college  tutors, 
the  professonal  chaurs  may  adso  have 
declined  in  importance  as  an  element 
of  the  academic  education.  But,  as  we 
have  before  seen,  these  were  never  the 
main  vehicle  for  the  dispensation  of 
knowledge  on  the  part  of  the  univer- 
sity. Nevertheless,  we  suspect  that 
one  object  of  the  recently  erected  tri- 
poses is  to  revive  the  importance  of 
the  professors*  lectures  in  the  univer- 
sity course.  For  it  is  now  required 
that  every  one  who  presents  himself 
as  a  candidate  for  the  ordinary  or  poU 
degree,  shall  have  attended  the  lec- 
tures of  some  one  of  the  professors  at 
his  individual  choice ;  and  these  lec- 
tures will,  moreover,  be  necessary 
guides  in  the  studies  required  of  those 
who  um  at  the  honours  of  the  new 
triposes.  It  seems  clear,  therefore, 
that  the  devisers  of  the  scheme  had  it 
in  contemplation,  through  the  medium 
of  theur  changes,  to  fill  the  class-rooms 
of  the  professors,  and  so  far  to  assimi- 
late the  modem  system  to  the  ancient, 
by  bringing  the  university  instruction 
into  more  active  play.  We  are  dis- 
posed to  question  the  wisdom  of  these 
proceedings.  UntU  now,  the  univer- 
sitjr  and  the  colleges  had  apportioned 
their  several  functions,  by  assigning 
to  the  latter  the  duty  of  imparting  pro- 
ficiency in  the  studies  cultivated  ;  to 
the  former,  that  of  testing  profi- 
ciency attained.  The  two  systems  had 
thus  harmonised,  as  we  believe,  in 
conformity  with  the  requbrements  of 
the  age  by  lapse  of  time  ;  and  if  it 
was  deemed  desirable  to  disturb  this 
arrangement,  and  restore  the  faculty 
of  teaching  to  the  university,  this 
should  rather  have  been  done,  we 
think,  by  reviving  the  system  of  viV;^ 
voce  disputations,  now  altogether  dis- 
used except  in  the  progress  to  a  degree 
in  law,  physic,  or  divinity ;  but  which 
would  form,  under  proper  regulations, 
an  important  adjunct  to  the  ordinary 
course,  by  cultivating  a  decision,  a 
readiness,  and  an  ingenuity  in  reason- 
ing, which  are  comparatively  left  dor- 
mant by  a  written  examination.  Again, 
'*  *"  '•''  we  consider,  altogether  a  mis- 


[Feb. 


take  to  suppose  that  the  primaiy  end 
of  a  professorial  existence  is  to  deliver 
lectures.  The  endowment  of  a  pro- 
fessorship is  rather,  as  we  take  it,  to 
enable  the  holder  of  it  to  give  up  his 
time  to  the  particular  science  to  which 
he  is  devoted ;  and  it  is  by  no  means 
necessary,  especially  in  these  days, 
when  words  are  so  easily  winged  by 
the  printer's  devil,  that  Uie  results  of 
his  LEiboars  should  be  given  forth  by 
oral  lectures.  At  the  same  time,  when 
his  subject,  and  his  manner  of  treating 
it,  were  such  as  to  command  interest, 
he  was  at  no  loss  for  an  audience.  The 
professorships,  however,  being  mostly 
established  for  the  purpose  of  aiding 
the  pursuit  of  the  inductive  sciences, 
side  by  side  with  the  severer  studies  of 
the  university,  fell  under  the  patron- 
age of  the  spirit  of  the  age.  Whether 
tiie  sciences,  for  the  promotion  of 
which  they  were  founded,  will  be 
materially  advanced  by  this  sort  of 
'^  protection,"  remams  to  be  seen. 

It  is  likely  enough,  we  think,  that 
some  confusion  may  arise  from  this 
revival  of  the  lecturing  powers  of  the 
university.  This,  however,  will  be 
easily  obviated  in  practice,  as  the  two 
systems  have  never,  so  far  as  we  are 
aware,  manifested  anything  like  a 
mutual  antagonism  or  jealousy  of  each 
other.  A  greater  practical  difficulty  is 
one  which  appears  to  be  left  untouch- 
ed by  the  new  regime.  We  allude  to 
the  growing  plan  of  instruction  by 
private  tutors — a  calling  which  has 
sprung  up,  in  the  strictest  principles  of 
demand  and  supply,  to  meet  the  eager- 
ness for  external  aid  which  has  been 
induced  by  the  great  competition  for 
university  honours.  The  existence 
and  increasing  importance  of  the  class 
of  private  tutors  has  been  decried  as  an 
evil ;  and  it,  no  doubt,  enhances  con- 
siderably the  expenses  attendant  on  a 
college  education.  But,  after  all,  this 
is  only  part  and  parcel  of  the  lot  which 
has  fallen  to  us  in  these  latter  days 
of  merrv  England.  There  are  so 
many  of  us,  and  we  keep  so  con- 
stantly adding  to  our  numbers,  that 
we  must  not  be  surprised  at  more 
pushing  and  contrivance  beingrequired 
to  realise  a  livelihood  than  heretofore ; 
and  as  the  end  to  be  attained  increases 
in  its  relative  importance,  the  outlay 
attendant  on  its  attainment  wiU,  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  things,  be  aug- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  English  Unwersities  and  their  Reforms, 


mented  also.  It  is  not  oar  intention, 
however,  to  discuss  at  this  time  the 
merits  or  demerits  of  the  private-tator 
system  ;  it  suffices  for  our  purpose  to 
notice  it  as  the  reappearance,  in  an- 
other form,  of  the  old  functions  of  in- 
stroction,  as  lodged  in  the  hands  of  the 
nniyersity  regents.  As  the  collegiate 
system  gradoallj  supplanted  that 
pristine  form,  so  the  office  of  the 
private  tutors  is,  to  a  certain  extent, 
supplanting  the  colledate  system. 
These  instructors  are  likely,  as  we  be- 
fore  said,  to  occupy,  under  the  new 
ndes,  much  the  same  place  as  they 
held  under  the  old;  and  indeed  it 
appears  that,  whether  desirable  or  not, 
it  would  be  extremely  difficult  to  get 
rid  of  them;  at  all  events  the  col- 
leges, being  now  trenched  upon  by  the 
university  proflBssors  on  the  one 
hand,  and  by  the  private  tutors  on 
the  other,  must  exert  themselves  to 
ascertain  their  proper  functions,  and 
k  to  fulfil  them  with  zeal  and  energy. 

As  for  the  new  triposes  themselves, 
it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  name 
given  to  them  is  not  the  most  unfor- 
tunate part  of  them.  The  common 
name  of  Tripos  looks  like  a  confusion 
of  ideas  on  the  part  of  the  university 
itself,  and  a  want  of  discrimination 
between  its  old  studies  and  its  new. 
At  first,  probably*  the  recent  triposes 
will  be  comparatively  neglected,  and 
on  that  ground  alone  it  is  both  mis- 
judging and  unfair  to  include  in  the 
same  category  of  ^*  honours''  and 
"tripos,"  classes  which  are  respec- 
tively the  subject  of  lurdent  competi- 
tion and  of  none  at  all.  But  suppos- 
ing that  the  new  classes  attracted 
their  fair  share  of  competitors,  it 
would  still  be  a  grievous  fault  in  the 
university  to  hold  out  to  the  world 
so  false  an  estimate  of  the  vehicle  of 
mental  trabing,  as  it  would  appear 
to  do  by  placing  on  a  par  the  new 
studies  and  the  old — ^by  assuming,  or 
seeming  to  assume,  that  ratiocinative 
thought  may  be  as  well  employed 
about  the  fallacies  of  Mr  Ricardo,  as 
the  exact  reasoning  and  indubitable 
verities  of  Euclid  and  Newton;  or 
that  the  faculties  of  discrimination 
and  speculation  may  be  unfolded  by 
the  **  getting  up"  of  botanical  or 
chemic^  nomenclature,  not  less  than 
by  the  new  world  of  thought  opened 
through  the  authors  of  Greece  and 

VOL.  LXV. — NO.  CCCC. 


241 

Rome.  We  must,  however,  confess 
that  we  are  now  taking  the  most 
unfavourable  view  of  the  matter. 
With  respect,  indeed,  to  the  natural 
sciences*  tripos,  we  cannot  help  being 
fully  of  opmion,  that  it  should  have 
beendistinctly  recognised  as  subsidi- 
ary to  the  main  vehicles  of  education 
adopted  at  Cambridge.  But  the 
moral  sciences'  tripos  furnishes,  if 
properly  constructed,  an  excellent 
means  for  training  thought.  It  is  a 
great  misfortune  that  the  studv  of 
Aristotle  has  been  suffered  at  Cfam- 
bridge  to  fall  almost  into  desuetude : 
we  speak  of  the  philosophical  study 
of  his  works  in  contradistinction  to 
the  philologicaL  The  former  is 
maintamed  at  Oxford  with  great 
success;  thus  combinmg,  with  Oxford 
scholarship,  a  training  of  the  reason- 
ing powers  which  is  almost  an  equi- 
vfdent  for  the  mathematical  studies 
of  her  sister  university.  Moreover, 
the  literature  of  Great  Britain  boasts 
of  a  band  of  moral  philosophers  far 
greater  than  any  other  modem  nation 
can  produce.  The  works  of  Butler, 
Cndworth,  Berkeley,  Hume,  Reid, 
and  Stewart,  with  many  others,  form 
a  group  of  authorities  worthy  of  the 
groves  of  Academus.  The  meta- 
physics of  Locke — we  should  rather 
say,  the  wall  which  Locke  has  built 
up  between  the  English  mind  and  the 
science  of  metaphysics—has  too  long 
prevented  the  moral  reasoners  of  this 
country  from  duly  availing  themselves 
of  the  treasures  at  their  command. 
Under  the  guidance  of  such  b'ghts  as 
those  we  have  enumerated,  we  may 
hope  to  see  a  school  of  metaphysical 
thinkers  arise  in  England,  whose  ex- 
ertions may  dissipate  the  mist  of 
half-thought  in  which  Teutonic  specu- 
lation has  involved  the  science  of  its 
dboice.  If,  however,  the  tap-root  of 
our  metaphysical  thought  is  to  be  cut 
through  by  the  study  of  the  plausi- 
bilities of  Locke  and  Paley,  (no  very 
unlikely  issue,  we  should  fear,  at  least 
under  present  circumstances,)  then 
this  moral  sciences'  tripos  also  is  one 
of  those  things  which  had  better  never 
have  been. 

We  repeat  that  Cambridge  has  in- 
curred great  blame,  if  she  has  allowed 
herself  to  mislead,  or  to  seem  to  mis- 
lead, the  popular  mind  on  these  mat- 
ters.   The  more  talkative  portion  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


342 


The  English  Umversiiies  <md  their  Brfomu, 


[Fob, 


the  pablic,  and  the  newspapers  which 
oommonlv  represent  that  more  talka- 
tive portion,  have  evidently  been  iu- 
clined  to  interpret  this  movement  of 
Cambridge  as  an  indication  of  a  most 
utilitarian  system  of  education  com- 
ing to  supplant  the  old  rules.  They 
anticipate  all  sorts  of  civil  engineer- 
ing, butterfly-dissecting,  light  geology, 
and  a  whole  Babel  of  modern  lan- 
goages,  to  be  victoriously  let  loose  on 
Qie  home  where  for  many  a  century 
Wisdom  has  sat  with  the  scroll  of  Plato 
on  her  knee,  and  Science  has  unravelled 
the  wizard  1(h«  of  fluxion  and  equa- 
tion. The  senate  of  Cambridge  is 
egregiously  mistaken  if  it  supposes 
that  it  will  win  over  to  its  body  the 
students  of  these  popular  branches  of 
knowledge,  by  following  the  dictation 
of  the  j^pular  taste.  Those  who  want 
to  be  civil  engineers  will  not  come  to 
a  university  to  learn  their  art  They 
will  follow  Brunei  and  Stephenson, 
and  see  how  the  work  is  actually  done 
in  practice;  and  those  who  do  so  will 
soon  prove  themselves  far  superior, 
auoad  civil  engineering,  to  ti^e  Cam- 
bridge-bred theorist.  In  like  man- 
ner, a  month's  flirtation  in  Paris, 
or  a  few  games  at  6carU  with  a 
German  baron,  will  teach  the  student 
of  modem  languages  more  French 
or  German  than  a&  the  philologists 
of  Oxford,  Cambridge,  or  Eton  can 
impart  in  a  year. 
''Qoam  qoisque  D6rit  artem,  in  hftc  se 

ezeiceat." 
If  the  public  have  mistaken  the.Amc- 
tions  of  the  university,  it  is  the  more 
incumbent  on  her  to  assert  them  cor- 
rectly. Nor  is  the  outcry  less  ground- 
less, that  the  universities  have  failed 
to  furnish  the  beat  men  in  law 
and  medicine.  With  regard  to  the 
lawy  certain  gentlemen  were  even  cited 
by  name,  in  leading  articles  of  news- 
papers, as  types  of  the  class  of  men 
who  were  now  taking  the  lead  at  the 
bar,  and  representing  an  altogether 
different  school  from  that  trained  at 
the  universities.  The  fact  of  the  uni- 
versity men  being  supplanted,  or  being 
likely  to  be  supplanted,  at  the  bar, 
may  admit  of  consideraole  question. 
But  it  is  not,  after  all,  the  question 
by  which  the  universities  are  to  be 
judged.  They  do  not  undertake  to 
make  men  great  lawyers  or  skilful 
physieianf ;  thiSt  where  it  does  belong 


to  thefar  fanctions,  is  a  colkieral  dotyi 
and  not  the  main  object  of  their  train- 
ing. That  object  is  distinctly  avowed 
in  their  own  formalaries.  That  noble 
clause  in  the  **  bidding  prayer"  will  at- 
tach itself  to  the  memories  of  most  of 
those  who  have  heard  it : 

"  And  thai  there  never  may  be  wont- 
mg  a  suppfy  qf  persons  duly  guaiified 
to  serve  God^  both  in  Church  and  State^ 
let  as  pray  for  a  blessing  on  aU  semi- 
naries of  sound  learning  and  religious 
education,  particularly  the  universi- 
ties of  this  realm.*' 

A  higher  end  to  be  attained,  per- 
haps, than  that  of  merely  qualifying 
the  student  to  ^^  get  on  in  the  world." 
His  university  education  is  not  so 
much  to  enable  him  to  attain  those 
eminent  stations  which  are  the  prizes 
of  ability  and  industry,  as  to  fit  him  to 
adorn  and  fill  worthily  those  stations 
when  he  has  attained  them.  In  truth, 
we  think  it  is  not  desirable,  any  more 
than  necessary,  that  a  degree  shQuld  ^ 
be  an  essential  opening  to  the  bar,  the 
profession  of  medicine,  (h:  even  the 
Church.  The  university  is  injured  by 
being  too  much  regarded  as  a  step  to 
be  got  over  with  the  view  of  reaching 
some  ulterior  end. 

We  dwell  on  this  point  with  the 
more  interest,  because  we  are  satis- 
fied that  a  still  greater  rei^nsibili^ 
rests  with  the  universities,  to  guard 
the  fountains  of  knowledge  pure  and 
unsullied,  in  those  days  of  professed 
knowledge,  than  in  the  so-called  dark 
ages.  Our  day  is  rich  in  the  know- 
ledge at  facts;  there  were  many  tr%Uh$ 
influencing  those  men  of  the  times 
we  please  to  call  dark,  which  we  have 
ignored  or  forgotten*  The  general 
demand  for  information — for  this 
knowledge  of  facts — ^has  made  it  a 
marketablo  conunodity,  a  sut^ect  (tf 
commercial  speculation ;  consequent- 
ly, a  vast  deal  that  is  shallow  and  de- 
sultory, a  vast  deal,  too,  that  is  coun- 
t^eit  and  fraudulent,  is  abroad,  made 
up  for  the  market,  and  circulates 
among  multitudes  who  are  incapable 
of  separating  the  grain  from  the  chaff. 
It  is  therefore,  we  repeat,  even  more 
important  that  the  sources  of  learning 
should  be  guarded  from  contamination, 
now  that  the  antagonistic  principles 
are  the  knowledge  of  truUi  and  the 
subserviency  to  ftUsehood,  than  when« 
at  tharevival  of  Uteratnrer  the  stmggle 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1«49.] 


77ke  E$ifflM  UnwerMea  and  Aeiv  Reforms. 


248 


was  between  knowledge  and  igno- 
Tance. 

We  would  haaro  the  nnirersities  re- 
member tluit  it  la  tfaefar  best  policy  as 
corporations,  as  well  as  a  duty  thej 
ewe  to  those  great  medieval  spirits 
iHio  idanted  them  where  they  stand, 
to  own  a  better  prineiple  than  that 
iHiich  would  lead  them  to  succumb  to 
what  iscaUed  popular  opinion— in  other 
words,  the  floatmg  faUacj  of  the  day-— 
and  aim  at  producing  the  shallow 
party  leaders  and  favourite  writers  of 
the  passing  moment  Thej  csBsot 
control  the  frothy  surface  and  the 
deep  under-current  at  the  same  time. 
It  would  be  a  sacrifice  to  expediency 
which,  after  all,  would  not  serve  their 
turn.  There  are  institutions  which 
will  do  that  work,  and  which  will  beat 
them  in  the  race.  Let  all  such  take 
their  own  course. 

"Let  Gryll  be  Gryll,  and  have  his 
hoggish  kinde:"  let  Sdnkomalee  train 
the  statesmen  for  the  League  and  the 
jokers  for  Punch, — ^but  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  have  other  rdles. 

It  is  true,  we  are  told  there  is  a  new 
aristocracy  rising  in  England,  and  that 
the  Eng^h  universities  are  gaining  no 
hold  upon  the  coming  generation  of 
**  chiefs  of  industry."  It  would  be  far 
better  for  our  social  condition  that 
Hiese  same  chieili  of  industry  should 
be  edncated  men,  and  should  pass 
through  a  training  which  might  tend 
to  neutralise  the  power  of  the  mer- 
cantile iron  in  entering  into  their  soul. 
But  at  present  the  race  to  be  rich  \a 
80  strong  and  hardly  contested,  that 
this  dass  is  hardly  likely,  in  general, 
to  devote  their  sdons  to  academical 
studies  of  any  description  ;  and  the 
merchant  or  manufacturer  who  came 
lh)m  the  banks  of  Isis  or  Cam,  at  the 
age  of  twen^-one,  to  the  Exchange 
or  the  Ciothphall,  would  find  himself 
starting  und^  a  most  heav^  disad- 
vantage as  compared  with  his  neigh- 
bour of  the  same  age,  who  had  spent 
the  last  three  or  four  years  in  a  count- 
ing-house. The  reason  that  this  dass 
is  net  commonly  trained  in  the  na- 
tional seminaries,  is  to  be  sought  in  the 
habit  and  requirements  of  we  class, 
and  not  in  the  nature  of  the  education 
afforded  them. 

We  have  spoken  chiefly  of  Cam- 
bridge, because  Cambridge  has  put 
heoelf  fi)rward[  as  the  re|»esentatfye 


of  a  system  of  so-called  university  re* 
form---of  a  oertahi  movement  in  the 
direction  of  that  principle  whidi  wonld 
accommodate  the  education  of  cm 
higher  classes  to  the  caprice  of  a  popu- 
lar cry  or  cant  phrase.  We  care  net 
so  much  whether  that  movement  in 
itself  be  advantageous  or  the  reverse: 
it  is  against  the  principles  supposed 
to  be  involved  in  it  that  we  protest. 
The  report  goes,  that  changes  of  some 
kind  or  other  are  contemplated  at 
Oxford  also.  If  these  changes  be 
made,  we  trust  that  they  will  not  be 
devised  in  deference  to  the  noisier 
portion  of  the  public,  or  to  that  fond- 
ness for  short-cuts  to  knowledge, 
which  fritters  away  the  energies  of  the 
rising  man  in  the  collection  of  desul- 
tory facts,  and  the  dependence  upon 
shallow  plausibilities.  The  Scottish 
universities,  too,  are  likely  to  be  put 
to  the  test  in  the  same  manner  as  their 
sisters  of  the  Southern  kingdom  ;  and 
the  questions  raised  cannot  be  unkite- 
resting  to  them. 

Nor,  indeed,  can  the  whole  nation 
be  otherwise  than  deeply  concerned 
in  t^  matter;  andwearenotsurpnsed 
at  the  interest  which  has  been  excited 
by  the  recent  alterations  at  Cam- 
bridge, though  not  measures  in  them- 
selves of  any  great  importance.  While 
we  have  contended  for  a  higher  ground 
on  the  part  of  the  univ^uties  than 
that  of  merely  finding  suoh  knowledge 
as  is  required  by  the  popular  taste, 
and  happens  to  be  most  current  in 
the  market,  and  have  called  upon 
them  to  lead  the  public  mind  in  these 
matters,  we  need  hardlr  say  that  we 
must  not  be  understood  as  failing  to 
see  the  necessity  of  those  institutions 
closely  observing  the  shifting  relations 
of  our  social  equilibrium,  and  adapting 
tbeur  policy  by  judicious  change,  if 
need  be,  to  the  cbrcumstanoes  in  which 
they  find  themselves.  We  might 
perhaps  adduce  the  altered  position  of 
the  Church  with  respect  to  the  nation 
at  large,  as  an  instance  of  these 
changes.  We  have  before  hinted 
that  the  universities  have,  as  we 
tiiink,  in  some  degree  aimed  at  being 
too  exclusively  the  training-schools 
of  the  clergy ;  and  this  circumstance, 
in  our  judgment,  so  far  as  England  is 
concerned^  has  both  narrowed  the 
operations  of  the  Church  and  the 
inflnence  of  the   universities.     The 


Digitized  by  VjOG)QIC 


244  Thf  Covenanter$^  Night-Hymn.  ^%h. 

Church  and  Earopean  civilisation —  anthorSf     pamphleteers,     newspaper 

the  latter  having  grown  up  under  the  editors,  magazine  contributors,  qtioks 

tutelage   of  the   former  —  stand  no  noi  vdChmemu.     It  is  incumbent, 

longer  in  the  relation  of  nurse  and  then,  on  the  universities  to  consider 

bantling,  though  Heaven  forbid  that  how  they  may  brin^  within  the  sphere 

they  should  ever  be  other  than  firm  of  that  control  which  they  exercised 

friends  and  allies!    But  the  Church  in  old  times  over  the   der^,  this 

is  no  longer  the  exclusive  teacher  of  mixed  multitude  of  public  mstmc- 

the  world :   mankind  are  in  a  great  tors ;   how  they  may  become    not 

measure  taught  by  books.    Viewing  merely  the  schools   of  the   clerical 

the  demr  not  in  respect  of  their  order,  but  also  the  nurseries  of  a  future 

sacerdotSf  functions,  but  as  the  in-  caste  of  literary  men,  who  are  to  bear 

structors  of  mankind,  we  find  their  their  part  with  that  order  in  the  com- 

office  shared  by  a  motley  crowd  of  ing  development  of  human  thought. 


TUB  covenanters'  NIGHT- HYMN. 


[Making  all  allowances  for  the  many  over-coloured  pictures,  nay,  often 
onesided  statements  of  such  apologetic  chroniclers  as  Ejiox,  Melville, 
Calderwood,  and  Row,  it  is  yet  difficult  to  divest  the  mind  of  a  strong 
leaning  towards  the  old  Presb3rterians  and  champions  of  the  Covenant 
— probably  because  we  believe  them  to  have  been  sincere,  and  know 
them  to  have  been  persecuted  and  oppressed.  Nevertheless,  the  liking 
is  as  often  allied  to  sympathy  as  to  approbation ;  for  a  sifting  of  nuH 
tives  exhibits,  in  but  too  many  instances,  a  sad  commixture  of  the  chaff  of 
selfishness  with  the  grain  of  principle — an  exhibition  of  the  over  and  over 
again  played  game,  by  which  the  gullible  many  are  made  the  tools  of  the 
crafty  and  designing  few.  Be  it  allowed  that,  both  in  their  preachings  from 
the  pulpit  and  their  teachings  by  example,  the  Covenanters  fi:^uently  pro** 
ceeded  more  in  the  spu*lt  of  fanaticism  than  of  sober  religious  feeling ;  and 
that,  in  their  antagonistic  ardour,  they  did  not  hesitate  to  carry  the  persecu- 
tions of  which  they  themselves  so  justly  complained  into  the  camp  of  the 
adversary— sacrificing  in  their  mistaken  zeal  even  the  ennobling  arts  of  ai'chi- 
tecture,  sculpture,  and  painting,  as  adjuncts  of  idol-worship— still  it  is  to  be 
remembered,  that  the  aggression  emanated  not  from  them ;  and  that  the  rights 
they  contended  for  were  the  most  sacred  and  invaluable  that  man  can  possess 
— the  freedom  of  worshipping  God  according  to  the  dictates  of  conscience. 
They  sincerely  believed  that  the  principles  which  they  maintained  were  right  : 
and  their  adherence  to  these  with  unalterable  constancy,  through  good  report 
and  through  bad  report ;  in  the  hour  of  privation  and  suffering,  of  danger  and 
death  ;  in  the  silence  of  the  prison-cell,  not  less  than  in  the  excitement  of  the 
battle-field ;  by  the  blood-stained  hearth,  on  the  scaffold,  and  at  the  stake, — 
forms  a  noble  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind — of  man  as  an 
accountable  creature. 

Be  it  remembered,  also,  that  these  religious  persecutions  were  not  mere 
things  of  a  day,  but  were  continued  through  at  least  three  entire  generations. 
They  extended  from  the  accession  of  James  VI.  to  the  English  throne,  (tuH-- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  Th€  Covenanters'  Night-Hymn.  2i^ 

hus  the  rhjmes  of  Sir  David  Ljndsaj,  and  the  dassic  prose  of  Buchanan,) 
down  to  the  Reyolation  of  1688— almost  a  century,  daring  which  many  thou- 
sands tyrannically  perished,  without  in  the  least  degree  loosening  that  tenacity 
of  purpose,  or  subduing  that  perfervidum  ingenium^  which,  according  to 
Tbnanns,  have  been  national  characteristics. 

As  in  almost  all  similar  cases,  the  cause  of  the  Covenanters,  so  strenuously 
and  unflinchingly  maintdned,  ultimately  resulted  in  the  victory  of  Protestant- 
ism— that  victory,  the  fruits  of  which  we  have  seemed  of  late  years  so  readily 
inclined  to  throw  away ;  and,  in  its  rural  districts  more  especially,  of  nothing 
are  the  people  more  justly  proud  than 

''  the  tales 

Of  persecution  and  the  CoTenant, 

Whose  echo  rings  through  Scotland  to  this  hour/* 

So  says  Wordsworth.  These  traditions  have  been  emblazoned  by  the  pens 
of  S<x>tt,  M^Crie,  Gait,  Hogg,  Wilson,  Grahame^  and  Follok,^and  by  the 
pencils  of  Wilkie,  Harvey,  and  Duncan,— each  regarding  them  with  the  eye 
of  his  peculiar  genius. 

In  reference  to  the  following  stanzas,  it  should  be  remembered  that,  during 
the  holding  of  theur  conventicles, — which  frequently,  in  the  more  troublous 
times,  took  place  amid  mountain  solitudes,  and  during  the  night, — a  sentinel 
was  stationed  on  some  commanding  height  in  the  neighbourhood,  to  give  warn- 
ing of  the  approach  of  danger.] 


Ho  I  plaided  watcher  of  the  hill, 

What  of  the  night?— what  of  the  night  ? 
The  winds  are  lown,  the  woods  are  still. 

The  countless  stars  are  sparkling  bright ; 
From  out  this  heathery  moorland  glen, 

By  the  shy  wild- fowl  only  trod,  * 
We  nuse  our  hymn,  unheard  of  men, 

To  Thee — an  omnipresent  God  I 


Jehovah !  though  no  sign  appear, 

Through  earth  our  aimless  path  to  lead, 
We  know,  we  feel  Thee  ever  near, 

A  present  help  in  time  of  need — 
Near,  as  when,  pointing  out  the  way, 

For  ever  in  thv  people's  sight, 
A  pillared  wreath  of  smoke  by  day, 

Which  turned  to  fiery  flame  at  night ! 

in. 


Whence  came  the  summons  forth  to  go? — 
From  Thee  awoke  the  warning  sound ! 
"  Out  to  your  tents,  O  Israel !    Lo  1 
The  heathen's  warfare  girds  thee  round. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


2^  The  Covmmter^  Miffkt-Bynm.  [Feb. 

Sona  of  the  fcuthfol  1  np-^way! 

The  lamb  must  of  the  wolf  beware ; 
The  falcon  seeks  the^ove  for  prey ; 

The  fowler  spreads  his  conning  snare  r 

IV. 

Dvf  set  in  gold ;  ^twas  peace  aroond — 

*Twia8  seeming  peace  by  field  and  flood : 
We  woke,  and  on  onr  lintels  found 

The  cross  of  wrath — the  mark  of  blood. 
Lord  I  in  thy  cause  we  mocked  at  fears, 

We  scorned  the  ungodly's  threatening  words — 
Beat  out  our  pruning-heoks  to  spears, 

And  turned  our  pbughahares  into  swords  I 

V. 

Degenerate  Scotland  1  days  have  been 

Thy  soil  when  only  freemen  trod — 
When  monntam-crag  and  valley  green 

Poured  forth  the  loud  acclaim  to  God ! — 
The  fire  which  liberty  imparta, 

Refulgent  in  each  patriot  eye, 
And,  graven  on  a  nation^s  hearts. 

The  TF«r*— for  which  we  stand  or  die! 

VI. 

Unholy  change !    The  scomer's  chair 

Is  now  the  seat  of  those  who  rule  ; 
Tortures,  and  bonds,  and  death,  the  share 

Of  all  except  the  tyrant^s  tool. 
That  faith  in  which  onr  fathers  breathed, 

And  had  their  life,  for  which  they  died — 
That  priceless  heirloom  they  bequeathed 

Their  sons^oor  impious  foes  deride ! 

vn. 

So  We  have  left  our  homes  behind. 

And  We  have  belted  on  the  sword, 
And  We  in  solemn  league  have  joined, 

Yea  I  covenanted  with  the  Lord, 
Never  to  seek  those  homes  again. 

Never  to  give  the  sword  its  sheath, 
UntU  our  rights  of  faith  remain 

Unfettered  as  lite  air  we  breathel 

vm. 

O  Thou,  who  mlest  above  the  skj^ 

Begirt  about  with  starry  thrones, 
Cast  from  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  thine  eye 

Down  on  our  wives  and  little  ones — 
From  HaUeinjaiiB  surging  round, 

Oh  I  for  a  moment  turn  thine  ear, 
The  widow  prostrate  on  the  ground. 

The  faaiiBlied  otphaa^  ones  to  kewi 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


M90  The  Covektmters'  N^-Hi^.  U1 

IX. 

And  Thon  wilt  hear !  it  cannot  be. 

That  Tlion  wilt  list  the  raven's  brood, 
When  from  their  nest  they  scream  to  Thee, 

And  in  due  season  send  them  food>; 
It  cannot  be  that  Thon  wilt  wearve 

The  lily  such  snperb  array, 
And  yet  nnfed,  nnsheltered,  leave 

Thy  children — as  if  less  than  they  I 


W^  have  no  hearths — ^the  ashes  lie 

In  blackness  where  they  brightly  ahone ; 
We  have  no  homes — the  desert  aly 

Oar  covering,  earth  onr  conch  alone : 
We  have  no  heritage— depriven 

Of  these,  we  ask  not  such  on  earth ; 
Our  hearts  are  sealed ;  we  seek  in  heaven, 

For  heritage,  and  home,  and  hearth! 

XI. 

O  Salem,  city  of  the  saint, 

And  holy  men  made  perfect !  We 
Pant  for  thy  gates,  onr  spirits  faint 

Thy  glorious  golden  streets  to  see ; — 
To  mark  the  rapture  that  inspires 

The  ransomed,  and  redeemed  by  graoe ; 
To  listen  to  the  seraphs'  lyres, 

And  meet  the  angels  face  lo  £m6  1 


Fatbar  fn  Heaven !  we  turn  not  back, 

Though  briers  and  thorns  choke  up  fbe  palh ; 
Rather  the  tortures  of  the  rack, 

Than  tread  the  winepress  of  Thy  wrath* 
Let  thunders  crash,  let  torrents  shower. 

Let  whirlwinds  chum  the  howling  SMy 
What  is  the  turmoil  of  an  hour, 

To  am  eternal  ealm  with  Thea? 


Digitized  by 


Go|)gIe 


248 


The  CarHsts  in  Catalonia. 


[Feb; 


THE  CABLI8TS  IN  CATALONIA. 


Th£  debates  in  the  Cortes,  and  the 
increasing  development  of  the  civil  war 
in  Catalonia,  have  again  called  atten- 
tion to  the  affaks  of  Spain.  Three 
months  ago  we  glanced  at  the  state 
of  that  country,  briefly  and  broadly 
sketching  its  political  history  since  the 
royal  marriages.  The  quarter  of  a 
year  that  has  since  elapsed  has  been  a 
bnsy  one  in  Spain.  Two  things  have 
been  clearly  proved:  first,  that  the 
Carlist  insurrection  is  a  very  different 
affair  from  the  paltry  gathering  of  ban- 
ditti, as  which  the  Moderados  and  their 
newspapers  so  long  persisted  in  de- 

Sicting  it;  and,  secondly,  that  the 
iadrid  government  are  heartily 
repentant  of  their  unceremonious 
dismissal  of  a  British  ambassador. 
Christina  and  her  Camarilla  scarcely 
know  which  most  deeply  to  deplore — 
the  intrusion  of  Cabrera  or  the  expul- 
sion of  Bulwer. 

In  Catalonia,  we  have  a  striking 
example  of  what  may  be  accom- 
plished, under  most  unfavourable 
circumstances,  by  one  man^s  energy 
and  talent.  Nine  months  ago  there 
was  not  a  single  company  of  Carlist 
soldiers  in  the  field.  A  few  irregular 
bands,  insignificant  in  numbers,  with- 
out uniform  and  imperfectly  armed, 
roamed  in  the  mountains,  fearing  to 
enter  the  plain,,  hunted  down  like 
wolves,  and  punished  as  malefactors 
when  captured.  To  persons  ignorant 
how  great  was  the  difference  made  by 
the  fall  of  Louis  Philippe  in  the 
chances  of  the  Spanish  Carlists,  the 
cause  of  these  never  appeared  more 
hopeless  than  in  the  spring  of  1848. 
Suddenly  a  man,  who  for  seven  years 
had  basked  in  the  orange  groves  of 
Hy^rcs,  and  listlessly  lingered  in  the 
mountain  solitudes  of  Auvergne, — re- 
posing his  body,  scarred  and  weary 
from  many  a  desperate  combat,  and 
recruiting  his  health,  impaired  by 
exertion  and  hardship— crossed  the 
Pyrenees,  and  appeared  upon  the 
scene  of  his  former  exploits.  The 
news  of  his  arrival  spread  fast,  but  for 
a  time  found  few  behevers.  Cabrera, 
said  the  incredulous,  who  evacuated 
^nain  at  the  head  of  ten  thousand 


hardy  and  well-armed  soldiers,  be- 
cause he  would  not  condescend  to  a 
guerilla  warfare,  after  having  held 
towns  and  fortresses,  and  won  pitched 
battles  in  the  field — Cabrera  would 
never  re-enter  the  country  to  take 
command  of  a  few  hundred  scattered 
adventurers.  Others  denied  his  pre- 
sence, because  he  had  not  imme- 
diately signalised  it  by  some  dashing 
feat,  worthy  the  conqueror  of  Morella 
and  Maella.  Various  reports  were 
circulated  by  those  interested  to  dis-  . 
credit  the  arrival  of  the  redoubted 
chief.  He  was  ill,  they  said;  he  had 
never  entered  Spain  or  dreamed  of  so 
doing;  he  had  come  to  Catalonia, 
others  admitted,  but  was  so  disgusted 
at  the  scanty  resources  of  his  party, 
at  the  few  men  in  the  field,  at  the 
lack  of  SLTms,  money,  organisation,— of 
everything,  in  short,  necessary  for  the 
prosecution  of  a  war, — that  he  cursed 
the  lying  representations  which  had 
lured  him  from  retirement,  and  was 
again  upon  the  wing  for  France. .  The 
truth  was  in  none  of  these  statements. 
If  Cabrera  sounded  a  retreat  in  1840, 
when  ten  thousand  warlike  and  de- 
voted followers  were  still  at  his  orders^ 
it  was  because  the  Carlist  prestige  was 
gone  for  a  time,  the  countiy  was 
exhausted  by  war,  anarchy  reigned  in 
the  camp,  and  he  himself  was  prostrat- 
ed by  sickness.  In  seven  years,  cir- 
cumstances had  entirely  changed ;  the 
country,  galled  by  misgovemment  and 
oppression,  was  ripe  for  insurrection ; 
the  intermeddling  of  foreign  powers 
was  no  longer  to  he  apprehended ;  and 
Cabrera  emerged  from  his  retirement, 
not  expecting  to  find  an  army,  or 
money,  or  organisation,  but  prepared 
to  create  all  three.  In  various  in- 
genious and  impenetrable  disguises 
he  moved  rapidly  about  eastern  Spain  ^ 
fearlessly  entering  the  towns,  visiting 
his  old  partisans,  and  reviving  their 
dormant  zeal  by  ardent  and  confident 
speech;  giving  fresh  spirit  to  the 
timid,  shaming  the  apathetic,  and 
enlisting  recruits.  His  unremitting 
efforts  were  crowned  with  success. 
Numbers  of  his  former  followers  rallied 
round  him;  secret  adherents  of  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


The  CarUsts  in  Catahmia. 


249 


cause  contributed  funds;  anns  and 
equipments,  purchased  in  France  and 
England,  safely  anived;  officers  of 
rank  and  talent,  distinguished  u\  for- 
mer wars,  raised  their  banners  and 
mustered  companies  and  even -batta- 
lions; and  soon  Cabrera  was  strong 
enough  to  traverse  Catalonia  in  all 
directions,  and  to  collect  from  the  in- 
habitants regular  contributions,  in 
almost  every  instance  willingly  paid, 
nud  gathered  often  within  cannon-shot 
of  &e  enemy's  forts.  He  seemed 
ubiquitous.  He  was  heard  of  every- 
where, but  more  rarely  seen,  at  least 
in  his  own  character.  In  various  as- 
sumed ones,  not  unfrequentl^  in  the 
ffarb  of  a  priest,  he  accompamed  small 
detachments  sent  to  collect  imposts ; 
doing  subaltern's  rather  than  general's 
dut^,  ascertaining  by  personal  obser- 
vation the  temper  and  disposition  of 
the  peasantiy,  and  making  himself 
known  when  a  point  was  to  be  gained 
by  the  influence  of  his  name  and  pre- 
sence. His  prodigious  activity  and 
perseverance  wrought  miracles  in  a 
country  where  those  qualities  by  no 
means  abound.  Doubtless  he  has 
been  well  seconded,  but  his  has  been 
the  master-spirit.  The  result  of  his 
exertions  is  best  shown  by  a  state- 
ment of  the  present  Carlist  strength 
in  Catalonia.  We  have  ahready 
mentioned  what  it  was  eiffht  or  nine 
months  ago — a  few  huncured  men, 
half-armed  and  Hi-disciplined,  wan- 
dering amongst  ravines  and  preci- 
Sices.  At  the  dose  of  1848,  the  Mo- 
erado  papers,  without  means  of  ob- 
taining correct  information,  estimated 
the  Carlist  army  in  Catalonia  at  8000 
men.  The  CarUsts  themselves,  whose 
present  policy  is  rather  to  under- 
state thehr  strength,  admitted  10,000. 
Their  real  numbers— and  the  accuracy 
of  these  statistics  may  be  relied  upon 
—ate  12,000  bayonets  and  sabres, 
exclusive  of  small  guerilla  parties, 
known  as  vo/Son/ef,  and  other  irregulars. 
A  large  proportion  of  the  12,000  are 
old  soldiers,  who  served  in  the  last 
war ;  and  all  are  well  armed,  equipped, 
and  disciplined,  and  superior  to  theur 
opponents  in  power  of  endurance,  and 
of  efiectmg  those  tremendous  marches 
for  whidi  Spanish  troops  are  celebrat- 
ed. Regularly  rationed  and  supplied 
with  tobacco,  they  wait  cheerfuUy  till 
the  military  chest  is  in  condition  to 


disburse  arrears.  The  curious  in  cos- 
tume may  like  to  hear  something  of 
their  appearance.  The  brigade  under 
the  immediate  orders  of  Cabrera  wears 
a  green  uniform  with  black  facings : 
Runonet's  men  have  dark  bluejackets ; 
there  is  a  corps  clothed  h  rAngkuse^  in 
scarlet  coats  and  blue  continuations, 
which  is  known  as  Count  Montemo- 
lin's  own  regiment.  The  old  boina  or 
flat  cap,  and  a  sort  of  light,  low- 
crowned  shako,  such  as  is  worn  by  the 
French  in  Africa,  compose  the  con- 
venient and  appropriate  head-dress. 
With  the  important  arms  of  artillery 
and  cavahry,  in  which  armies  raised  as 
this  one  has  been  are  apt  to  be  de- 
ficient, Cabrera  is  well  provided.  A 
number  of  guns  were  buned  and  other- 
wise concealed  in  Spain  ever  since  tiie 
last  war,  and  others  have  been  pro- 
cured from  France.  As  to  cavaliy, 
the  want  of  which  was  so  frequently 
and  severely  felt  by  the  Carlists  during 
the  former  struggle,  the  Cbristinos  will 
be  surprised,  one  of  these  days,  to  find 
how  formidable  a  body  of  dragoons 
their  opponents  can  bring  into  the 
field,  although  at  the  present  moment 
they  have  but  few  squadrons  under 
arms.  Nearly  four  thousand  horses 
are  distributed  in  various  country  dis- 
tricts, comfortably  housed  m  farm  and 
convent  stables,  and  divided  amongst 
the  inhabitants  by  twos  and  threes. 
They  are  well  cared  for,  and  kept  in 
good  condition,  ready  to  muster  and 
march  whenever  required. 

What  the  Catalonian  Carlists  are 
now  most  in  want  of,  is  a  centre  of 
operations,  a  strong  fortress— a  Mo- 
rellaoraBerga— whitherto  retreat  and 
recruit  when  necessary.  That  Cabrera 
feels  this  want  is  evident  frt>m  the 
various  attempts  he  has  made  to  sur- 
prise fortified  towns,  with  a  view  to 
hold  them  against  the  Christines. 
Hitherto  these  attempts  have  been 
unsuccessful,  but  we  may  be  prepared 
to  hear  any  day  of  his  having  made 
one  with  a  different  result. 

When  the  general  tranquillity  of 
Europe  brought  Spanish  dissensions 
into  relief,  a  vast  deal  of  romance  was 
written  in  France,  Spain,  and  £ng- 
Umd,  in  the  giiise  of  memoirs  of 
Cabrera,  and  of  other  distinguished 
leaders  of  the  civil  war,  and  not  a 
little  was  swallowed  by  the  simple  as 
historical   fact.     We   remember  Uh 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


u* 


n^OmH^w  OattJtmiBk 


[FM). 


h*ve  seen  tiie  Conrrenlioii  of  Becgaiu 
aecounted  for  In  print  by  a  game  at 
cards  between  Espartero  and  Maroto, 
?rfao,  both  being  represented  as  des- 
pera^  gamblers,  met  at  ni^^ht  at  a 
lone  ferm-hoose  between  their  respec- 
tive lines,  and  played  for  the  crown 
of  Spain.  Espartero  won;  and  Maroto, 
more  loyal  as  a  gamester  than  to  his 
king,  brought  over  bis  army  to  the 
queen.  This  marveUoos  tale,  al- 
thongfa  not  exactly  voached  for  in  the 
original  English,  was  gravely  trans- 
lated in  French  periodicals ;  and  the 
chances  are  that  a  portion  of  the 
French  nation  believe  to  the  present 
hoior  that  Isabella  owes  her  crown  to 
a  lucky  hit  at  montd.  Fables  equally 
preposterous  have  been  cfarcolated 
about  Cabrera.  Of  his  personal  ap- 
pearance, especially,  the  most  absurd 
accounts  have  been  published;  and 
type  and  graver  havefiornishedsomany 
fantastical  and  imaghiary  portraits  of 
him,  that  one  from  the  life  may  have 
its  interest.  Ramon  Cabrera  is 
about  five  feet  eight  inches  in  height, 
square  built,  muscular,  and  acuve. 
He  is  rather  round-shouldered;  his 
haur  is  abundant  and  very  black;  his 
grayish-brown  eyes  must  be  admitted, 
even  by  his  admirers,  to  have  a  oruel 
expression.  His  complexion  is  tawny, 
his  nose  aquiline ;  he  has  notiiing  re- 
markable or  striking  in  his  appearance, 
and  is  neither  u^y  nor  handsome, 
but  of  the  two  may  be  accounted 
rather  good-looking  than  otherwise. 
He  has  neither  an  assassin-icowl  nor 
an  expression  like  a  bilious  ^ena, 
nor  any  other  of  the  little  physiogno- 
mical agrhnens  with  which  imagina- 
tive painters  have  so  frequently  embel- 
lished his  countenance.  His  character, 
as  well  as  his  face,  has  suffered  from 
misrepresentation.  He  has  been  de- 
picted as  a  Nero  on  a  small  scale, 
dividing  iiis  time  between  iddling 
and  massacre.  There  is  some  exag- 
geration in  the  statement.  Unques- 
tionably he  is  neither  mild  nor  merci- 
ful ;  he  has  shed  much  blood,  and  has 
been  guilty  of  divers  acts  of  cruelty, 
but  more  of  these  have  been  attributed 
to  him  tiian  he  ever  committed.  His 
mother^  death  by  Christino  bullets 
inspired  him  with  a  burning  desire  of 
revenge.  The  imtem  of  reprisals,  so 
largely  adopted  by  both  sides,  during 
the  late  dvil  war  in  l^mln,  will  ac- 


count fbr  many  of  his  atrodties,  al- 
though it  may  hardly  be  held  to 
justify  them.  But  hi  the  present  con- 
test he  has  hitherto  gone  upon  a 
totally  different  plan.  Mercy  and 
humanity  seem  to  be  his  device,  as 
they  are  undoubtedly  his  best  policy. 
His  aim  Is  to  win  followers,  by  cle- 
mency and  conciliation,  instead  of 
coropellingth^n  by  intimidation  and 
cruelty.  There  is  as  yet  no  aul^n- 
ticated  account  of  an  execution  oc- 
curring by  his  order.  One  man  was 
shot  at  Vich  by  the  troops  blockading 
the  place ;  but  he  was  known  as  a  spy, 
and  was  twice  warned  not  to  enter  the 
town.  He  pretended  to  retire,  made 
a  circuit,  tried  another  entrance,  and 
met  his  death.  As  to  Cabrera's  hav- 
hig  shot  four  or  five  officers  for  a  plot 
against  his  life,  as  was  recently  re- 
ported in  Spanish  papers,  and  repeat- 
ed by  English  ones,  llie  tale  is  uncon- 
firmed, and  has  every  appearance  of 
a  fabrication.  There  is  no  doubt  he 
finds  it  necessanr  to  keep  a  tight  hand 
over  his  subormnates,  especially  in 
presence  of  the  recent  defection  of 
some  of  their  number,  whose  treach- 
ery, however,  is  not  likely  to  be  very 
advantageous  to  the  Christinos. 
The  troops  whom  Poxas,  Pons, 
Monsermt,  and  the  other  rene- 
gade diiefe  induced  to  accompany 
them,  have  for  the  most  part  re- 
turned to  their  banners,  and  the  queen 
has  gabled  nothing  but  a  few  very 
untrustworthy  ofSoers.  These,  by 
one  of  the  conditions  of  their  desertion, 
her  generals  are  compelled  to  employ, 
thus  creating  much  discontent  among 
those  officers  of  the  Christino  army 
overwhoseheadsthetraitoreareplaced. 
The  principal  traitor,  General  Miguel 
Pons,  better  known  as  Bep-al-Oli,  has 
been  known  as  a  Carlist  ever  since  the 
rising  in  Catalonia  in  1827,  when  he  was 
c^>tured  by  the  frunous  Count  d'Es- 
pagne,  and  was  condemned  to  the  gal- 
leys, as  was  his  brother  Antonio  Pons, 
one  of  those  whom  Cabrera  was  Utely 
falsely  reported  to  have  shot.  After 
the  death  of  Ferdinand,  botii  brothers 
served  under  their  former  persecutor, 
who  thought  to  extinguish  their  re- 
sentment by  good  treatment  and  pro- 
motion, in  smte  of  which  precaution 
a  share  in  his  assassination  is  pretty 
generally  attributed  to  Antonio  Pons. 
Bep-al-Oliis  Catalan  for  Jos^h-iiH 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


IdMJ]  Tk€  CarHits  m  CaicUama, 

oU,  or  Oily  Joe,  m  slippery  cognomen, 
which  his  recent  change  of  sides 
seems  to  justify.  Still  he  is  a  model 
of  confflstency  compared  to  many 
Spanish  officers,  who  have  changed 
sides  half-a-do£en  times  m  the  last 
fifteen  years.  And,  indeed,  after 
one  -  and-twenty  years'  stanch  and 
active  Carlism,  the  sincerity  of  Bep's 
conversion  may  perhaps  be  considered 
dnbions.  It  would  be  no  way  sur- 
prising if  he  were  to  retora  to  his 
first  love,  carrying  with  him,  of 
conrse,  the  large  snm  for  which  he 
was  bonght.  Another  chief,  Mon- 
serrat,  pused  over  to  the  Christinos 
with  two  or  three  companions,  and 
the  very  next  week  he  had  the  mis- 
fortone  to  &11  asleep,  whereupon  the 
better  half  of  his  band  took  advantage 
of  his  slnmbera  to  go  back  to  their 
colours,  much  comforted  by  the 
gratuities  they  had  received  for  chang- 
ing sides.  When  Monserrat  awoke, 
he  was  furious  at  this  defection,  and 
Instantly  pursued  his  stray  sheep. 
Not  having  been  heard  of  since,  it  is 
not  unlikely  he  may  ultimately  have 
followed  their  example.  Of  course, 
money  is  the  means  employed  to 
seduce  these  fickle  partisans.  They 
are  all  bought  at  their  own  price, 
which  rate  is  generally  so  high  as  to 
preclude  profit.  The  cash-keepers  at 
Madrid  will  soon  get  tired  of  such 
purchases.  The  regular  expenses  of 
the  war  are  eoOTmous,  without  squan- 
dering thousands  for  a  few  days'  use 
of  men  who  cannot  be  depended  upon. 
It  is  notorious  that  immense  ofiers 
were  made  to  Cabrera  to  induce  him 
to  abandon  the  cause  of  Charles  VI., 
of  which  he  is  the  life  and  souL  -Gold, 
titles,  rank,  govera<»^ps,  have  been 
in  tnra  and  together  paraded  before 
him,  bat  in  vain.  He  would  indeed 
be  worth  buyhog,  at  almost  any 
price;  for  be  could  not  be  replaced, 
aid  his  loss  would  be  a  death-blow 
to  the  Cariist  cause.  Knowing 
this,  and  finding  him  incorruptible, 
it  were  not  surprising  if  certain  un« 
scrupulous  persons  at  Madrid  sought 
other  means  of  lemovmg  him  £rom 
the  scene.  Cabrera,  aware  of  the 
great  importance  of  his  life,  very 
pradently  takes  his  precautions.  He 
BUS  done  so,  to  some  extent,  at 
Tarious  periods  of  his  career.  During 
the    aarily  poition  of  his   ezfle  in 


361 

France,  when  that  country,  eq>eciali}r 
its  southern  provinces,  swarmed  with 
Spam'sh  emigrants,  many  of  whom 
had  deep  motives  for  hating  him — 
whilst  others,  needy  and  starving, 
and  inured  to  crime  and  bloodshed, 
might  have  been  tempted  to  knife  him 
for  the  contents  of  his  pockets — the 
refugee  chief  wore  a  shirt  of  mail  be- 
neaUi  his  sheepskin  jacket.  He  had 
also  a  celebrated  pair  of  leathern 
trousers,  which  were  generally  be- 
lieved to  have  a  metallic  lining. 
And,  at  the  present  time,  report  says 
that  his  head  is  the  onfy  vulnerable 
part  of  his  person. 

In  presence  of  their  Catalonian 
anxieties,  of  Cabrera's  rapidly  in- 
creasing strength,  and  of  the  impo- 
tence of  Christine  generals,  who 
start  for  the  insurgent  districts  with 
premature  vaunts  of  their  triumphs, 
and  return  to  Madrid,  baffled  and 
crestfallen,  to  wrangle  in  the  senate 
and  divulge  state  secrets — the  Nar- 
vaez  government  is  secretly  most 
anxious  to  make  up  its  di£ferencea 
with  England.  This  anxiety  has  been 
made  sufficiently  manifest  by  the 
recent  discussions  in  the  Cortes. 
Notwithstanding  his  assumed  in- 
diflFerence  and  vain- glorious  self-gra- 
tnlation,  the  Duke  of  Valencia  would 
gladly  give  a  year's  salary,  perquisites, 
and  plunder,  to  recall  the  impolitic  act 
by  which  a  British  envoy  was  ex- 
pelled the  Spanish  capitaL  Sefior 
Cortina,  the  Progresista  deputy,  after 
denying  that  there  were  sufficient 
grounds  for  Sir  Henry  Bulwer's  dis- 
missal, and  lamenting  the  rupture 
that  has  been  itsconsequenoe,  politely 
advised  Narvaez  to  resign  office,  aa 
almost  the  only  means  of  repahing 
the  dangerous  breach.  The  recom- 
mendation, of  course,  was  purely 
ironicaL  General  Narvaes  is  the 
last  man  to  play  the  Curtiua,  and 
plunge,  for  his  country's  sake,  into  th« 
gulf  of  political  extinction.  In  his 
scale  of  patriotism,  the  good  of  Spain 
is  secondary  to  the  advantage  of 
Bamon  Narvaes.  We  can  imagins 
the  broad  grins  of  the  Opposition,  and 
the  suppressed  titter  of  his  own 
firiends,  upon  his  having  the  £ue  to 
dedare,  that,  when  the  French  Bsro- 
lution  broke  out,  be  was  actually 
planning  a  transfer  of  the  reins  of 
government  into  tbe  hands  of  tbs 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


252 


The  CarUits  in  Caialonia. 


[Ftlr- 


Frogresistas.  The  bad  example  of 
democratic  France  frustrated  his  dis- 
interested designs,  changed  his  bene- 
volent intentions,  and  compelled  him 
to  transport  and  imprison,  by  whole- 
sale, the  very  men  towards  whom,  a 
few  weeks  previously,  he  was  so  mag- 
nanimously disposed.  Returns  of 
more  than  fifteen  hundred  persons, 
thus  arbitrarily  torn  from  their  homes 
and  families,  were  moved  for  early  in 
the  session ;  but  only  the  names  were 
granted,  the  charges  against  them 
being  kept  secret,  in  order  not  to  give 
the  lie  to  the  ministerial  assertion 
that  but  a  small  minority  were  con- 
demned for  political  offences.  As  to 
the  dispute  with  England,  although 
Narvaez*  pride  will  not  suffer  him  to 
admit  his  blunder  and  his  regrets, 
many  of  his  party  make  no  secret  of 
their  desire  for  a  reconciliation  at  any 
price ;  fondly  believing,  perhaps,  that 
it  would  be  followed,  upon  the  aman- 
tium  irm  principle,  by  warmer  love 
and  closer  union  than  before.  The 
slumbers  of  these  ojakUero  politicians 
are  haunted  by  sweet  visions  of  a 
British  steam-flotilla  cruising  off  the 
Catalonian  coast,  of  Carlist  supplies 
intercepted,  of  British  batteries  mount- 
ed on  the  shores  of  Spain,  and  manned 
by  British  marines  —  the  sight  of 
whose  red  jackets  might  serve,  at  a 
pinch,  to  bolster  up  the  wavering 
courage  of  a  Christine  division— and 
of  English  commodores  and  artillery- 
colonels  supplying  such  deficient 
gentlemen  as  Messrs  Cordova  and 
Concha  with  the  military  skill  which, 
in  Spain,  is  by  no  means  an  indispen- 
sable qualification  for  a  lieutenant- 
general's  commission.  Doubtless,  if  the 
alliance  between  Lord  Palmerston  and 
Queen  Christina  had  continued,  we 
should  have  had  something  of  this 
sort,  some  more  petty  intermeddling 
and  minute  military  operations,  con- 
sumptive of  English  stores,  and  dis- 
creditable to  English  reputation.  As 
it  is,  there  seems  a  chance  of  the 
quarrel  beinff  fkirl^  fought  out:  of 
the  Spaniards  bemg  permitted  to 
settle  amongst  themselves  a  question 
which  concerns  themselves  alone.  If 
the  CarUsts  get  the  better  of  the 
struggle,  (and  it  were  unsafe  to  give 
long  odds  against  them,)  it  is  undeni- 
able that  they  began  with  small  re- 
aources,  and  that  their  triumph  will 


have  been   achieved  by  their  own 
unaided  pluck  and  perseverance. 

Puzzled  how  to  make  his  peace 
with  England,  without  too  great  mor- 
tification to  his  vanity  and  too  great 
sacrifice  of  what  he  calls  bis  dignity, 
Narvaez  falls  back  upon  France,  and 
does  his  best  to  curry  favour  there  by 
a   fulsome   acknowledgment   of  the 
evils   averted   from   Spain    by   the 
friendly  offices  of  Messrs  Lainartine 
and  Bastide,  and  of  "  the  iDostrious 
General  Cavaignac.*'     The  fact  is, 
that  during  the  first  six  months  of  the 
republic,  nobody  in  France  had  leisure 
to  ^ve  a  thought  to  Spain,  and  Car- 
lists  and  Frogresistas  were  allowed 
to  concert  plans  and  make  purchases 
in  France  without  the  slightest  mo- 
lestation. At  last.  General  Cavaignac, 
worried  by  Sotomayor — and  partly, 
perhaps,  through  sympathy  with  his 
brother-dictator,   Karvaez—sent    to 
the  frt)ntier  one  Lebriere,  a  sort  of 
thieftaker  or  political  Yidocq,  who 
already  had  been  similarly  employed 
by  Louis  Philippe.    This  man  was  to 
stir  up  the  authorities  and  thwart  the 
Carlists,  and  at  first  he  did  hamper 
the  latter  a  little ;  but  whether  it  was 
that  he  was  worse  paid  than  on  his 
former  mission — Cavaignac's  interest 
in  the  affair  being  less  personal  than 
that  of  the  King  of  the  French — or 
that  some  other  reason  relaxed  his 
activity,  he  did  not  long  prove  efil- 
cient.    Then  came  the  demons,  and 
the  success  of  Louis  Napoleon  was 
unwelcome  intelligence  to  the  Madrid 
government— it  being  feared  that  old 
friendship  might  dispose  him  to  favour 
Count  Montemolin  as  far  as  lay  in  his 
power :  whereupon — ^the  influence  of 
woman  being  a  lever  not  unnaturally 
resorted  to  by  a  party  which  owes  its 
rise  mainly  to  bedchamber  intrigue 
and  to   the   patronage  of  Madame 
Muiioz— the  notable  discovery  was 
made  that  the  Duchess  of  Valencia  (a 
Frenchwoman  by  birth)  is  a   con- 
nexion of  the  Buonaparte  family,  and 
her  Grace  was  forthwith  despatched 
to  Paris  to  exercise  her  coquetries  and 
fascinations  upon  her  far-off  cousin, 
and  to  intrigue,  in  concert  with  the 
Duke  of  Sotomayor,  for  the  benefit 
of  her  husband^s  government.    The 
result  of  her  mission  is  not  yet  appar- 
ent.   Putting  all  direct  intervention 
completely  out  of  the  question.  Franco 


,  Cnnglp 


1B49.] 


The  CarlisU  in  Catalonia, 


263 


has  still  a  yast  deal  in  her  power  in 
nil  cases  of  insurrection  in  the  north- 
em  and  eastern  provinces  of  Spain. 
A  sharp  look-ont  on  the  frontier, 
seizure  of  arms  desdned  for  the  insur- 
gents, and  the  removal  x>f  Spanish 
refiigeefl  to  remote  parts  of  France, 
are  measures  that  would  greatly  harass 
and  impede  Carlist  operations ;  much 
less  so  now,  however,  than  three  or 
four  months  ago.  Most  of  the  emi- 
grants have  now  entered  Spain ;  and 
horses  and  arms—the  latter  in  large 
numbers — ^have  crossed  the  frontier. 

Up  to  the  middle  of  January,  the 
Montemolinist  insurrection  was  con- 
fined to  Catalonia,  where  alone  the 
insurgents  were  numerous  and  or- 
ganised. This  apparent  inactivitv  in 
other  districts,  where  a  rising  might 
be  expected,  was  to  be  attributed  to 
the  season.  The  quantity  of  snow 
that  had  fallen  in  die  northern  pro- 
vinces was  a  dog  upon  militaiy  oper- 
ations. About  the  middle  of  the 
month,  a  thousand  men,  including  three 
hundred  cavalry,  made  their  appear- 
ance in  Navarre,  headed  by  Colonel 
Montero,  an  old  and  experienced  officer 
of  the  peninsular  war,  who  served  on  the 
staff  so  far  back  as  the  battle  of  Bay- 
len.  This  force  is  to  serve  as  a  nucleus. 
The  conscription  for  1849  has  been 
anticipated ;  that  is  to  say,  the  voung 
soldiers  who  should  have  joined  their 
colours  at  the  end  of  the  year,  are 
called  for  at  its  commencement ;  and 
it  is  expected  that  many  of  these  con- 
scripts, discontented  at  the  premature 
summons,  will  prefer  joining  the  Car- 
lists.  When  the  weather  clears,  it  is 
confidently  anticipated  that  two  or 
three  thousand  hardy  recruits  will 
make  the  valleys  of  Biscay  and  Na- 
varre ring  once  more  with  their  Basque 
war-cries,  headed  by  men  whose 
names  will  astonish  those  who  still 
disCTedit  the  virtual  union  of  Carlists 
and  Progresistas. 

The  masses  of  troops  sent  into 
Catalonia  have  as  yet  effected  literally 
nothing,  not  having  been  able  to  pre- 
vent the  enemy  even  from  recruiting 
and  orguiising.  General  Cordova 
made  a  military  promenade,  lost  a  few 
hundred  men — slain  or  taken  prisoners 
with  their  brigadier  at  their  head — 
and  resigned  the  command.  He  has 
been  succeeded  by  Concha,  a  some- 
what better  soldier  than  Cordova,  who 


was  never  anything  but  a  parade 
butterfly  of  the  very  shallowest  capa- 
city. Concha  hasas  yet  donelittle  more 
than  his  predecessor,  (his  reported 
victory  over  Cabrera  between  Vich 
and  St  Hippolito  was  a  barefaced  inven- 
tion, without  a  shadow  of  foundation,) 
although  his  force  is  larger  than  Cor- 
dova's was,  and  his  promises  of  what 
he  would  do  have  been  all  along  most 
magnificent.  Already  there  has  been 
talk  of  his  resignation,  which  doubt- 
less will  soon  occur,  and  ViUalonga  is 
spoken  of  to  succeed  him.  Thisgeneral, 
lately  created  Marquis  of  the  Maes- 
trazeo  for  his  cruelty  and  oppression 
of  the  peasantrv  in  that  district,  will 
hardly  win  his  dukedom  in  Catalonia, 
although  dukedoms  in  Spain  are  now  to 
be  had  almost  for  the  asking.  Indeed, 
they  have  become  so  common  that, 
the  other  day.  General  Narvaez, 
Duke  of  Valencia,  anxious  for  distinc- 
tion from  the  vulgar  herd,  was  about 
to  create  himself  prince;  but  having 
unfortunately  selected  Concord  for  his 
btended  title,  and  the  accounts  from 
Catalonia  being  just  then  anjrthing 
but  peaceable,  he  was  fain  to  postpone 
his  promotion  till  it  should  be  more 
de  circonstance.  The  Prince  of  Con- 
cord wonld  be  a  worthy  successor  to 
the  Prince  of  the  Peace.  Spain  was 
once  proud  of  her  nobility  and  choice 
of  her  titles.  Alas !  how  changed  are 
the  times  I  What  a  pretty  list  of 
grandees  and  titulos  de  Costilla  the 
Spanish  peerage  now  exhibits  1  Mr 
Sotomayor,  the  other  day  a  book- 
seller's clerk,  then  sub-secretary  in  a 
ministry,  then  understrapper  to  Gon- 
zdes  Bravo,  now  duke  and  ambas- 
sador at  Paris!  What  a  successor 
to  the  princely  and  magnificent  en- 
voys of  a  Philip  and  a  ChariesI 
And  Mr  Sartorius,  latelv  a  petty 
jobber  on  the  Madiid  Bolsa,  is  now 
Count  of  St  Louis,  secretary  of  state, 
&c.  I  When  the  Legion  of  Honour 
was  prostituted  in  ^unce  by  lavish 
and  indiscriminate  distribution,  and 
by  conversion  into  an  electioneering 
bribe  and  a  means  of  corruption,  many 
old  soldiers,  who  had  won  their  cross 
upon  the  battle-fields  of  the  Empire, 
had  the  date  of  its  bestowal  affixed 
in  silver  figures  to  their  red  ribbon. 
The  old  nobility  of  Spain  must  soon 
resort  to  a  similar  plan,  and  sign  their 
date  of  creation  aher  their  names,  if 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


2H 


The  Cartui$  m  Catalmm. 


[Feb.  1S49. 


they  TTonld  be  distiognisbed  from  the 
horde  of  disreputable  adventurers  on 
whom  titles  have  of  late  years  been 
infamously  squandered. 

When  the  Madrid  government  has 
performed  its  promise,  so  often  re* 
peated  during  the  last  six  months,  of 
extinguishing  the  Carlists  and  restor- 
ing peace  to  Spain,  we  hope  those  ill- 
treated  gentlemen  in  the  city  of  Lon- 
don, who,  from  time  to  time,  draw  up 
a  respectful  representation  to  General 
Narvaez  on  the  subject  of  Spanish 
debts — a  representation  which  that 
officer  blandly  receives,  and  takes  an 
early  opportunity  of  forgetting — will 
pluck  up  courage  and  sternly  urge  the 
Duke  of  Valencia  and  the  finance 
minister  of  the  day  to  apply  to  the 
liquidation  of  Spanish  bondholders^ 
claims  a  part,  at  least,  of  the  resources 
now  expended  on  military  operations. 
Forty-five  millions  of  reals,  about 
half-a-million  of  pounds  sterling,  are 
now,  we  are  credibly  mformed,  the 


monthly  expenditure  of  the  war  de* 
partment  of  Spain*  That  this  is 
squeezed  out  of  the  country,  by  some 
means  or  other,  is  manifest,  since  no- 
body now  lends  money  to  ^pain.  A 
very  large  part  of  this  very  consider- 
able sum  being  expended  in  Catalonia, 
goes  into  the  pockets  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  that  province,  who  pay  it 
over  to  the  Carlists  in  the  shi^  of 
contributions,  and  still  make  a  pro& 
by  the  transaction— so  that  they  are 
in  no  hurry  to  finish  the  war;  and 
Catalonia  presents  at  this  moment 
the  singular  spectacle  of  two  contend- 
ing armies  paid  out  of  the  same  mili- 
tary chest.  But  Spain  is  the  country 
of  anomalies ;  and  nothing  in  the  con- 
duct of  Spaniards  will  ever  surprise  us, 
until  we  find  tiiem,  by  some  extraordi- 
nary chance,  conducting  their  afiairs 
according^  to  the  rules  of  common 
sense  and  the  dictates  of  ordinary 
prudence. 


PrimtHb^  Waii0mBhfikwoodamiSoi^,JBdi§!mi^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCCCI. 


MARCH,  1849. 


Vol.  LXV. 


SOIEKTIFIC  AND  PRACTICAL  AGRICULTX7RE. 


There  are  three  reasons  why  the 
second  edition  of  a  good  book,  upon 
an  advancing  branch  of  knowledge, 
shonid  be  better  than  the  first.  The 
author,  however  conversant  he  may 
have  been  with  the  snbject  when  he 
wrote  his  book,  is  always  more 
thoroughly  read  in  it — supposing  him 
a  worthy  instructor  of  the  public — his 
opinions  more  carefully  digested,  and 
more  fully  matured,  when  a  second 
edition  is  called  for.  Then  he  has 
had  time  to  reconsider,  and,  if  neces- 
sary, remodel  his  plan — adding  here, 
retrenching  there — introducing  new 
subject-matter  in  one  place,  and  leav- 
ing out,  in  another,  topics  which  he 
hf^  previously  treated  of  with  more 
or  less  detail.  And,  lastly,  the  know- 
ledge itself  has  advanced.  New  ideas, 
which  in  the  interval  have  established 
themselves,  find  a  necessary  place  in 
the  new  issue ;  facts  and  hypotheses 
which  have  been  proved  unsound 
drop  naturally  out  of  his  pages ;  and, 
on  the  whole,  the  later  work  exhibits 
a  nearer  approach  to  that  truthful 
summit,  on  which  the  eyes  of  all  the 
advancers  of  knowledge  are  supposed 
evermore  to  rest. 

For  all  these  reasons,  the  second 
edition  of  the  Book  of  the  Farm  is 
better  than  the  first.  The  opinions 
of  the  author  have  been  reconsidered 
and  materially  improved — especially 
in  reference  to  scientific  points ;  the 
arrangement  has  been  simplified,  and 
the   whole  book  condensed,  by  the 


exclusion  of  those  descriptions  of 
machinery  which  properly  belong 
to  tne  department  of  agricultnnu 
mechanics,  and  which  we  believe  are 
about  to  be  published  as  a  separate 
work ;  and  the  strides  which  practical 
agriculture  has  taken  during  the  last 
ten  years,  and  the  topics  which  have 
chiefly  arrested  attention,  are  con- 
sidered with  the  aid  of  the  better 
lights  we  now  possess. 

Of  all  the  arts  of  life,  there  is  none 
which  draws  its  knowledge  from  so 
great  a  variety  of  fountains  as 
practical  agriculture.  Every  branch 
of  human  knowledge  is  mutually  con- 
nected— ^we  may  say  interwoven  with 
— and  throws  light  upon,  or  is  enlight- 
ened by,  every  other.  But  none  of 
those  which  largely  contribute  to  the 
maintenance  of  social  life,  and  con- 
duce to  the  power  and  stability  of 
states,  is  so  varied  in  its  demands 
upon  the  results  of  intellectual  in- 
quiry, as  husbandry, — or  rural  eco- 
nomy in  its  largest  sense. 

Look  at  that  magnificent  ship,  which 
cleaves  the  waters,  now  trusting  to  her 
canvass  and  wafted  by  favouring 
breezes;  now,  despite  the  fiercest  gales, 

Saddling  her  triumphant  way  over 
ill  and  valley,  precipice  and  ravine, 
which  the  ragmg  sea,  out  of  her  fertile 
materials,  is  every  moment  fashioning 
beneath  her  feet.  Is  there  any  pro- 
duct of  human  art  in  which  more 
intellect  is  embodied  than  in  this 
piece    of   living  mechanism?    The 


Stephens'  Book  of  the  Farm,  Second  Edition,  roL  I. 
VOL.  LXV. — NO.  CCCCI. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


256 


Scientific  and  Practical  AgricuUwre. 


[Maicht 


timber  can  tell  of  the  axe  of  the 
woodman  on  far-distant  hills,  and  of 
the  toils  of  many  craftsmen  in  fitting 
it  for  its  present  purpose.  The  iron 
of  the  researches  of  the  mineralogist, 
the  laborious  skill  of  the  miner,  the 
alchemy  of  the  smelter,  the  wonders 
of  the  tilt-hammer,  the  ingenuitj  of 
the  mechanist,  and  the  almost  incon- 
ceivable and  mathematical  nice^  by 
which  its  yarious  portions  are  fitted 
to  each  other,  and,  like  the  muscles 
and  sinews  of  the  human  body,  made 
to  play  together  for  a  purpose  prori- 
ously  contemplated — an  uninstructed 
man  might  almost  say,  previously 
agreed  upon  among  themselves.  The 
steam,  of  what  hidden  secrets  of 
nature ! — ^the  mysteries  of  heat,  which 
could  not  hide  themselves  from  th« 
searching  genins  of  Black, — the 
dwmistry  of  water,  which  the  ever- 
pondering  mind  of  Watt  compelled 
from  unwilling  nature, — the  endless 
contrivances  by  which  its  fierce  power 
was  tamed  to  most  submissive  obedi- 
ence in  the  worirahops  of  Soho.  The 
compass  may  for  a  momoit  cany  ns 
back  to  the  laUed  mountains  of  onr 
infancy,  in  which  the  hidden  loadstone 
attracted  the  fated  vessd  to  its  ruin  ; 
but  it  brings  us  forward  again  to  the 
truer  marvels  of  modem  magnetism, 
and  to  tiie  intellect  which  luu  been 
expended  in  keeping  the  needle  true 
to  thepole-9tarin  the  iron  boat,  where, 
smTOuided  by  metallic  influences, 
couBtieBS  attractions  are  incessantly 
soHctdng  it  to  deviate.  And  when, 
as  the  mid-day  son  momits  to  the 
senith,  the  sextant  and  the  quicksilver 
appear,  how  does  it  flash  upon  ns  that 
modem  navigation  is  tiie  child  of  as- 
trcmomy;  and  that  the  mind  embo^ed 
in  the  latest  Rossian  telescope  is  part 
and  parcel  of  the  inappradable  mass 
of  thought  to  which,  ^^  walking  tiie 
waters  as  a  thing  of  lifo,"  that  huge 
steam-firigate  owes  its  being  I 

What  a  ooneentration  of  varied 
knowledge  is  seen  in  this  single  woric 
of  art  i  From  how  many  sooroes  has 
this  knowledge  come  i— how  many 
diverse  norsnits  or  sciences  have 
yielded  vMt  necessary  quota  to  the 
eommon  stockl— how  many  varied 
talents  hsve  been  put  under  oontribs- 
tion  to  contrive  its  many  parts,  and 
put  them  fittingly  toffether  I 

But,  to  the  pnrsnUsof  the  hunble 


farmer,  more  aids  still  contribute  than 
to  those  of  the  dauntless  navigator. 
His  patient  and  quiet  life  on  land  is 
as  dependent  upon  varied  knowledge, 
draws  its  instraction  from  as  many 
sources,  and  is  more  bound  up  in 
visible  union  with  all  the  branches  of 
human  sdence,  than  even  the  active 
and  stirring  life  of  the  dweller  on  the 
sea. 

Some  of  onr  iouraal  writers  are  ac- 
customed to  ndicule  the  results  of 
agricultural  skill ;  to  undervalue  our 
successfal  field  improvements;  to 
laugh  at  Smithfield  Christmas  cattle, 
and  at  the  exhibitions  of  our  great 
annual  shows.  In  thoughtlessness, 
often  in  ignoranoe,  they  write,  and 
always  for  a  temporary  effect,  which 
onr  progressing  agricnltire  can  well 
afibrd  to  pass  by. 

But  we  ask  our  rural  reader  to 
turn  up  tiie  first  volume  of  the  Book 
of  eft€  Form,  and  to  cast  his  eye  for  a 
moment  on  the  triad  of  beautifiil  short- 
horns rqffoocnted  in  the  sixth  pkte ; 
or  on  the  magnificent  stallion  of  the 
fourth  plate,  oron  the  graoefril  sheep  of 
the  sevens  We  pass  over  the  jNwilf 
in  which,  to  tiie  edncated  eye,  their 
beauty  consists ;  we  dismiss,  for  the 
present,  all  consideration  of  their  per- 
lection  as  well-bred  animals,  and  tbev 
fitness  fw  the  special  purposes  for 
which  they  have  been  reared.  We 
wish  him  to  tell  ns,  if  he  can,  how 
much  mind  has  gone  to  the  breeding, 
rearing,  and  feeding  of  these  animals — 
how  many  varied  bnmdies  of  know- 
ledge have  lent  tiieir  aid  to  this 
apparently  sim^  and  un-imposing 
result. 

The  food  on  whidi  they  have  be^ 
brought  up  has  been  gathered  firom 
the  soil— die  grass,  the  hay,  the  root 
crops,  the  limwed,  tiie  batl^,  the 
oats.  And  how  much  intellect,  firom 
the  eariiest  dawn  of  civilisation,  hm 
been  lavished  upon  the  soQI — how 
many  brandies  of  knowledge  are  at 
this  moment  uniting  their  strength  to 
develop  its  latent  capabOities !  Geo- 
logv  yields  the  raw  materials  upon 
wluk^  in  after  ages,  tiie  toils  of  the 
hnsbaadman  are  expended.  She  ex- 
plains what  are  the  variations  in  the 
natural  quality  of  these  materials; 
how  such  variations  have  arisen; 
where  they  lead  to  increased,  and 
where  to  diminished  futility ;  how  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


267 


wbere  ike  stlH  living  rocks  may  eoa- 
tribato  to  the  improyemeiit  of  the 
doad  earth  which  hat  been  fonned 
from  them ;  and  how,  ia  some  appa- 
lentlj  iBsecare  regioBfl,the  misleeping 
Tokfuio  showers  over  the  land,  at  va- 
xying  periods,  the  elements  of  an  end- 
less fertilitj.  Minerah>gj  lends  her 
sod  to  nnravel  the  origin,  and  natare, 
and  wants,  and  capabilities  of  the 
8(m1;  and,  as  the  handmaid  and  willing 
follower  (tf  geology,  dresses  and  dasses 
the  fragments  which  geology  has  let 
fidlfitMn  her  magnificent  formations. 
Bat  chemistry,  especiaUy,exhaasts  her- 
self in  the  cause  of  the  husbandman. 
No  branch  of  rural  art,  as  We  shall  see, 
is  beyond  her  i^yince  and  controL 
All  that  the  soil  (mginally  derives 
from  gedogic  and  mineral  materials, 
chemistry  investigates ;  all  that  these 
ittbctances  naturally  become,  all  that 
they  ought  to  yi^  how  they  may  be 
pennadedtoyMldit;  by  what  changes 
this  is  to  be  broo^t  about ;  by  means 
of  idiat  agencies,  and  how  applied, 
such  changes  are  to  be  induced: — 
chemistry  busies  herself  with  all  this, 
and  labours  in  some  sense  to  complete, 
forthe  purposesof  rural  art,  the  infor- 
mation which  gedogy  and  mineralogy 
had  begun. 

Up<m  the  soil  the  i^ant  grows. 
What  a  wonder  and  a  mystery  is  the 
plant!  A  living,  and  growing,  and 
breathing  existence,  that  speiJu  si- 
lently to  the  eye,  and  to  the  sense  of 
touch,  and  to  the  sense  ai  smell— 
qpeaks  kindly  to  man,  and  soothingly, 
ttdappeals  to  his  reasoning  powers — 
but  is  mute  to  the  most  open  and 
wakeful  of  all  his  senses,  and  by  no 
verbal  speech  reveals  the  secrets  with 
which  its  full  vessels  are  bursting. 
How  many  wise  heads  have  watched, 
and  tended,  and  studied  it  —  the 
hnmbleplaBt— interpretingits  smallest 
movements,  the  meaning  of  every 
dumge  of  hoe  upon  its  leaves  and 
ItowefB,  and  gatherinff  prolbundest 
wisdom  from  Its  fixed  and  voiceless 
Mfe !  To  what  new  sdenoes  has  this 
study  led  the  way  I  Botany  never 
weades  in  gathering  and  classifying : 
and  of  modem  giants,  Linnjeus,  ana 
Jussieo,  and  DecandoUe,  and  Brown, 
and  Liadley,  and  Hooker,  andSchlei- 
den,  have  given  their  best  years  to 
unfold  and  perfect  it.  Alongside  of 
descriptive  and  systematic  botany  has 


spmngup  the  allied  bran^  of  Struc- 
tural Physiology,  and  the  use  of  the 
microsoop«  has  added  to  this  the 
younger  sister  Histology ;  while  these 
two  together,  calHng  in  the  aid  of 
chemistry,  have  built  up  the  further 
departments  (tf  Chemical  Physiology 
and  ChemicalHistology— departments 
too  numerous,  too  profowid  in  their 
research,  and  too  vp^fM  in  their 
several  niceties  of  observatioB,  for  one 
head  clearly  to  comprehend  and  limit 
them. 

And  on  the  plant  as  it  grows,  and 
as  a  perfect  whole,  chemistry  expends 
entire  and  most  gifted  intdlectnal 
lives.  Of  what  tl^  plant  consists, 
whence  it  draws  its  subsistence,  bow 
it  takes  it  in— in  what  form,  in  what 
quantity,  at  what  period  of  tiie  day — 
how  the  air  feeds  it,  how  the  soil  sus- 
tains it,  why  it  grows  well  here  and 
badly  there — what  are  the  nature,  ccmi- 
position,  action,  and  special  influmioes 
of  manures — ^where  and  when,  and  of 
what  kind,  they  should  be  am)lied  to 
the  plant— how  this  or  that  effect  is  to 
be  produced  by  them,  and  this  or  that 
defect  remedied. 

But  the  life  of  the  plant  is  an  un- 
ravelled tiiread.  The  steam-frigate 
appears  to  live,  and  thunders  as  she 
moves,  breathing  fire  and  smoke.  But 
the  still  lifo  of  the  plant  awes  and 
subdues  more  than  all  this.  Man 
mkj  forcibly  obstruct  the  path  of  the 
growing  twig,  but  it  turns  quietly 
aside  imd  moves  patiently  on.  The 
dead  iron  and  wood,  and  the  foroefoi 
8team,all  obey  man's  will— his  intellect 
overmasters  their  stubbomness,  and 
tames  them  intoerooching  slaves— but 
the  life  of  the  plant  defies  him.  That 
lifo  he  can  extinguish ;  but  to  use  the 
living  plant  he  must  obey  it,  and 
study  its  wants  and  tendendes.  How 
vastly  easier  to  achieve  a  boastfrd 
triumph  over  the  most  stubborn  mine- 
ral matter,  than  to  monld  tolnan's  will 
the  humblest  flower  that  grows! 

And  eadi  new  plant  brmgs  with  it 
new  conditions  of  life,  new  wants, 
new  virtues,  new  uses,  new  whims, 
if  we  may  so  speak,  to  be  humoured. 
The  iron,  and  the  timber,  and  the 
brass  are  always  one  and  the  same 
to  the  mechanist;  but  with  the  oon- 
■tilution  of  each  new  f^ant,  and  its 
habit8,a  new  series  of  difficidtieB  opens 
q[>  to  the  cultivator,  which  only  time 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


258 


Sdeniific  and  Practical  AgricuUure, 


[March, 


and  experience,  and  much  stady,  can 
overcoine. 

Bat  mechanics  also  exert  mnch  in- 
flaence  npon  the  cnltnre  of  the  soil,  and 
the  rearingofasefnl  plants.  And  though 
the  greatest  achievements  of  mechani- 
cal skill  were  not  first  made  on  her  be- 
half, jet  even  the  steam-engine  maybe 
said  to  have  become  anxUiary  to  agri- 
cnltnre;  and  the  thousand  ingenious 
implements  which  Northampton  and 
York  exhibited  at  their  recent  anni- 
versaries, showed  in  how  many  quar- 
ters, and  to  how  large  an  extent,  the 
purely  mechanical  and  constructive 
arts  are  expending  their  strength  in 
promoting  her  cause. 

On  meteorology,  which  studies  the 
aerial  meteors — registers,  tabulates, 
and  gives  even  a  local  habitation  and 
a  form  to  winds,  hurricanes,  and 
typhoons — the  progress  of  the  navi- 
gator much  depends.  They  hinder 
or  hasten  his  progress ;  but  he  over- 
comes them  at  last.  But  atmospheric 
changes  are  vital  things  to  the  plant 
and  to  the  soil.  Where  no  rain  falls, 
the  plant  withers  and  dies.  If  too 
much  falls,  it  becomes  sickly,  and  fails 
to  yield  a  profitable  crop.  If  it  falls 
too  frequently,  though  not  in  too  large 
quantity  on  the  whole,  one  plant 
luxuriates  and  rejoices  in  the  genial 
season,  while  another  with  difficulty 
produces  a  half  return.  If  it  falls  at 
unseasonable  times,  the  seed  i^  denied 
admission  into  the  ground  in  spring, 
or  the  harvest  refuses  to  ripen  in  the 
autumn. 

So  the  warmth  and  the  sunshine, 
and  the  evening  dews  and  the  fogs, 
and  the  electric  condition  of  the  air — 
its  tiansparency  and  its  varying 
weight— and  prevailiug  winds  and 
hoar-frosts,  and  blights  and  hail- 
storms, and  the  Influence  of  the 
heavenly  bodies  on  all  these  condi- 
tions— with  all  these  things  the  inte- 
rests of  the  plant  and  the  soil  demand 
that  scientific  agriculture  should  oc- 
cupy herself.  On  every  single  branch 
of  knowledge  to  which  we  have 
alluded,  the  power  and  skill  pro- 
fitably to  influence  the  plant  are  depen- 
dent. 

And  for  what  purpose  does  the 
plant  spring  up,  the  soil  feed  and 
nourish  it,  and  the  blessed  sun  mature 
its,  seeds  ?  To  adorn,  no  doubt,  the 
Burface  of  the  beautiful  earth,  and  to 


keep  alive  and  propagate  its  species ; 
but  principally  to  nourish  the  animal 
races  which  supply  food  and  yield 
their  service  to  man.  And,  upon  the 
study  of  this  nurture  and  feeding  of 
the  animal  races,  how  much  intdlect 
has  been  expended !  Has  the  stoker 
who  heaps  coals  upon  the  engine  fire, 
and  turns  one  tap  occasionallj  to 
maintain  the  water-level  in  the  boiler, 
or  another  to  give  passage  to  the 
steam — ^and  thus  keeps  the  pile-driver, 
or  the  coal-drawer,  or  the  tin  mine, 
or  the  locomotive,  or  the  steam-boat, 
or  the  colossal  pumps  of  the  Haarlem 
lake,  in  easy  and  continuous  opera- 
tion—has he,  or  has  the  man  who 
curiously  watches  his  operations  — 
have  either  of  them  any  idea  of  the 
long  days  of  intellectual  toil — of  the 
sleepless  nights,  during  which  inven- 
tion was  on  the  rack— of  the  mental 
dejection  and  throes  of  suffering, 
under  which  new  thoughts  were  bom 
—of  the  lives  of  martyred  devotion 
which  have  been  sacrinced,  while,  or 
in  order  that  the  machine,  which  is  so 
obediently  simple  and  easily  managed, 
was  or  might  be  brought  to  its  present 
perfection  ?  Yet  all  this  has  been,  and 
has  been  suffered  by  men  now  gone, 
though  the  ignorance  of  the  humble 
workman,  little  more  thoughtful  than 
the  iron  he  works  with,  faUs  either  to 
feel  or  to  understand  it. 

And  so  too  often  it  is  with  you 
who  feed,  and  with  you  who  look  at 
the  simple  process  of  feeding  stock.  As 
the  turnip  and  the  barley,  and  the  oats 
and  the  linseed,  and  the  beans,  are 
placed  before  the  almost  perfect  short- 
horn, or  the  graceful  Ayrshire,  or  the 
untamed  West  Highlander,  or  the 
stately  stallion,  or  the  well-bred  Lei- 
cester or  Cheviot  ram,  or  the  cushioned 
and  padded  Berkshire  porker— how 
little  do  you  know  or  think  of  the 
science,  and  long  skill,  and  intellectual 
labour,  which  have  been  expended  in 
preparing  what  is  to  you  so  simple  I  It 
is  not  without  and  beyond  the  ruiks 
of  the  agricultural  community  only 
that  we  need  look  for  those  who  lessen 
the  intellectual  character  of  rural  in- 
dustry, and  of  the  rural  life.  Too 
many  of  our  practical  men,  even  of 
high  pretensions,  are  themselves  only 
the  stokers  of  the  agricultural  ma- 
chine ;  and,  like  nngratefol  and 
degenerate  children,  in  their  igno- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


Scientific  and  Practical  Agriculture. 


ranee  deny  the  bead  of  the  mother 
that  bred  and  fed  them.* 

What  are  the  fanctions  of  the  ani- 
mals yon  rear— what  the  composition 
of  their  several  parts — ^what  the  nature 
of  the  food  they  require — what  the 
purposes  it  serves— what  the  propor- 
tions in  which  this  or  that  kind  of 
food  ought  to  be  given — what  the 
dianges,  in  the  kind  and  proportion,  to 
adapt  it  to  the  special  habits  and  con- 
stitution of  the  animal,  and  the  pur- 
poses for  which  it  is  fed  ?  Are  these 
questions  deep  ?  Tet  they  have  all 
been  thought  over  and  long  con- 
sidered, and  discussed  and  disputed 
about,  and  volumes  have  been  written 
upon  them ;  and  the  chemist,  and  the 
physiologist,  and  the  anatomist  have, 
unknown  to  you,  all  laboured  zeal- 
ously and  without  wearying,  in  your 
service.  And  what  yon  now  find  so 
simple  only  proves  how  much  their 
sciences  have  done  for  you.  T/iey 
have  fitted  the  machinery  together, 
you  but  throw  in  the  fuel  and  keep  up 
the  steam. 

With  the  rearing  of  stock,  and  the 
improving  of  breeds,  practical  men  are, 
or  fancy  themselves,  all  more  or  less 
conversant.  How  much  warm  and 
persevering  genius,  guided  by  purely 
scientific  principles,  has  been  expend^ 
npon  our  improved  shorthorns  and 
Leicesters !  Are  the  whole  lives  of  a 
Collins,  or  a  Bakewell,  or  a  Bates, 
nothing  to  have  been  devoted  to  pur- 
suits like  this  ?  That  these  were  prac- 
tical men,  and  not  scientific,  «nd  that 
what  they  have  done  is  not  a  debt  dne 
by  agriculture  to  science,  is  the  saying 
of  many.  Men  who  have  never  read 
a  book  can  do,  by  imitation,  what  the 
patient  services  and  skill  of  other  men 
discovered,  and  perfected,  and  simpli- 
fied. But  in  this  they  are  only  stokers. 
Hie  improvers  were  sound  and  cau- 
tions experimental  physiologists,  guid- 
ed by  the  most  fixed  and  certain 
principles  of  animal  physiology ;  and 


259^ 

it  is  the  results  at  which  these  men 
arrived  that  have  become  the  house- 
hold words  of  the  stokers  of  our  day, 
who  call  them  practice  in  opposition 
to  science.  If  science  could  forget 
her  high  duties  to  the  Deity,  and  to 
the  human  race,  she  might  leave  you 
and  your  art  to  your  own  devices. 

Need  we  allude  to  the  conditions  of 
animal  life— in  a  state  of  health,  and 
in  a  state  of  disease ;  to  the  varied 
constitutions  of  dificrent  races  and 
varieties ;  to  the  several  adaptations  of 
food,  warmth,  and  shelter  which  these 
demand ;  and  to  the  extensive  course 
of  study  which  is  now  required  to 
furnish  the  necessary  resources  to  the 
accomplished  veterinary  surgeon?  Yet 
would  any  breeder  be  safe  for  Sr 
moment  to  invest  his  money  in  stock, 
in  a  country  and  climate  like  ours,  had 
he  not,  either  in  books,  or  in  his  own 
head,  or  in  that  of  a  neighbouring 
veterinarian,  the  results  at  which  the 
long  study  of  these  branches  of  know- 
ledge,  in  connexion  with  animal  health, 
had  discovered  and  established  ? 

We  pursue  this  topic  no  further  at 
present.  We  fearlessly  assert— we 
believe  that  we  have  shown — that  as 
much  intellect  has  been  scientifically 
expended  in  elucidating  and  perfect- 
ing the  various  operations  of  rural 
life,  by  which  those  magnificent  cattle 
have  been  produced  by  art,  as  has 
gone  to  the  elaboration  of  that  won- 
derful wave-subduing  ship.  The  vuU 
gar  mind,  awed  by  bulk  and  sound, 
and  visible  emblems  of  thought,  may 
dissent — ^may  say  that  we  have  not 
so  much  to  show  for  it.  But  the  laws 
of  life  are  sought  for  and  studied — 
they  are  not  made  by  science.  The 
Deity  has  forbidden  human  skill  to 
develop  a  sheep  into  an  elephant. 
Living  materials,  as  we  have  said, 
are  not  plastic  like  wood  and  u-on ;: 
and  to  change  the  constitution  and 
character  of  a  breed  of  animals  may 
require  as  great  and  as  long-continu^ 


*  In  a  recent  nnmber  of  tHe  North  Briti$k  Agriculturist,  it  is  stated  that  an  agri- 
ealtaral  stoker,  who  thought  himself  qualified  to  disiJourse  on  the  uses  of  science  to 
agriculture,  had  astonished  a  late  meeting  of  the  Newcastle  Fanners'  Club  by  telling 
them  that  the  only  thing  science  had  yet  done  for  agriculture  was  to  show  them 
how  to  dissoWe  bones  in  sulphuric  acid ;  and  that  chemistry  might  boost  of  having 
really  effected  something  if  it  could  teach  him  to  raise  long  potatoes,  as  he  used  to 
do,  or  to  grow  potato  instead  of  Tartary  oats,  as  his  next-door  neighbour  could  do^ 
No  wonder  the  shrewd  Tyne-siders  were  astonished. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


260 


Jtiimt^  OTif  rhicfoif  jjjpiimftinr. 


[Mtff^ 


an  exerdm  of  iiiTentiye  tfaongbt  as  to 
perfect  aa  hnpoeuig  piece  of  maehiiieiy. 
^  The  real  worth  of  a  sdentific  resolt  is 
'  the  amomnt  oi  mind  expended  in  arriv- 
ing at  it,  at  the  real  height  of  an 
animal  in  the  scale  of  organisation  is 
measored  by  the  proportionate  siae  of 
its  brain. 

Bat  we  have  onr  more  palpabte  and 
sense- satisfying  triumphs  too.  Look 
at  that  wkle  valley,  with  its  snow-clad 
snmmits  at  a  distance  on  either  hand, 
and  its  gUssy  river  flowing,  cribbed 
and  confined,  in  the  lowest  bottom. 
Smiling  fields,  and  well-trhnmed  hedge- 
rows, and  sheltering  plantations,  and 
comfortable  dwellings,  and  a  busy  po- 
pulatioiL,  and  abandant  cattle,  cover 
its  nndalating  slopes.  For  miles  in- 
dostrioos  plenty  spreads  over  a  conn- 
try  which  the  river  formeriy  usurped, 
and  the  lake  covered,  and  the  rash 
tufted  over,  and  bog  and  mossy  heath 
and  pereoniid  fogs  and  drizzGng  rains 
rendered  inhospitable  and  chiiL  Bnt 
mechanics  has  chained  the  river,  and 
drained  the  lakes,  and  bogs,  and  clayey 
bottoms ;  and  giving  thns  scope  to  the 
application  of  all  the  varied  practical 
roles  to  which  science  has  led,  the 
natural  climate  has  been  subdued, 
disease  extirpated,  and  rich  and  fer- 
tile and  happy  homes  scattered  over 
the  ancient  waste. 

Turn  to  another  cwmtry,  and  a 
river  flows  deeply  through  an  arid  and 
desolate  plain.  Mediaoics  Hfts  its 
waters  from  their  depths,  and  from  a 
thousaiid  artificial  channels  directs 
them  over  the  parched  surface.  It  is 
as  if  an  enchanter's  wand  had  been 
stretched  over  it — the  green  herbage 
and  the  wavmg  com,  oompanied  by  all 
the  indus^es  of  rural  life,  spring  vp 
as  they  advance. 

Another  country,  and  a  green  oasis 
presents  Itself,  busy  with  life,  in  the 
midst  of  a  desert  and  sandy  plain. 
Do  natural  springs  here  fpash  up,  as  in 
the  ancient  cans  of  the  Libyan  wilder- 
ness ?  It  is  another  of  the  triumphs 
of  human  industry,  guided  by  human 
thought.  Geology,  and  her  sister 
sciences,  are  here  the  pioneers  of  rurid 
nfe  and  fixed  habitations.  The  seat 
of  hidden  waters  at  vast  depths  was 
discovered  by  her.  Under  her  direc- 
tions mechanics  has  bored  to  their 
sources,  and  tiieir  gushing  abundance 
now  spreads  fertility  around. 


Ssch  are  more  sensible  and  larger 
triumphs  of  progressuig  rural  eooDony 
— such  as  man  may  weU  boast  of^  not 
only  in  themselves,  but  in  their  eon- 
sequeaces ;  and  thej  may  take  their 
place  with  the  gigantic  vessel  of  war, 
as  magnificent  leisnlts  of  intellectaal 
effort. 

But  it  is  after  these  first  mder 
though  noore  imposing  ocmqueste  over 
nature  have  been  niMle,  that  the  de- 
mand for  mind,  for  applied  science,  be- 
comes more  frequent,  and  the  resnks  <tf 
its  application  less  perceptible.  And  it 
is  because,  in  ordinary  husbandly,  we 
have  not  always  before  us  the  stnking 
illustrations  which  arrest  the  vnlgar 
eye,  that  prevailing  ignorance  persists 
in  denying  its  obligations  to  scieiriific 
research. 

The  waters  which  descend  firom  a 
chain  of  hills  become  a  striking  fea- 
ture in  the  geognq>hy  of  a  country, 
when  they  happen  to  unite  together 
into  a  large  and  magnificent  river: 
they  escape  unseen  and  nnnotieed  if, 
keeping  apart,  they  flow  in  countless 
tiny  streamlets  to  the  sea.  Yet,  thus 
disunited,  they  may  carry  fertility 
over  a  whole  region,  like  the  Nile  when 
it  overflows  its  banks,  or  as  the  river 
of  Damascus  straying  among  its  many 
gardens;  while  the  waters  of  the  great 
river  may  only  refresh  and  fertilise  its 
own  narrow  margins,  as  the  Murray 
and  the  Dariing  do  in  South  Australia, 
or  the  deep-bedded  rivers  of  Sonlten 
Africa. 

Thus  much  we  have  devoted  to  the 
introductory  portioa  of  the  BooA  of 
the  Frnim,  Those  of  onr  readers  who 
wish  to  follow  up  farther  these  scien- 
tific views  may  study  Johntkm's 
Lectures^  and  Ekmemt$^  ofAgriaikural 
Chemistry  and  Geology :  and  by  the 
way  we  would  commend,  lor  applied 
sdeace,  these  works  of  Joiinston*s,  and 
for  practical  knowledge,  the  book  of 
St^heos,  to  the  speoal  attention  of 
our  emigrating  feUow-oouatrymen,  of 
whom  so  many  in  their  foreign  homes 
are  likely  to  regret  the  overflowing 
sources  of  information  on  every  con- 
ceivable topic  with  which  their  home 
literature  and  home  neighbours  sup- 
plied them. 

Let  us  now  take  a  look  at  the  body 
of  Mr  Stephens' work.  These  are  the 
days  of  pictorial  embellishment— of 
speaking  directiy,  and  plaiiriy,  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


SctdUt^  and  Pfwchotu  Affnctuhtn, 


261 


palpablj  to  tiie  eye.     We  have  acd- 
denullj  opened  the  book  at  the  2l7th 
page.     What  letterpress  description 
ooald--80  briefly  we  do  not  say,  for 
that  is  oat  of  the  question — bat  so 
graphically  and   fally,  explun    the 
practioe  of  eating  off  turnips  with 
abeep,  and  all  its  appliances  of  hardies 
and  nets,  and  tamip  shears,  and  feed- 
ing troughs,  and  hay  racks,  as  the 
single  woodcnt  which  this  page  ex- 
hibits ?    And  so  the  practice  of  brat- 
ting  and  of  stelHng  sheep  is  lllnstrated, 
and  all  the  forms  and  fashions  of  stalls 
in  high  and  low  coontries  (pp.  231  to 
236 ;)  the  palling,  dressing,  and  stor- 
ing of  tornips,  (190  to  195 ;)  the  vari- 
ous modes  of  ploughing,  with  their 
ops  and  downs^  and  tomings,  and 
crosaingB,  and  gatherings,  and  feer- 
ings,  Mid  gore  furrows,  and  moald 
fdrrows,  and  broad  farrows,  and  cross 
furrows,  and  samcastingd,  and  gaws, 
and  ribs,  and  rafters,  and  slices,  and 
crowns,  and  centres,  and  a  host  of 
other  operations  and  things  familiar 
to  the  farmer,  but  the  very  names  and 
designations  of  which  are  Greek  to  the 
common  English  reader.    All  these 
the  woodcuts  explain  beautifully  and 
fiusiliariyto  the  uninitiated  readers, 
and  most  vsefoUy  to  the  incipient 
fiurmer.    How  is  the  rural  economy  of 
Great  Britain  and  Ir^and,  in  its  best 
forms,  stored  up,  not  only  for  modem 
and  immediate  use,  but  for  the  under- 
standing of  future  ages,  by  these  illus- 
trations !    We  would  specify,  in  addi- 
tion to  those  already  referred  to,  the 
ateam-boiling  apparatus  in  page  320; 
and  the  taking  down  of  a  stack  of  com 
in  page  401;  and  the  feeding  of  the 
threshing  machine  in  page  406;  and 
the  hand-sowing  of  com  in  page  553; 
and  the  pickling  of  wheat,  (chauhge 
of  our  Gallic  neighbours,)  page  536; 
and  the  measuring  of  the  grain  In  the 
bam,  &c.y  page  419 ;  and  the  full  sacks, 
<u  they  should  he,  in  the  bam,  in  page 
423.    To  the  foreigner,  how  do  these 
'    pictures  speak  of  English  customs, 
costumes,  and  usages ;  to  our  Trans- 
atlantic brethren,  of  the  source  of  those 
modes  and  manners  ^hich  have  at 
4mce  placed  them  on  an  elevation  in 
agricultural  art,  to  which  800  years 
Of  intelleetnal  stmgglehad  barely  suf- 
ficed to  lift  up  their  fathers  and  cousins 
at  home ;  and  to  the  still  British  co- 
knial  emigrant  the  precise  practioeS) 


and  latest  raral  improvements,  which 
it  will  be  his  interest,  at  once,  and  his 
pride,  to  inbrodnoe  into  his  adopted 
land! 

How  would  the  Scriptorti  Rd  Rus* 
Hem  have  gained  in  usefulness  in  their 
own  time,  how  immensely  in  interest 
in  ours,  had  they  been  accompanied 
by  such  illustrations  as  these !  The 
clearness  of  Columella  would  have 
been  made  more  transparent,  the  ob- 
scurity of  Palladius  lessened;  and 
Cato  and  Varro  would  have  preserved 
to  us  the  actual  living  forms,  and  cos- 
tumes, and  instruments  of  the  ancient 
Etruscan  times,  more  clearly  than  the 
paint<^  tombs  are  now  revealing  to 
the  antiquarian  the  fashions  of  Uieir 
feasts,  and  games,  and  funereal  rites. 
We  have  before  us  the  singularly, 
richly,  and  extravagantly,  yet  graphi- 
cally and  most  instructively  illustrated 
book  of  Georgius  Agricola,  De  Re  Me* 
talUca  (BasU,  1621.)  The  woodcuts 
of  the  Book  of  the  Farm  have  induced 
us  to  tnm  it  up,  and  it  is  with  ever 
new  admiration  that  we  turn  over  its 
old  leaves.  It  has  to  us  the  interest  of 
a  child's  picture-book;  and  though,  as 
a  chef'dauvre  of  illustrative  art,  the 
three  hundred  woodcuts  of  Stephens 
do  not  approach  the  book  of  Agricola, 
yet  what  a  treasure  would  the  work 
of  Ansonius  Popma  on  the  rural  im- 
plements of  the  ancients — their  nutrti- 
w^emtm  in  its  widest  sense— have  been 
to  us,  could  it  have  been  illustrated 
when  he  wrote  (1690)  in  the  style  of 
Agricola,  and  with  the  minuteness  and 
falness  of  Stephens ! 

The  same  desire  to  render  minately 
intelligible  the  whole  subject  treated 
of^  which  these  woodcuts  show,  is 
manifested  in  the  more  solid  letterpress 
of  the  book.  It  was  said  of  Columellat 
by  Matthew  Geesner,  that  be  dis- 
coursed ^*non  ut  argumentum  sim- 
plex quod  discere  am  at,  dioendoobscu- 
ret,  sed  ut  darissimfi  luce  perfundat 
omnia.^  Such,  the  reader  feels,  must 
have  been  the  aim  of  the  author  of 
this  book.  In  his  descriptions,  no- 
thing appears  to  be  omitted ;  nothing 
is  too  minute  to  be  passed  over.  His 
book  exposes  xot  merely  the  every- 
day life,  but  the  very  inmost  life — the 
habits,  and  usages,  and  instruments  of 
the  most  humble  as  well  as  the  most 
important  of  the  operations  of  the  do- 
mestic, equally  with  the  field  economy 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


262 


ScietUific  and  Practical  Agriculture, 


[March, 


of  rural  life.  We  do  not  know  if  its 
effects  upon  our  town  population  will 
ever  be  such  as  Beza  ascribes  to  that 
of  Columella— 

Tu  yero,  Jani,  silrestria  rura  canendo, 
Post  te  ipsas  urbes  in  tua  rura  irahis; 

but  certainly,  with  a  few  more  wood- 
cuts, it  would,  in  minute  and  graphic 
illustration,  by  prints  and  letterpress, 
be  a  most  worthy  companion  to  the 
work  of  Agricola. 

The  plan  of  the  book  is  to  give  a 
history  of  the  agricultural  year,  after 
the  manner  of  the  Roman  Palladius 
and  our  own  old  Tucker;  and  the 
present  volume  embraces  the  opera- 
tions of  the  skilful  farmer  in  every 
kind  of  husbandry  during  the  winter 
and  spring.  But,  before  we  come  to 
the  heart  of  the  book,  hear  what  Mr 
Stephens  says  about  the  agricultural 
learning  of  our  landed  gentry: — 

"  Eyen  though  he  deyoie  himself  to  the 
profession  of  arms  or  the  law,  and  there- 
by confer  distinction  on  himself,  if  he  pre- 
fer either  to  the  neglect  of  agriculture, 
he  is  rendering  himself  unfit  to  under- 
take the  duties  of  a  landlord.  To  become 
a  soldier  or  a  lawyer,  he  willingly  under- 
goes initiatory  drillings  and  examinations; 
but  to  acquire  the  duties  of  a  landlord  be- 
fore he  becomes  one,  he  considers  it  quite 
unnecessary  to  undergo  initiatory  tuition. 
These,  he  conceiyes,  can  be  learned  at  any 
time,  and  seems  to  forget  that  the  con- 
ducting of  a  landed  estate  is  a  profession, 
as  difficult  of  thorough  attainment  as  or- 
dinary soldiership  or  legal  lore.  The 
army  is  an  excellent  school  for  confirm- 
ing, in  the  young,  principles  of  honour  and 
habits  of  discipline;  and  the  bar  for  giying 
a  clear  insight  into  the  principles  upon 
which  the  Sghts  of  property  are  based, 
and  of  the  relation  betwixt  landlord  and 
tenant;  but  a  knowledge  of  practical 
agriculture  is  a  weighter  matter  than 
either  for  a  landlord,  and  should  not  be 
neglected. 

One  eyil  arising  from  studying  those 
exciting  professions  before  agricaltare  is, 
that,  howeyer  short  may  haye  been  the 
time  in  acquiring  them,  it  is  sufficiently 
long  to  create  a  distaste  to  learn  agricul- 
ture afterwards  practically — for  such  a 
task  can  only  be  undertaken,  after  the 
turn  of  life,  by  enthusiastic  minds.  Bat 
as  fkrming  is  necessarily  the  profemon  of 
the  landowner,  it  should  be  learned,  theo- 
retically and  practically,  before  his  edu- 
cation is  finished.  If  he  so  incline,  he 
can  afterwards  enter  the  army  or  go  to  the 
bar^  and  the  exercise  of  those  profeisioni 


yrill  not  eflfkce  the  knowledge  of  agricul- 
ture preyiously  acquired.  This  is  the 
proper  course,  in  my  opinion,  for  eyery 
young  man  destined  to  become  a  land- 
owner to  pursue,  and  who  is  desirous  of 
finding  employment  as  long  as  he  has  not 
to  exercise  the  functions  of  a  landlord. 
Were  this  course  inyariably  pursued,  the 
numerous  engaging  ties  of  a  country  life 
would  tend  in  many  to  extinguish  the 
kindling  desire  for  any  other  profession. 
Such  a  result  would  be  most  adyantageous 
for  the  country;  for  only  consider  the  ef- 
fects of  the  course  pursued  at  present  by 
landowners.  It  stnkes  eyery  one  as  an 
incongruity  for  a  country  gentleman  to  be 
unacquainted  with  country  affairs.  Is  it 
not  stnmge  that  he  should  require  induce- 
ments to  learn  his  hereditary  profession, 
— to  become  familiar  yrith  the  only  busi- 
ness which  can  enable  him  to  enhance  the 
yalue  of  his  estate,  and  increase  his  in- 
come? Does  it  not  infer  infatuation  to 
neglect  becoming  well  acquainted  with 
the  condition  of  bis  tenants,  by  whose 
exertions  his  income  is  raised,  and  by 
which  knowledge  he  might  confer  happi- 
ness on  many  families,  and  in  ignorance 
of  which  he  may  entail  lasting  misery  on 
many  more  I  It  is  in  this  way  too  many 
country  gentlemen  neglect  their  moral 
obligations. 

It  is  a  manifest  inconyenience  to  coun- 
try .gentlemen,  when  taking  a  prominent 
part  in  county  matters  wiUiout  a  compe- 
tent knowledge  of  agriculture,  to  be 
obliged  to  apologise  for  not  baying  suffi- 
ciently attended  to  agricultural  affairs. 
Such  an  ayowal  is  certainly  candid,  but 
is  anything  but  creditable  to  those  who 
haye  to  make  it.  When  elected  members 
of  the  legislature,  it  is  deplorable  to  find 
so  many  of  them  so  little  acquainted  with 
the  questions  which  bear  directly  or  in- 
directly on  agriculture.  On  these  ac- 
counts, the  tenantry  are  left  to  fight  their 
own  battles  on  public  questions.  Were 
landowners  practically  acquainted  with 
agriculture,  such  painful  avowals  would 
be  unnecessary,  and  a  familiar  acquaint- 
ance with  agriculture  would  enable  the 
man  of  cultiyated  mind  at  once  to  per- 
ceiye  its  practical  bearing  on  most  public 
questions." 

And  what  he  says  respectively  of 
the  iffuorant  and  skilful  factor  or  agent 
is  quite  as  deserving  of  attention.  Not 
merely  whole  *  estates,  but  in  some 
parts  of  the  island,  whole  counties  lag 
m  arrear  through  the  defective  educa- 
tion and  knowledge  of  the  agents  as  a 
class:— 

**A  still  greater  eyll,  because  less  per- 
sonal, arises  on  consigning  the  manage- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


Scientific  and  Practical  Agriculture. 


meat  of  yaluable  estates  to  the  care  of 
men  as  little  acquainted  as  the  lando^m- 
en  themselves  with  practical  agricultore. 
A  factor  or  agent,  in  that  condition,  al- 
ways affects  much  zeal  for  the  interest  of 
his  employer.  Fired  by  it,  and  possess- 
ing no  knowledge  to  form  a  sound  judg- 
ment, he  soon  discoTers  something  he 
considers  wrong  among  the  poorer  tenants. 
Some  rent  perl^ps  is  in  arrear — the  strict 
terms  of  the  lease  have  been  deviated 
from — the  condition  of  the  tenant  seems 
declining.  These  are  favourable  symp- 
toms for  a  successful  contention  with  him. 
Instead  of  interpreting  the  terms  of  the 
leaae  in  a  generous  spirit,  the  factor  hints 
that  the  rent  would  be  better  secured 
through  another  tenant.  Explanation  of 
drcumstanoes  affecting  the  actual  condi- 
tion of  the  farm,  over  which  he  has,  per- 
haps, no  control, — the  inapplicability, 
perhaps,  of  peculiar  covenants  in  the  lease 
to  the  particular  circumstances  of  the 
farm — the  lease  having  perhaps  been 
drawn  up  by  a  person  ignorant  of  agri- 
cnltnre, — are  excuses  unavailingly  offered 
to  a  factor  confessedly  unacquainted  with 
country  afikirs,  and  the  result  ensues  in 
disputes  betwixt  him  and  the  tenant.  To 
explanations,  the  landlord  is  unwilling  to 
listen,  in  order  to  preserve  intact  the 
authority  of  the  factor  ;  or,  what  is  still 
worse,  is  mnable  to  interfere,  because  of 
his  ovm  inability  to  judge  of  the  actual 
state  of  the  case  betwixt  himself  and  the 
tenant,  and,  of  course,  the  disputes  are 
left  to  be  settled  by  the  originator  of 
them.  Thus  commence  actions  at  law,— 
criminations  and  recriminations, — much 
Venation  of  feeling;  and  at  length  a 
proponl  for  the  settlement  of  matters,  at 
first  perhaps  unimportant,  by  the  arbitra- 
tion of  praetieal  men.  The  tenant  is  glad 
to  submit  to  an  arbitration  to  save  his 
money;  and  in  all  such  disputes,  being  tha 
weaker  party,  he  snff'ers  most  in  purse 
and  chaxaoter.  The  landlord,  who  ought 
to  have  been  the  protector,  is  thus  con- 
verted into  the  unconscious  oppressor  of 
his  tenant. 

A  fkctor  acquainted  with  practical 
agrienltare  would  conduct  himself  very 
diftrently  in  the  same  circumstances.  He 
would  endeavour  to  prevent  legitimate 
differences  of  opinion  on  points  of  man- 
agement from  terminating  in  disputes,  by 
skilAU  investigation  and  well*timed  com- 
promise. He  would  study  to  uphold  the 
honour  of  both  landlord  and  tenant  He 
would  at  once  see  whether  the  terms  of 
the  lease  were  strictly  applicable  to  the 
circumstances  of  the  farm,  and,  judging 
accordingly,  would  check  improper  devia- 
tions from  proper  covenants,  whilst  he 
would  make  allowances  for  inappropriate 


263 

ones.  He  would  soon  discover  whether 
the  condition  of  the  tenant  was  caused 
more  by  his  own  mismanagement  than  by 
the  nature  of  the  farm  he  occupies,  and 
he  would  conform  his  conduct  towards 
him  accordingly — encouraging  industry 
and  skill,  admonishing  indolence,  and 
amending  the  objectionable  circumstances 
of  the  farm.  Such  a  Victor  is  always 
highly  respected,  and  his  opinion  and 
judgment  are  entirely  confided  in  by  .the 
tenantry.  Mutual  kindliness  of  inter- 
course, therefore,  always  subsists  betwixt 
such  factors  and  the  tenants.  No  landlord, 
whether  acquainted  or  unacquainted  with 
farming,  especially  in  the  latter  case, 
should  confide  the  management  of  his 
estate  to  any  person  less  qualified." 

These  extracts  arc  long,  but  we  feel 
we  are  rendering  the  pablic  a  service 
by  placing  them  where  they  are  likely 
to  be  widely  read. 

We  have  mentioned  above  that  the 
Book  of  the  Farm  is  fall  of  that  kind 
of  dear  home  knowledge  of  rural  lifo 
which  the  emigrant  in  foreign  climes 
at  all  resembling  our  own  will  delight 
to  read  and  profit  by ;  but  it  will  not 
supply  the  place  of  previous  agricul- 
tural training.  There  is  much  truth 
and  sound  practical  advice  in  the  fol- 
lowing observations: — 

"  Let  every  intending  settier,  therefore, 
leam  agriculture  tkoraugkly'  before  he 
emigrates  ;  and,  if  it  suits  his  taste,  time» 
and  arrangements,  let  him  study  in  the 
colony  the  necessarily  imperfect  system 
pursued  by  the  settiers,  before  he  embarks 
in*  it  himself;  and  the  f^ler  knowledge 
acquired  here  will  enable  him,  not  only  to 
understand  the  colonial  scheme  in  a  short 
time,  but  to  select  the  part  of  the  country 
best  suited  to  his  purpose.  But,  in 
truth,  he  has  much  higher  motives  for 
learning  agriculture  here;  for  a  thorough 
acquaintance  will  enable  him  to  make  the 
best  use  of  inadequate  means, — to  know 
to  apply  cheap  animal  instead  of  dear 
manual  labour,— to  suit  the  crop  to  the 
soil,  and  the  labour  to  the  weather  ;---to 
construct  appropriate  dwellings  for  him- 
self and  family,  live  stock, and  provisions; 
to  superintend  every  kind  of  work,  and  to 
show  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  them 
all.  These  are  qualifications  which  every 
emigrant  may  acquire  here,  but  not  in  the 
colonies  without  a  large  sacrifice  of  time 
—  and  time  to  a  settler  thus  spent  is 
equal  to  a  sacrifice  of  capital,  whilst  emi- 
nent qualifications  are  equivalent  to  capi- 
tal itself.  This  statement  may  be  stigma- 
tised by  agricultural  settlers  who  may 
have    succeeded   in    amassing   fortunea 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


264 


SciMt\/ic  wnd  PncHci^  Agrirwlhtrt 


[Mjunch, 


withoai  BMre  knowledge  of  agricoltare 
than  what  wm  pioked  np  by  degrees  on 
the  spot;  but  each  persons  are  inoompe- 
tent  judges  of  a  statement  like  this,  nerer 
having  beoone  properly  acquainted  with 
agricultnre ;  and  however  sneoessfnl  their 
ezeilions  may  have  proved,  they  might 
have  realised  larger  inoomes  in  the  time, 
or  as  large  in  a  shorter  time,  had  they 
brought  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  the 
most  perfect  system  of  hnsbandry  known, 
to  bear  npon  the  favourable  ciroumstanoes 
they  oceopied." 

The  earlj  winter  is  spent  in  plough- 
ing, which  we  pass  over,  and  mid- 
winter chiefly  in  feeding  stock,  in 
threshing  oat  the  corn,  and  in  attend* 
ing  to  composts  and  danghills.  Pre- 
paring and  sowing  the  seed  is  the 
most  important  business  of  the  spring 
months,  to  which  succeeds  the  tending 
of  the  lambs  and  ewes,  and  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  land  for  the  fallow  or  root 
crops.  These  several  operations  are 
treated  of  in  their  most  minute  details, 
and  the  latest  methods  adopted  in  re- 
ference to  eyeiy  point  are  fully  ex- 
plained. 

In  the  husbandry  of  the  most  ad- 
Tanced  portions  of  our  island,  the  tur- 
nip occupies  a  most  important  place  in 
the  estimation  of  the  skilful  farmer, 
whether  his  dependence  for  the  means 
of  paying  his  rent  be  placed  upon  the 
profits  of  his  com  crops  or  of  his  cattle. 

Of  the  turnip  we  have  now  many 
varieties — ^though  it  is  only  seventy  or 
eighty  years  since  it  was  first  intro- 
duced into  field  culture — at  least  in 
those  districts  of  the  island  in  which 
its  importance  \&  most  fully  recog- 
nised. The  history  of  its  introduction 
into  Scotland  is  thns  given  by  Mr 
Stephens — 

**  The  history  of  the  turnip,  like  that 
of  other  cultivated  plants,  is  obscure. 
According  to  the  name  given  to  the  swede 
in  this  country,  it  is  a  native  of  Sweden ; 
the  Italian  name  Nawmi  di  Laponia 
intimates  an  origen  in  Lapland,  and  the 
French  names  €kou  de  Lapone^  Ckou  de 
J9uid€,  indicate  an  uncertain  origin.  Sir 
John  Sinclair  says,  *  I  am  informed  that 
the  swedes  were  first  introduced  into 
Scotland  anno  1781-2,  on  the  recommen- 
dation of  Mr  Knox,  a  native  of  East 
Lothian,  who  had  settled  at  Oottenburg, 
whence  he  sent  some  of  the  seeds  to  Dr 
Hamilton.'  There  is  no  doubt  the  plant 
was  first  introduced  into  Scotland  f^m 
Sweden,  but  I  believe  its  introduction 
was  prior  to  the  date  mentioned  by  Sir 


John  Sinclair.  The  late  Mr  Airth,  Maini 
of  Dunn,  Forfkrshire,  iafonnad  ma  that 
his  fkther  was  the  first  fiurmer  who  cul- 
tivated swedes  in  Scotland,  firom  seeds 
sent  him  by  his  eldest  son,  settled  in 
Gkttenburg,  whea  my  informant,  Qm 
youngest  son  of  a  large  fkmily,  vras  a  boj 
of  abont  ten  years  ef  age.  Whatever 
may  be  the  date  of  its  introdnotioa,  Bir 
Airth  cultivated  tbem  in  1777  ;  and  the 
date  is  corroborated  by  the  nlenoe  pre- 
served by  Mr  Wight  regarding  its  cnlturo 
by  Mr  idrth's  f^er  when  he  undertook 
the  survey  of  the  state  of  husbandry  in 
Soothtfid,  in  1778,  at  the  request  of  ihm 
Gommissieaas  of  the  Annexed  F^itates, 
and  he  would  not  have  fuled  to  report  so 
remarkable  a  eironmetanoe  as  the  onltnre 
of  so  usefkl  a  plant,  so  that  it  vras  un- 
known prior  to  1773.  Mr  Airth  sowed 
the  first  portion  of  seed  he  received  ia 
beds  in  the  garden,  and  traasf^anted  the 
plants  in  rows  in  the  field,  and  smcoeeded 
in  raising  good  crops  for  some  years,  be- 
fore sowing  the^seed  directly  in  the  fields.** 

The  weight  of  a  good  turnip  crop^ 
not  of  an  extraordinary  crop,  which 
some  persons  can  succe^  in  raising, 
and  the  acconnts  of  which  others  only 
refuse  to  credit — is  a  point  of  mnch 
importance ;  and  it  is  so,  not  merely 
to  the  fanner  who  possesses  it,  but  to 
the  rural  oommnnity  at  large.  The 
conviction  that  a  certain  given  weight 
is  a  fair  average  crop  in  w^-farmed 
land,  where  it  does  not  exceed  his 
own,  wUl  be  satisfactory  to  the  indus- 
trious farmer ;  while  it  will  serve  as  a 
stimulus  to  those  whose  soil,  or  whose 
skill,  have  hitherto  been  unable  to  raise 
so  large  a  weight.  Ac^sording  to  oor 
anther — 

^  A  good  crop  of  swede  tomips  wei|^ 
horn  SO  to  85  tons  per  imperial  acre. 

^  A  good  crop  of  yellow  turnips  weigha 
from  80  to  82  tons  per  imperial  acre. 

**  ^  good  crop  of  vrhite  globe  turnips 
weighs  fh>m  30  to  40  tons  per  imperial 
acre." 

Of  all  kinds  of  turnips,  thereforet 
from  SO  to  40  tons  per  imperial  acre 
are  a  good  crop. 

The  readers  of  agricultural  journals 
must  have  observed  that,  of  late  yeara, 
tiie  results  of  numerous  series  of 
experiments  have  been  published. 
Among  those  that  have  been  made 
npon  turnips,  he  will  have  Botioed  also 
that  the  crop,  in  about  nine  cases  out 
of  ten.  Is  nnder  twenty  tons ;  that 
these  crops  vary,  for  the  most  part, 
between  nine  and  sixteen  tons;  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Seimiifie  md  Froetkai  AgrimUm't. 


265 


that  Moe  Hyrmen  are  not  nhaned  to 
pnbllflii  to  the  worid,  tiiat  they  are 
content  with  crops  of  from  seven  to 
ten  toss  of  tomips  an  acre.  Where 
is  ovr  dill  in  the  management  of 
turnip  soils,  if,  in  the  average  of  years, 
sndi  eiitnre  and  crops  satisfy  any 
considerable  number  of  car  more  intel- 
ligent tenantoy  ?  We  know  that  soil, 
and  season,  and  locality,  and  anme- 
rons  aecideots,  affect  the  produce  of 
tins  crop;  but  tiie  margin  between  the 
<utuai  and  the  poswSble  is  far  too  wide 
to  be  acconnted  for  in  this  way.  More 
skin,  more  energy,  more  expenditure 
in  draining^  liming,  and  mannriDg — a 
wider  difmslon  of  our  practical  and 
scientific  agricoltnral  literature— these 
are  the  means  by  which  the  wide 
margin  is  to  be  narrowed ;  by  which 
what  is  m  the  land  is  to  be  brought  <na 
ofthefauid,  and  thereby  the  £uiner 
made  more  comfortable,  and  tiie  land- 
lord more  rich. 

The  subject  of  sheep  and  cattle 
feeding  is  very  important,  and  very 
interesting,  and  our  book  is  rich  in 
materials  which  would  provoke  us  to 
discuss  it  at  some  length,  did  our  limits 
admit  of  it.  We  must  be  content, 
however,  with  a  few  desultory  ex- 
tracts. 

The  following,  in  regard  to  sheep 
feeding  upon  turnips,  is  curious,  and, 
in  our  qpinion,  requires  repetition : — 

"  A  enrioiia  and  unexpected  result  was 
brought  te  light  b/ Mr  Pawlett,  and  is  thus 
lelated  in  hif  own  words, — '  Being  aware 
(hat  it  wastheeostom  of  some  sheep-breed- 
«n  to  wash  the  food, — such  as  turnips,  oar- 
rots,and  otherroots,— for  their  sheep,!  was 
induoed  'also  to  try  the  system  ;  and  as  I 
usually  act  eautionsly  in  adopting  any 
■ew  scheme,  generally  bringing  it  down 
to  the  true  standard  of  experience,  I 
selected  for  the  trial  two  lots  of  lambs. 
One  lot  was  fed,  in  the  usual  manner,  on 
canrots  and  swedes  unwoAed ;  the  other 
lot  was  fed  exactly  on  the  same  kinds  of 
feod,  but  the  carrots  and  swedes  were 
wtuied  rnj  dean  cTery  day  :  they  were 
weighed  before  trial,  on  the  2d  December, 
and  again  on  the  30th  December,  1835. 
The  lambs  fed  with  the  unwashed  food 
gained  each  7i  lb.,  and  those  on  the 
washed  gained  4]  lb.  each ;  which  shows 
that  thoae  lambs  which  were  fed  in  the 
usual  way,  without  haring  their  food 
washed,  gained  the  most  weight  in  a 
month  by  2]  lb.  each  lamb,  ^lere  ap- 
pears to  me  no  advantage  in  this  method 
of  management — indeed  aoiakals  are  fend 


of  licking  the  earth,  particularly  if  f^h 
turned  up  ;  and  a  little  of  it  taken  into 
the  stomach  with  the  food  must  be  con- 
ducive to  their  heaJth,  or  nature  would 
not  lead  them  to  take  it.' " 

Another  experiment  on  the  fatten- 
ing properties  of  different  breeds  of 
sheep,  under  similar  treatment,  quoted 
from  the  Journal  of  the  Royal  Agri- 
cultural  Society  of  England^  is  also 
deserving  the  attention  of  our  read- 
ers:— 

-^  Experiments  were  made  in  1844-5 
on  the  Earl  of  Radnor's  &rm  at  Coleshill, 
on  the  comparative  fattening  properties 
of  different  breeds  of  sheep  under  the 
same  treatment.  The  sheep  consisted  of 
Leicesters,  South-downs,  half-breds, — a 
cross  between  the  Cotswold  and  South- 
down— and  Cotswolds.  The  sheep,  being 
then  lambs,  were  divided  into  lots  of 
three  each  of  each  breed,  and  were  grazed 
four  months,  from  29th  August  1844  to 
4th  January  1845,  when  tl^y  were  put 
on  hay  and  swedes  for  three  months,  from 
4ih  January  to  the  31st  of  March  follow- 
ing. While  on  graes,  the  different  breeds 
gained  in  weight  as  follows : — 

!>.  U>. 

Tbe  LeioMton  being  46  each,  gain«d  10|  aoch. 
Souih-dowiu       47  11 

Half-breds  444        ..  12 

Cotnrolds  S6|  lOI" 

It  is  one  of  the  most  delicate  qua- 
lifications connected  with  the  stock- 
foederis  art  to  be  able  to  select  that 
stock,  and  that  variety  of  it,  which, 
under  all  the  circumstances  in  which 
he  is  placed,  will  give  him  the  largest 
return  in  money — hence  every  experi- 
ment like  the  above,  if  well  conduct- 
ed, is  deserving  of  his  close  attention. 
At  the  same  time,  in  rural  experi- 
ments, more  almost  than  in  any  other, 
the  number  of  elements  which  inter-^ 
fere  with  the  result,  and  may  modify 
it,  is  so  great,  that  too  much  confi- 
dence ought  not  to  be  placed  upon 
single  trials.  Repeated  results  ofona 
kind  must  be  obtained,  before  a  farmer 
can  be  justified  in  spending  mndi 
money  on  the  faith  of  them. 

In  turning  to  the  winter  feeding  of 
cattle  upon  turnips  and  other  food — 
a  subject  important  enough  to  justify 
Mr  Stephens  in  devoting  forty  of  his 
closely  printed  pages  to  it — we  are 
reminded  of  a  character  of  this  book 
which  we  like  very  much,  which 
squares  admirably  with  our  own  idea 
of  neatness,  order,  and  method,  and 
which  we  heartily  conmend  to  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


266 


Scientific  and  Practical  Agriadture. 


[March, 


attention  of  onr  farming  friends :  this 
is  the  fall  and  minute  description  he 
gives  of  the  duties  of  eveiy  class  of 
servants  upon  the  farm,  of  the  neces- 
sity of  having  these  duties  regularly 
and  methodically  performed,  and  of 
the  way  in  which  the  master  may 
bring  this  about. 

The  cattle-man  is  an  important 
person  in  the  winter  feeding  of  cattle ; 
he  therefore  commences  this  section 
with  an  account  of  the  duties  and 
conduct  of  this  man.  Even  his  dress 
he  describes ;  and  the  following  para- 
graph shows  his  reason  for  drawing 
the  young  farmer's  attention  to  it : — 

'*  The  dress  of  a  oattle-man  is  worth 
attending  to,  as  regards  its  appropriate- 
ness for  his  business.  Having  so  mnch 
straw  to  carry  on  his  back,  a  bonnet  or 
round-crowned  hat  is  the  most  convenient 
head-dress  for  him  ;  bat  what  is  of  more 
importance  when  he  has  charge  of  a  boll, 
is  to  have  his  clothes  of  a  sober  hue,  free 
of  gandy  or  strongly-contrasted  colours, 
especially  r<d,  as  that  colour  is  peculiarly 
offensive  to  bulls.  It  is  with  red  cloth 
and  flags  that  the  bulls  in  Spain  are  irri- 
tated to  action  at  their  celebrated  bull- 
fights. Instances  are  in  my  remembrance 
of  bulls  turning  upon  their  keepers,  not 
because  they  were  habited  in  red,  but 
from  some  strongly  contrasted  bright 
colours.  It  was  stated  that  the  keeper  of 
the  celebrated  bull  Sirins,  belonging  to 
the  late  Mr  Robertson  of  Ladykirk,  wore 
a  red  nightcap  on  the  day  the  ball  at- 
tacked and  killed  him.  On  walking  with 
a  lady  across  a  field,  my  own  ball — the 
one  represented  in  the  plate  of  the  Short- 
horn Bull,  than  which  a  more  gentle  and 
generous  creature  of  hb  kind  never  ex- 
isted— made  towards  as  in  an  excited 
state ;  and  for  his  excitement  I  could 
ascribe  no  other  cause  than  the  red  shawl 
worn  by  the  lady,  for  as  soon  as  we  left 
the  field  he  resumed  his  wonted  quiet- 
ness. I  observed  him  excited,  on  another 
occasion,  in  his  hammel,  when  the  cattle- 
man— an  aged  man,  who  had  taken 
charge  of  him  for  years — attended  him 
one  Sunday  forenoon  in  a  new  red  night- 
cap, instead  of  his  usual  black  hat.  Be  the 
cause  of  the  disquietude  in  the  animal 
what  it  may,  it  is  prudential  in  a  eatUe- 
man  to  be  habited  in  a  sober  suit  of 
clothes." 

Then,  after  insisting  upon  regularity 
of  time  in  everything  he  does,  follow- 
ing the  man  through  a  whole  day's 
work,  describing  m  his  operations, 
and  giving  figures  of  all  his  tools,— 


his  graip,  his  shovel,  his  different  tur- 
nip choppers,  his  tumip-slicer,  his 
wheel-barrow,  his  chaff-cutters,  his 
linseed  bruisers,  and  his  corn-crushers, 
— he  gives  us  the  following  illustration 
of  the  necessity  of  regularity  and  me- 
thod, and  of  the  way  to  secure  them : — 

**  In  thus  minutely  detailing  the  duties 
of  the  cattle-man,  my  object  has  been  to 
show  yon  rather  how  the  turnips  and 
fodder  should  be  distributed  relatively 
than  absolutely ;  but  whatever  hour  and 
minute  the  cattle-man  finds,  from  expe- 
rience, he  can  devote  to  each  portion  of 
his  work,  you  should  see  that  he  performs 
the  same  operation  at  ike  sajme  time  eterjf 
day.  By  paying  strict  attention  to  time, 
the  cattle  will  be  ready  for  and  expect 
their  wonted  meals  at  the  appointed  times, 
and  will  not  complain  unUl  they  arrive. 
Complaints  from  his  stock  shonid  be  dis- 
tressing to  every  farmer's  ears,  for  he  may 
be  assured  they  will  not  complain  untU 
they  feel  hanger ;  and  if  allowed  to  hunger 
they  will  not  only  lose  condition,  but  ren- 
der themselves,  by  discontent,  less  capable 
of  acquiring  it  when  the  food  happens 
to  be  fully  given.  Wherever  you  hear 
lowings  from  cattle,  you  may  safely  con- 
clude that  matters  are  conducted  there  in 
an  irregular  manner.  The  cattle-man's 
rule  is  a  simple  one,  and  easily  remem- 
bered,—6rlv0  food  and  fodder  to  eattU  at 
fixed  times,  and  dispense  them  in  a  fixed 
roKtifM.  I  had  a  striking  instance  of  the 
bad  effects  of  irregular  attention  to  cattle. 
An  old  staid  labourer  was  appointed  ta 
take  charge  of  cattle,  and  was  quite  able 
and  willing  to  undertake  the  task.  He 
got  his  own  way  at  first,  as  I  had  ob- 
served many  labouring  men  display  great 
ingonaity  in  arranging  their  work.  Low- 
ings were  soon  heard  from  the  stock  in 
all  quarters,  both  in  and  out  of  doors^ 
which  intimated  the  want  of  regularity 
in  the  cattle-man ;  whilst  the  poor  crea- 
ture himself  was  constantly  in  a  state  of 
bustle  and  uneasiness.  To  pat  an  end  to 
this  disorderly  state  of  things,  I  appor- 
tioned his  eiitire  day's  work  by  his  own 
watch ;  and  on  implicitly  following  the 
plan,  he  not  only  soon  satisfied  the  wants 
of  every  animal  committed  to  his  charge, 
but  had  abundant  leisure  to  lend  a  hand 
to  anything  that  required  his  temporary 
assistance.  His  old  heart  overflowed  with 
gratitude  when  he  found  the  way  of  mak- 
hig  all  his  creatures  happy ;  and  his  kind- 
ness to  them  was  so  undeviating,  they 
would  have  done  whatever  he  liked." 

And  the  money  profit  which  this 
attention  to  regularity  will  give,  in 
addition  to  the  satisfaction  which  at- 
tends it,  is  thus  plainly  set  down : — 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


Scientific  and  Practical  Agriculture. 


267 


"  Lei  OB  reduee  the  results  of  bad  ma- 
nagement to  figures.  Suppose  you  have 
three  sets  of  beasts,  of  different  ages, 
each  containing  20  beasts — that  is,  60 
in  all — ^and  they  get  as  many  tamips  as 
they  can  eat.  Suppose  that  eaoh  of  these 
beasts  acquires  only  half  a  pound  less  lire 
weight  OTery  day  than  they  would  under 
the  most  proper  management,  and  this 
would  incur  a  loss  of  80  lbs.  a-day  of  live 
weight,  which,  orer  1 80  days  of  the  fatten- 
ing season,  will  make  the  loss  amount  to 
5400  lbs.  of  lire  weight;  or,  aooordmg  to 
the  common  rules  of  computation,  3240 
lbs.,  or  231  stones,  of  dead  weight  at  63. 
the  stone,  £69,  6s. — a  sum  equal  to  more 
than  five  times  the  wages  receired  by  the 
cattle-man.  The  question,  then,  re- 
soItcs  itself  into  this — whether  it  is  not  for 
your  interest  to  sare  this  sum  annually, 
by  making  your  cattle-man  attend  your 
cattle  according  to  a  regular  plan,  the 
form  of  which  is  in  your  own  power  to 
adopt  and  pursue  1 '' 

We  must  pass  oyer  the  entire  doctrine 
of  prepared  food,  which  has  lateljoccu- 
pied  80  much  attention,  and  has  been 
so  ably  advocated  by  Mr  Warner, 
Mr  Marshall,  Mr  Thompson,  and 
which,  among  others,  has  been  so 
soccessfnlly  practised  by  oar  friend  Mr 
Hutton  of  Sowber  Hill  in  Yorkshire. 
We  only  quote,  by  the  way,  a  curious 
observation  of  Mr  Robert  Stephenson 
of  Whitelaw  in  East-Lothian : 

**  *  We  shall  conclude,'  he  says,  *  by  re- 
lating a  singular  fact' — and  a  remarkable 
one  it  is,  and  worth  remembering, — *  that 
Aeep  on  turnips  will  consume  nearly  in 
proportion  to  cattle,  weight  for  weight; 
that  is,  10  sheep  of  14  lbs.  a-quarter,  or 
40  stones  in  all,  will  eat  nearly  the  same 
quantity  of  turnips  as  an  ox  of  40  stones; 
but  turn  the  ox  to  grass,  and  d  sheep  will 
be  found  to  consume  an  equal  quantity. 
This  great  difference  may  perhaps,'  says 
Mr  Stephenson,  and  I  think  truly,  '  be 
accounted  for  by  the  practice  of  sheep 
cropping  the  grass  much  closer  and  oftener 
than  cattle,  and  which,  of  course,  prevents 
its  growing  so  rapidly  with  them  as  with 
cattle.' " 

The  treatment  of  farm  horses  in 
winter  is  under  the  direction  of  the 

Slougfaman,  whose  duties  are  first 
escribed,  after  which  the  system  of 
management  and  feeding  of  farm  and 
saddle  horses  is  discuss^  at  a  length 
of  thirty  pages. 

Among  other  pieces  of  curious  infor- 
mation which  our  author  gives  us  is 
the  Bomenclature  of  the  animals  be 
treats  of,  at  their  various  ages.    This 


forms  a  much  larger  vocabulary  than 
most  people  imagine,  and  comprises 
many  words  of  which  four-fifths  of  our 
poptdation  would  be  unable  to  tell  the 
meaning. 

Thus,  of  the  sheep  he  informs  us — 

^A  new-bom  sheep  is  called  a  lamb, 
and  retains  the  name  until  weaned  from 
its  mother  and  able  to  support  it^lf. 
The  generic  name  is  altered  according  to 
the  sex  and  state  of  the  animal ;  when  a 
female  it  is  a  ew€4amb,  when  a  male  a 
tup-lamb,  and  this  last  is  changed  to  kogg- 
lamb  when  it  undergoes  emasculation. 

^  After  a  lamb  has  been  weaned,  until 
the  first  fleece  is  shorn  from  its  back,  it 
receiTes  the  name  of  hoag,  which  is  also 
modified  according  to  the  sex  and  state 
of  the  animal,  a  female  being  a  ewe-hogg, 
a  male  a  tup-hogg,  and  a  castrated  male  a 
ieether-kogg.  After  the  first  fieece  has 
been  shorn,  another  change  is  made  in  the 
nomenclature;  the  ewe-hogg  then  becomes 
a  gimmer,  the  tup-hogg  &  ihearling-tup, 
and  the  wether-hog  a  dintnont,  and  these 
names  are  retained  until  the  fieece  is 
shorn  a  second  time. 

**  After  the  second  shearing  another 
change  is  effected  in  all  these  names ;  the 
gimmer  is  then  a  ewe  if  she  is  in  lamb,  but 
if  not,  a  barren  gimmer,  and  if  nerer  put 
to  the  ram  a  eild  gimmer.  The  shearling 
tup  is  then  a  2-ihear  tup,  and  the  dinmont 
is  a  itether,  but  more  correctly  a  2-^ear 
wether. 

**  A  owe  three  times  shorn  is  a  tmnter 
ewe,  (tvc-winter  ewe ;)  a  tup  is  a  ^$hear 
tup ;  and  a  wether  still  a  wether,  or  more 
correctly  a  Z-thear  tr^fAer— which  is  an 
uncommon  name  among  Leicester  sheep, 
as  the  castrated  sheep  of  that  breed  are 
rarely  kept  to  that  age. 

**A  ewe  four  times  shorn  is  a  three 
winter  ewe,  or  aged  ewe ;  a  tup,  an  aged 
tup,  a  name  he  retains  ever  after,  what- 
erer  his  age,  but  they  are  seldom  kept  be- 
yond this  age  ;  and  the  wether  is  now  a 
wether  properly  so  called. 

**  A  tup  and  ram  are  synonymous  terms. 

^  A  ewe  that  has  borne  a  lamb,  when  it 
fails  to  be  with  lamb  again  is  a  tup-eill  or 
barren  ewe.  After  a  ewe  has  ceased  to 
give  milk  she  is  a  yeld-ewe. 

*  A  ewe  when  remoTed  ftom  the  breed- 
ing fiock  is  a  draft  ewe,  whaterer  her  age 
may  be  ;  gimmers  put  aside  as  unfit  for 
breeding  are  draft  gimmer$,  and  the  Iambs, 
dinmonts  or  wethers,  drafted  out  of  the 
fkt  or  young  stock  are  Aeddings,  taiU,  or 
drafti. 

''In  England  a  somewhat  different 
nomenclature  prevails.  Sheep  bear  the 
name  of  lamb  until  eight  months  old,  after 
which  they  are  ewe  and  wether  tegg$  until 
once  clipped.    Gimmers  are  theaft$  until 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


268 


Srimii/9c  tfurf  Praetknl  Afrimkmw^ 


[MttCDy 


fhey  beir  iho  ibst  laaib,  wImb  tfaey  sm 
««at  •/4-<tetA,  aext  jear  tf«M  of  S-Uttkf 
And  the  yeir  after /MtfHno«f&«d  MMi.  Dm- 
monts  are  called  me&r  hoggt  until  ihom  of 
the  fleece,  when  they  are  2'ikear  witkerif 
and  eyer  after  are  wethenJ* 

The  names  of  cattle  are  a  little  less 
complicated. 

''The  name$  given  to  cattle  at  their 
Tarioos  ages  are  these  : — A  new-boiii 
animal  of  the  ox-tribe  is  called  a  e<Uf,  a 
male  being  a  buU-caif,  a  female  a  qu4^ 
ealf,  Juifer-calf,  or  o<m-cal/;  and  a  cas- 
trated male  calf  is  a  atat-cal/f  or  simply  a 
calf.  Calf  is  applied  to  all  young  cattle 
until  they  attain  one  year  ol<^  when  they 
are  ffear-olds  or  y^lingt—yecir-old  buUf 
^€<ir^qu€y  or  h^er,  year-old  iM,  Stot, 
in  some  places,  is  a  bull  of  any  age. 

^  In  another  year  they  are  2-f6ar-old 
bull,  ^-year-old  queyoT  k^er,  l-yoar-oUL" 
ttot  or  aU^.  In  ISngland  females  are 
stirks  from  calves  to  2-year-oLd,  and  males 
iUer$ ;  in  Scotland  both  young  male  and 
females  are  itirki.  The  next  year  they 
are  S-year-old  bull,  in  En^nd  3-year-old 
female  a  hetfer,  in  Scotland  a  Z-uear-old 
quey,  and  a  male  is  a  Z-yea/r-old  dot  or 
$t€er. 

**  When  a  quey  bears  a  calf,  it  is  aeo«, 
both  in  Scotland  and  England.  Next 
year  the  buU$  are  aged ;  the  oow$  retain 
the  name  ever  after,  and  the  tU>U  or  iUen 
are  oxen,  which  they  continue  to  be  to  any 
age.  A  cow  or  quey  that  has  received  the 
bull  is  eerved  or  bulled,  and  is  then  in  oalf, 
and  in  that  state  these  are  in  England  t»- 
ealrert.  A  cow  that  suffbrs  abortion  dipi 
its  calf.  A  cow  that  has  either  mmed 
being  in  calf,  or  has  $Upped  calf,  is  eill ; 
and  one  that  has  gone  dry  of  milk  is  a 
yeld-oow.  A  cow  giving  milk  is  a  milk  or 
milch-cow.  When  two  calves  are  bom  at 
one  birth,  they  are  twitu ;  if  three,  trims. 
A  quey  calf  of  twins  of  bull  and  quey 
calves,  is  a  free  martin,  and  never  pro- 
duces young,  but  exhibits  no  maiks  of  a 
hybrid  or  mule. 

'^  CattU,  black  eattU,  homed  catOe,  and 
neat  cottZ^  are  all  generic  names  for  tiie  oz 
tribe,  and  the  term  beoM  is  a  synonyms. 

**  An  ox  without  horns  is  dodded  or 

**  A  castrated  bull  is  a  tegg.  A  quey- 
calf  whose  ovaries  have  been  obliterated, 
to  prevent  her  breeding,  is  a  spayed 
heifer  or  guey.^ 

Those  of  the  horse  are  fewer,  and 
more  generally  known — 

''The  naaee  oommoiUy  ghm  «o  tks 
different  states  ef  the  hone  are  these  :— 
The  Dew4>eni  one  is  ealled  a  foal,  the 
male  beiag  a  coU  foal,  and  the  femiUe  a 


fOyfoal.  AflOTbeii«WMMd,tksibaIs 
are  called  simply  coU  or  My,  aeeordiag 
to  the  sex,  which  the  oMt  retains  vntil 
broken  in  for  woik,  iriien  he  is  a  horm  or 
geldimg  which  he  retaioB  all  his  life  ;  and 
the  filly  is  tiienehaaged  into  MMTV.  When 
the  eoh  is  not  castrated  he  is  an  tmiin 
coH;  which  name  be  rtteos  until  be 
serves  mares,  iriien  he  is  a  ttmUion  or 
entire  horse ;  when  castrated  he  is  a  ydd- 
ing;  and  it  is  in  this  stale  that  in  is 
^efly  worked.  A  bmuw,  when  served,  is 
said  to  be  ooMred  by  or  s^mtsd  to  a  par- 
ticular stallieB  ;  and  after  she  has  borme 
a  foal  die  is  a  brood  wums^  until  she  ecascs 
to  bear,  when  die  is  a  frorreii  munru  or  sUl 
wutre;  and  iriien  dry  of  milk,  she  is  yeld. 
A  mare,  while  big  with  young,  is  in  fotU. 
Old  stallions  are  never  castrated." 

Those  of  the  pig  are  as  follows — 

^  When  new-bom,  they  are  called  sneh- 
ing  pigs,  or  simply  pigs ;  and  the  male  is 
amKir  pig,ih.o  female  sompig.  A  cas- 
trated male,  after  it  is  vreaned,  is  a  i4eC 
or  hog.  Hog  is  the  name  mostly  used  by 
naturalists,  and  very  frequently  by  wri- 
ters on  agriculture  ;  but,  as  it  sounds  so 
like  the  name  given  to  young  eheep^ 
(hogg,)  I  shall  always  use  the  terms  pig 
and  swine  for  the  sake  of  distinction. 
The  term  hog  is  said  to  be  derived  from 
a  Hebrew  noun,  signifying '  to  have  nar- 
row eyes/  a  feature  quite  diaraoteristio 
of  this  species  of  an^iaL  A  spayed  lb- 
male  is  a  CMl  sow  pig.  As  long  as  both 
sorts  of  out  pigs  are  small  and  yoang, 
they  are  porkers  or  porklings.  A  female 
that  has  not  been  cut,  and  before  it  bears 
young,  is  an  open  sow;  and  an  entire 
male,  after  bemg  weaned,  is  always  a 
boar  or  brawn.  A  cut  boar  is  a  browner. 
A  female  that  has  taken  the  boar  is  said 
to  be  lined;  when  bearing  young  she  is 
a  brood  sow  ;  and  when  she  has  brought 
forth  pigs  she  has  littered  or  farrowed, 
and  her  femily  of  pigs  at  one  birth  form 
a  litter  or  farrow  ef  pigs." 

The  diseases  of  cattle,  horses,  iMgs, 
and  ponltiy,  are  treated  of — their 
mani^^ement  in  disease,  that  is,  as 
well  as  in  health.  And  it  is  one  of  the 
merits  of  Mr  Stephens  that  he  has 
taken  soch  pains  in  getting  mp  his 
different  subjects— that  Iw  seeflM  as 
much  at  home  in  one  departaieBt  ef 
his  art  as  in  another ;  and  we  foUow 
him  with  eqnal  confidene  in  his 
description  of  fi^operatimis,  ofser- 
yant-choosingand  manaciBg,of  cattle- 
bnjhig,  ten£ng,  breeding,  feedfaig, 
bntcherioff,  and  even  oooking  and  eat- 
inff — for  he  is  cunning  in  these  last 
pmntsalso. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1840J 


Seimti^  mid  Ptmeiiad  AgrietOttirg. 


269 


His  grei*  pred«e6iMr  Tucker 
pridedhfaBself,  iBhi8'«JFV»e  hmdred 
pomtiy^  in  ndxiiig  vp  buwifiy  with 
bnsbandry: — 

"lalnMhiiMhy  iiittw  i,  ^riwif  POcnm*  y% 

find. 
That  WM  ayptiteuMtli  to  HotwiTiy  kiDd; 
So  haT«  y  mora  kmoiif,  if  Ibon  je  look 

wall. 
Than  hnswiTiy  book  doth  uttor  or  tell." 

FoDowing  Tucker's  example,  our 
fttithor  scatters  here  and  there  throngh- 
ont  his  book  much  nsefal  information 
for  the  fanner's  wife ;  and  for  her 
especial  nse,  no  donbt,  he  has  drawn  up 
his  cmrions  and  interesting  diapter  on 
the  treatment  of  fowls  in  winter.  To 
show  how  minnte  liis  knowledge  is 
npon  this  point,  and  how  implicitly 
therefore  he  may  be  tnisled  in  greater 
matters,  we  quote  the  foUowiag : — 

'^Eveiy  yellow  -  leffged  chicken 
sboold  be  ued,  whether  male  or 
female — thehr  flesh  never  being  so  fine 
as  tiie  others."  '^  Young  fowls  may 
either  be  roasted  or  Ix^ed,  the  male 
making  the  best  roasted,  and  the 
female  the  neatest  b<^ed  dish."  ''The 
criterion  of  a  fat  hen,  when  attre,  is  a 
plump  breast,  and  the  rump  foeUns 
thick,  fot,  and  firm,  on  being  handled 
laterally  between  the  finger  mad 
thumb."^' 

''Of  a  fat  goooe  the  markis,  idnmp- 
Bess  of  musde  over  the  breast,  and 
thickness  of  rump  when  aHye ;  and  in 
additioii,  when  dead  and  plucked,  of  a 
uniform  coyering  of  white  ht  under  a 
fine  sUn  on  the  breast"  "  Geese  are 
always  roasted  in  Britain,  though  a 
boiled  goose  is  not  an  uncommon  dish 
in  Ireland;  and  their  flesh  is  certainly 
much  heightened  in  flavour  by  a  stuff- 
ing of  onions,  and  an  accompaniment 
of  imple  sauce." 

We  suppose  a  boiled  goose  must  be 
especially  tasteless,  as  we  once  knew 
an  old  schoolmaster  on  the  North 
Tyne,  whose  very  stupid  pupils  were 
always  christened  boued  gee$e. 

The  yireehing  and  winnowing  of 
grain,  which  forms  so  important  a  part 
of  the  winter  opers^ns  of  a  farm, 
natural^  lead  our  author  to  describe 
and  figure  the  different  species  of  com 
l^ants  and  their  varieties,  and  to  dis- 
cuss their  several  nutritive   values, 


the  geographical  range  aid  £stribu- 
tkm  of  eadi,  and  the  q[>ecial  uses  or 
qualities  of  Uie  different  varieties. 

Widely  spread  and  known  for  so 
many  ages,  the  home  or  native 
country  of  our  cereal  plants  is  not 
only  unknown,  but  some  suppose  the 
serml  spedes,  like  the  varieties  of 
the  human  race,  to  have  all  sprung 
firom  a  common  stock. 

'^  It  is  ayery  remarkable  ciroiimBtaiice» 
as  obserred  by  Dr  Lindley,  that  the 
native  country  of  wheat,  oats,  barley,  and 
rye  should  be  entirely  unknown  ;  for 
although  oats  and  bariey  were  found  by 
Colonel  Chesney,  apparently  wild,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Euphrates,  it  is  doubtftd 
whether  they  were  not  tiie  remains  of 
eultiration.  This  has  led  to  an  opinion, 
on  the  part  of  some  persons,  thai  all  our 
cereal  plants  are  artificial  productions, 
obtained  accidentally,  but  retaining  their 
habits,  which  hare  become  fixed  in  the 
course  of  ages." 

Whatever  may  be  the  original 
source  of  our  known  species  of  grain, 
and  of  their  numerous  varieties,  it 
cannot  be  doubted  that  their  existence, 
at  the  present  time,  is  a  great  blessing 
to  man.  Of  wheat  there  are  upwards 
of  a  hundred  and  fifty  known  varie- 
ties, of  barley  upwards  of  thirty,  and 
of  oats  about  sixty.  While  the  dif- 
ferent species — wheat,  barley,  and 
oats — are  each  specially  confined  to 
large  but  limited  regions  of  the  earth^s 
surface,  the  different  varieties  adapt 
themselves  to  the  varied  conditions 
of  soil  and  climate  which  exist  within 
the  natural  geographical  region  of 
each,  and  to  the  diflfierent  uses  for 
which  each  species  is  intended  to  be 
employed. 

Thus  the  influence  of  varietv  upon 
the  adaptation  of  the  oat  to  the  soil, 
climate,  and  wants  of  a  given  locality, 
is  shown  by  the  following  observa- 
tions:— 

"  The  Siberian  oat  \b  cultivated  in  the 
poorer  soUs  and  higher  districts,  resists 
the  force  of  the  wind,  and  yields  a  grain 
well  adapted  for  the  support  of  form- 
horses.  The  straw  is  fine  and  pliable, 
and  makes  an  excellent  dry  fodder  for 
cattle  and  horses,  the  saccharine  matter 
in  the  Joints  being  very  sensible  to  the 
taste.  It  comes  early  to  maturity,  and 
hence  its  name." 


•Where  If  (ptfcror,)  or  paragraph,  is  placed  at  the  side  of  the  verse. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


270 


Scientific  and  Pradical  AffricuUure. 


[MftTCby 


The  Tartarian  oat,  from  the  peculi- 
arity of  its  form,  and  from  its  *^  pos- 
sessing a  beard,  is  of  snch  a  hardy 
nature  as  to  thrive  in  soils  and 
climates  where  the  otiier  grains  can- 
not be  raised.  It  is  mach  cultivated 
in  England,  and  not  at  all  in  Scotland. 
It  is  a  coarse  grain,  more  fit  for  horse- 
food  than  to  make  Into  meal.  The 
grain  is  dark  coloured  and  awny ;  the 
straw  coarse,  harsh,  brittle,  and 
rather  short." 

The  reader  will  see  from  this  ex- 
tract that  the  English  ^^food  for 
horses  "  is,  in  reality,  not  the  same 
thing  as  the  "chief  o'  Scotia's  food ;" 
and  that  a  little  agricultural  know- 
ledge would  have  prevented  Dr 
Johnson  from  exhibiting,  in  the  same 
sentence,  an  example  of  both  his 
ignorance  and  his  venom. 

Variety  affects  appearance  and 
quality ;  and  how  these  are  to  bo  con- 
sulted in  reference  to  the  market  in 
which  the  grain  is  to  be  sold,  may  be 
gathered  from  the  following : — 

^  When  wheat  is  quite  opaqne,  indicat- 
ing not  the  least  translucency,  it  is  in  the 
best  state  for  yielding  the  finest  flour — 
such  flour  as  confectioners  nse  for  pastry; 
and  in  this  state  it  will  be  eagerly  pur- 
chased by  them  at  a  large  price.  Wheat 
in  this  state  contains  the  largest  propor- 
tion of  fecala  or  starch,  and  is  therefore 
best  suited  to  the  starch-maker,  as  well 
as  the  confectioner.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  wheat  is  translucent,  hard,  and 
flinty,  it  is  better  suited  to  the  common 
baker  than  the  confectioner  and  starch 
manufacturer,  as  affording  what  is  called 
strong  flour,  that  rises  boldly  with  yeast 
into  a  spongy  dough.  Bakers  will,  there- 
fore, give  more  for  good  wheat  in  this 
state  than  in  the  opaque ;  but  for  bread 
of  finest  quality  the  fiour  should  be  fine 
as  well  as  strong,  and  therefore  a  mixture 
of  the  two  conditions  of  wheat  is  best 
suited  for  making  the  best  quality  of 
bread.  Bakers,  when  they  purchase  their 
own  wheat,  are  in  the  habit  of  mixing 
wheat  which  respectively  possesses  those 
qualities ;  and  millers  who  are  in  the 
habit  of  supplying  bakers  with  flour,  mix 
different  kinds  of  wheat,  and  grind  them 
together  for  their  nse.  Some  sorts  of 
wheat  naturally  possess  both  these  pro- 
perties, and  on  that  account  are  great 
favourites  with  bakers,  though  not  so  with 
confectioners;  and,  I  presume,  to  this 
mixed  property  is  to  be  ascribed  the  great 
«nd  lasting  popularity  which  Hunter's 
white  wheat  has  so  long  enjoyed*  We 
hear  also  of  *  high  mixtd*  Danzig  wheat. 


which  has  been  so  mixed  for  the  pnrpose, 
and  is  in  high  repute  amongst  bakers. 
Generally  speaking,  the  porest  coloured 
white  wheat  indicates  most  opacity,  and, 
of  course,  yields  the  finest  fiour  ;  and 
red  wheat  is  most  fiinty,  and  therefore 
yields  the  strongest  fiour  :  a  translucent 
red  wheat  will  yield  stronger  flour  than 
a  translucent  white  wheat,  and  yet  a  red 
wheat  never  realises  so  high  a  price  in  the 
market  as  white — ^partly  because  it  con- 
tains a  larger  proportion  of  ref^ise  in  the 
grinding,  but  chiefly  because  it  yields  less 
fine  flour,  that  is,  starch." 

In  regard  to  wheat,  it  has  been  sup- 
posed, that  the  qualities  referred  to 
m  the  above  extract,  as  especially 
fitting  certain  varieties  for  the  use  of 
the  confectioner,  &c.,  were  owing  to 
the  existence  of  a  larger  quantity  of 
gluten  in  these  kinds  of  grain.  Chemi- 
cal inquiry  has,  however,  nearly  dis- 
sipated that  idea,  and  with  it  certain 
erroneous  opinions,  previously  enter- 
tained, as  to  theur  superior  nutritive 
value.  Climate  and  physiological 
constitution  induce  differencea  in  our 
vegetable  productions,  which  chemi- 
cal research  may  detect  and  explain, 
but  may  never  be  able  to  remove  or 
entirely  control. 

The  bran,  or  external  covering  of 
the  grain  of  wheat,  has  recently  also 
been  the  subject  of  scientific  and  eco- 
nomical investigation.  It  has  been 
proved,  by  the  researches  of  Johnston, 
confirmedby  those  of  Miller  and  others, 
that  the  bran  of  wheat, :  though  less 
readily  digestible,  contains  more  nu- 
tritive matter  than  the  white  interior  of 
the  grain.  Brown,  or  household  bread, 
therefore,  which  contains  a  portion  of 
the  bran,  is  to  be  preferred,  both  for 
economy  and  for  nutritive  quality, 
to  that  made  of  the  finest  flour. 

Upon  the  economy  of  mixing  potato 
with  wheaten  flour,  and  of  home-made 
bread,  Mr  Stephens  has  the  follow- 
ing:— 

"  It  is  assumed  by  some  people,  that  a 
mixture  of  potatoes  amongst  wheatenflour 
renders  bread  lighter  and  more  whole- 
some. That  it  will  make  bread  whiter,  I 
have  no  doubt;  but  I  have  as  little  doubt 
that  it  will  render  it  more  insipid,  and  it 
is  demonstrable  tiiat  it  makes  it  dearer 
than  wheaten  flour.  Thus,  take  a  bushel 
of  *  seconds*  fiour,  weighing  56  lbs.  at  58. 
6d.  A  batch  of  bread,  to  consist  of  21 
lbs.,  will  absorb  as  much  water,  and  re- 
quire as  much  yeast  and  salt,  as  will  yield 
7  loaves,  of  4  lbs.  each,  for  2s.  4d.,  or  4d. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Scientific  and  Practical  AgricuUure. 


per  loaf.  '  If,  instead  of  7  lbs.  of  the 
floor,  the  same  weight  of  raw  potatoes  be 
subatitated,  with  the  hope  of  saringlby  the 
comparatively  low  price  of  the  latter 
article,  the  quantity  of  bread  that  will  be 
yielded  will  be  6«^  a  tnfie  more  than  would 
hare  been  produced  from  14  lbs.  of  flour 
only,  withoat  the  addition  of  the  7  lbs.  of 
potatoes ;  for  the  starch  of  this  root  is  the 
only  nutritiTe  part,  and  we  hare  proTod 
that  but  one-seventh  or  one-eighth  of  it  is 
contained  in  every  ponnd,  the  remainder 
being  water  and  innutritire  matter.  Only 
20  lbs.  of  bread,  therefore,  instead  of  28 
lbs.,  will  be  obtained  ;  %nd  this,  thongh 
white,  will  be  comparatively  flavourless, 
and  liable  to  become  dry  and  sonr  in  a 
few  days;  whereas,  without  the  latter 
addition,  bread  made  in  private  families 
will  keep  wdl  for  3  weeks,  though,  after  a 
fortnight,  it  begins  to  deteriorate,  espe- 
cially in  the  autumn.'  ,The  calculation 
of  comparative  eott  is  thns  shown  : — 
Fioar,  14  Ita.,  say  at  lid.  per  lb.,  =  la.  6|d. 
Potatoca,  71lM.,sayat&s.per8ack,  =  03 
YMstandftiel,  =  0    4^ 

2)1.  Od. 
The  yi«ld,  20  lbs.,  or  5  loaves  of  4  lbs. 
each,  will  be  nearly  5d.  each,  which  is 
dearer  than  the  wheaten  loaves  at  4d. 
each,  and  the  bread,  besides,  of  inferior 
quality. 

*' '  There  are  persons  who  assert— for 
we  have  heard  them — that  there  is  no 
economy  in  baking  at  home.  An  accurate 
and  constant  attention  to  the  matter,  with 
a  close  calculation  of  every  week's  results 
for  several  years — a  calculation  induced 
by  the  sheer  love  of  investigation  and  ex- 
periment— enables  us  to  assure  our  read- 
ers, that  a  gain  is  invariably  made  of  from 
14d.  to  2d.  on  the  4  lb.  loaf.  If  all  be 
intrusted  to  servants,  we  do  not  pretend 
to  deny  that  the  waste  may  neutralise  the 
profit ;  but,  with  care  and  investigation, 
we  pledge  our  veracity  that  the  saving 
will  prove  to  be  considerable.*  These  are 
the  observations  of  a  lady  well  known  to 
me." 

In  the  natosal  history  of  barley  the 
most  remarkable  fact  is,  the  high 
northern  latitudes  in  which  it  can  be 
successfully  cultivated.  Not  only  does 
it  ripen  in  the  Orkney  and  Shetland 
and  Faroe  Islands,  but  on  the  shores 
of  the  White  Sea ;  and  near  the  North 
Cape,  in  north  latitade  70*,  it  thrives 
and  yields  nourishment  to  the  inhabi- 
tants. In  Iceland,  in  latitude  63"  to  66^ 
north,  it  ceases  to  ripen,  not  because 
the  temperature  is  too  low,  but  because 
rains  fall  at  an  unseasonable  time,  and 
thus  prevent  the  filling  ear  from  arriv- 
ing at  maturity. 

VOL.  I^V.— NO.  cccci. 


271 

The  oat  is  distinguished  by  its  re- 
markable nutritive  quality,  compared 
with  our  other  cultivated  grains. 
This  has  been  long  known  in  practice 
in  the  northern  parts  of  the  island, 
where  it  has  forages  formed  the  staple 
food  of  the  mass  of  the  population, 
thongh  it  was  doubted  and  disputed 
in  the  south  so  much,  as  almost  to 
render  the  Scotch  ashamed  of  their 
national  food.  Chemistry  has  recently, 
however,  set  the  matter  at  rest,  and  is 
gradnallv  bringing  oatmeal  agadn  into 
general  favour.  We  believe  that  the 
robust  health  of  many  fine  families  of 
children  now  fed  upon  it,  in  preference 
to  wheaten  flour,  is  a  debt  they  owe, 
and  we  trust  will  not  hereafter  forget, 
to  chemical  science. 

On  oatmeal  Mr  Stephens  gives  us 
the  following  information : — 

"  The  portion  of  the  oat  crop  consumed 
by  man  is  manufactured  into  meal.  It  is 
never  called  flour,  as  the  millstones  are 
not  set  so  close  in  grinding  it  as  when 
wheat  is  ground,  nor  are  Uie  stones  for 
grinding  oats  made  of  the  same  material, 
but  most  frequently  only  of  sandstone — 
the  old  red  sandstone  or  greywacke.  Oats, 
unlike  wheat,  are  always  kiln-dried  before 
being  ground ;  and  they  undergo  this  pro- 
cess for  the  purpose  of  causing  the  thick 
husk,  in  which  the  substance  of  the  grain 
is  enveloped,  to  be  the  more  easily  ground 
off,  which  it  is  by  the  stones  being  set 
wide  asunder;  and  the  husk  is  blown 
away,  on  being  winnowed  by  the  fanner, 
and  the  grain  retained,  which  is  then  called 
groati.  The  groats  are  ground  by  the 
stones  closer  set,  and  yield  the  meal.  The 
meal  is  then  passed  through  sieves,  to  se- 
parate the  thin  husk  from  the  meal.  The 
meal  is  made  in  two  states :  one  fine, 
which  is  the  state  best  adapted  for  making 
into  bread,  in  the  form  called  oat-cake  or 
bannocks;  and  the  other  is  coarser  or 
rounder  ground,  and  is  in  the  best  state 
for  making  the  common  food  of  the  country 
people— porridge,  SeoUici,  parritoh.  A 
difference  of  custom  prevails  in  respect  to 
the  use  of  these  two  different  states  of 
oatmeal,  in  different  parts  of  the  country, 
the  fine  meal  being  best  liked  for  all  pur- 
poses in  the  northern,  and  the  round  or 
coarse  meal  in  the  southern  counties;  but 
as  oatcake  is  chiefly  eaten  in  the  north, 
the  meal  is  there  made  to  suit  the  purpose 
of  bread  rather  than  of  porridge;  whereas, 
in  the  south,  bread  is  made  from  another 
grain,  and  oatmeal  is  there  used  only  as 
porridge.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the 
round  meal  makes  the  best  porridge,  when 
properly  made — that  is,  seasoned  with 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


272 


SciaU^  amd  Prmoiioal  Agrkmiiure, 


[Mansh, 


salt,  mod  boiM  «  kmg  u  to  allow  the 
partieles  to  swoU  and  bant,  when  tiio  por- 
ridge becomes  a  paltaoeous  mass.  So 
BUrde,  with  rich  milk  or  cream,  few  more 
wholesome  dishes  can  be  partaken  by  any 
man,  or  upon  which  a  harder  day's  work 
can  be  wrought.  Children  of  all  ranks  in 
Scotland  are  brought  ap  on  this  diet,  Teri- 
fying  the  poet* s  assertion — 

**  The  luUflioine  psrrltdi,  chief  o'  Bcotia't  food.** 

BinufB. 

Forfkrshire  has  long  been  fkmed  for  the 
quality  of  its  brose  and  oat-cake,  while  the 
porridge  of  the  Borders  has  as  long  becm 
equally  famous.  It  is  so  everywhere,  the 
diarp  soil  producing  the  finest  cake-meal, 
and  clay  land  the  beet  meal  for  boiling. 
Of  meal  from  the  Tarieties  of  the  oat  cul- 
tiTated,  that  of  the  common  Angus  oat  is 
the  most  thrifty  for  a  poor  man,  though 
its  yield  in  meal  is  less  in  proportion  to 
the  bulk  of  com.*' 

Much  valuable  information  is  given 
on  the  management  of  mannre-heaps, 
and  the  forming  of  composts  in  win- 
ter. We  especiallj  recommend  to  the 
reader's  attention  section  2048,  which 
is  too  long  to  extract.  Railways  have 
done  much  to  benefit  the  farmer :  in 
speaking  of  composts,  onr  author  gives 
us  the  following  example  of  a  local  in- 
jury produced  by  them : — 

^  In  the  vicinity  of  villages  where  fish 
are  cured  and  smoked  fbr  maricet,  reftue 
of  fish  heads  and  guts  make  an  ezoellent 
oompost  with  earth.  Near  Eyemouth  and 
Bummeuth,  on  the  Berwickshire  coast, 
SO  barrels  of  fish  refhse,  with  as  much 
earth  fh>m  the  head-ridges  as  will  com- 
pletely cover  the  heap,  are  sufficient  for 
an  imperial  acre.  The  barrel  contains  BO 
gallons,  and  4  barrels  make  a  cart-load, 
and  the  barrel  sells  for  Is.  6d.  From  400 
to  600  barrels  may  be  obtained  for  each 
turn  in  the  neighbourhood,  in  the  course 
of  Uie  season.  Since  the  opening  of  the 
North  Britidi  railway,  the  curing  of  the 
fish  is  given  op,  much  to  the  loss  of  the 
farmers  in  that  locality ;  and  the  fishermen 
now  send,  by  the  nilway,  the  fish  in  a 
fresh  state  to  the  larger  towns  at  a  dis- 
tance. Thus,  railways  produce  advantage 
to  some,  whilst  they  cause  loss  to  others. 
In  the  northern  counties  of  Scotland,  fish 
refuse  is  obtained  in  large  quantities  during 
the  herring  fishing  season.  On  the  coast 
of  Cornwall,  the  pildiard  fishing  affbrde 
a  large  supply  of  refhse  fbr  composts." 

In  regard  to  the  calving  of  cows, 
to  milking,  and  to  the  rearing  of  calves, 
we  have  information  as  full,  as  mi- 
nute, and  as  easily  conveyed,  as  on  any 
of  the  other  fiubjeoto  which  have 


hitherto  engaged  omr  attention.  Whem 
treating  of  the  diseases  to  which  cows, 
on  calving,  are  subject,  we  have  been 
interested  with  the  following  case : — 

^  I  may  here  mention  an  nnaooountable 
Iktality  which  overtook  a  short-horn  eow 
of  mine,  in  Forfknhire,  immediately  after 
calving.  She  was  an  extraordinary 
milker,  giving  not  less  than  thirty  quarts 
a-day  in  summer  on  grass  ;  but  what  mm 
more  extraordiaary,  for  two  calvings  the 
milk  never  dried  up,  but  continued  to  flow 
to  the  very  day  of  calving,  and  after  that 
event  return^  in  increased  quantity. 
In  the  third  year  she  went  naturally  dry 
for  about  one  month  prior  to  the  day  of 
reckoning ;  every  precaution,  however, 
was  taken  that  the  milk  should  dry  up 
without  giving  her  any  uneasiness.  She 
calved  in  high  health,  the  milk  returned 
as  usual  in  a  great  flush  after  calf  Ing,  but 
it  was  impossible  to  draw  it  from  the 
udder ;  not  a  teat  would  pass  milk,  all 
the  four  being  entirely  wrdtd,  Q^iiUs 
were  first  introduced  into  the  teats ;  and 
then  tubes  of  larger  size  were  pushed  up 
into  the  body  <?  the  udder.  A  little 
milk  ran  out  of  only  one  of  them— hope 
revived;  but  it  soon  stopped  running,  and 
all  the  art  that  could  be  devised  by  a 
skilful  shepherd  proved  unavailing  to 
draw  milk  fh>m  the  udder ;  rubbing  and 
softening  the  udder  with  goose-fat,  making 
it  warmer  with  warm  water — all  to  no 
purpose.  To  render  the  case  more  dis- 
tressing, there  was  not  a  veterinary  sur- 
geon in  the  district.  At  length  the  udder 
inflamed,  mortified,  and  the  cow  died  in 
tho  most  excruciating  agony  on  the  third 
day,  frt>m  being  in  the  highest  state  of 
health,  though  not  in  high  condition,  as 
her  milking  propensity  usually  kept  her 
lean.  No  loss  of  the  kind  ever  affected 
my  mind  so  much — ^that  nothing  could  be 
done  to  relieve  the  distress  of  an  animal 
which  could  not  help  itself.  I  was  told 
afterwards  by  a  shepherd,  to  whom  I 
related  the  case,  that  I  should  have  cut 
off  all  the  teats,  and  although  the  horrid 
operation  would,  of  cour^,  have  destroyed 
her  for  a  milk  cow,  she  might  have  been 
saved  for  feeding.  He  had  never  seen  a 
eow  so  operated  on  ;  but  it  suggested  itself 
to  him  in  consequence  of  having  been 
obliged  at  times  to  cut  off  the  teats  of 
ewes  to  save  their  lives.  The  suggestion 
I  think  is  good.  The  cow  was  bred  by 
Mr  Currie,  when  at  Brandon  in  North- 
umberland. 

Is  there  really  no  remedy  for  so 
distressing  a  case  as  this  but  that 
which  his  she^erd  recommended? 
He  might,  for  the  benefit  of  his  read- 
ersi  have  consulted  our  fHepd  Pro« 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Seimi^  and  Praeticai  AffHaUhire, 


273 


feasor  Dick.,  wliose  q[rfiiioii8  he   bo 
fineqveotiy  and  so  deeenredlj  qootes. 

The  following  paragraph  is  very 
strikiDg,  as  showing  the  cniel  absur- 
dities which  ignorance  will  sometimes 
not  only  perpetrate,  bat  actually  es- 
tablish, as  a  fcisd  of  custom  in  aeoon- 
try. 

"  Tail-ill  or  TaU-aHp.—A  yery  preva- 
lent notion  exists  in  Scotland  amongst 
catUe-men,  that  when  the  tail  of  an  ox  or 
of  a  cow  feels  soft  and  sapple  immedi- 
atelj  above  the  tuft  of  hair,  there  is  dis- 
ease in  it;  and  it  is  called  the  tail-ill,  or 
tail-slip.  The  almost  invariable  remedy 
is  to  make  a  large  incision  with  the  knife 
along  the  under  side  of  the  soft  part,  staff 
the  wonnd  fiill  of  salt  and  butter,  and 
sometimes  tar,  and  roU  it  up  with  a  ban- 
dage for  a  few  days,  and  when  the  appli- 
cation is  removed,  the  animal  is  declared 
quite  recovered.  Now,  this  notion  is  an 
absurdity.  There  is  no  such  disease  as 
that  imputed;  and  as  the  poor  animal  sub- 
jected to  its  cure  is  thus  tormented,  the 
sooner  the  absurd  notion  is  exposed  the 
better..  The  notion  will  not  soon  be 
abandoned  by  the  cattle-men;  but  the 
farmer  ought  to  forbid  the  performance  of 
such  an  operation  on  any  of  his  cattle 
without  his  special  permission,  and  the 
absurd  practice  will  fall  into  desuetude." 

We  have  not  space  for  the  remainder 
of  this  paragraph,  which  contains  Pro- 
fessor Dick's  demonstration  that  no 
snch  disease  exists  as  the  so-called 
TaU'iU.  Mr  Stephens*  narrations  are 
more  like  a  tale  from  the  times  of 
witchcraft,  when  old  women  were 
supposed  to  have  the  power  of  bring- 
ing disease  upon  cattle,  than  of  those 
days  of  general  enlightenment. 

In  sections  2268  and  2269,  there  is 
a  redpe,  for  making  a  cow  which  has 
once  calVed  give  a/t^  supply  of  milk 
all  the  rest  of  her  life,  and  which  recipe 
is  said  to  be  infallible.  This  is  a  hon- 
bouehe^  however,  which  we  shall  leave 
our  readers  to  turn  up  for  themselves; 
and  we  hope  the  desire  to  learn  it  will 
induce  many  of  our  dairy  friends  to 
buy  the  book. 

The  following  is  the  mode  adopted 
in  fattening  cidves  at  Strathaven,  in 
Scotland,  where  the  famous  veal  has 
been  so  long  grown,  chiefly  for  the 
Glasgow  market : — 

**  Strathaven  in  Scotland  has  long  been 
fiuned  for  rearing  good  ual  fbr  the  Glas- 
gow and  Edinbur£$  markets.  The  dairy 
urmen  thtre  retain  the  quey  calves  f»r 


maintaining  the  nnmber  of  the  eows, 
while  ^ey  feed  the  male  calves  for  veaL 
Their  plan  is  simple,  and  mi^  be  followed 
anywhere.  Milk  imly  is  given  to  the 
ealves,  and  very  seldom  with  any  admix- 
ture, and  they  are  not  allowed  to  suck 
the  cows.  Some  give  milk,  but  sparingly 
at  first,  to  whet  the  appetite,  and  prevent 
surfeit.  The  youngest  calves  get  the  first 
drawn  milk,  or  fore-broads,  as  it  is  termed, 
and  the  older  the  afUringSf  even  of  two  or 
three  cows,  being  the  richest  portion  of 
the  milk.  After  being  three  or  four  weeks 
old,  they  get  abundance  of  milk  twice 
a-day.  They  get  plenty  of  dry  litter, 
fresh  air,  moderate  warmth,  and  are  kept 
nearly  in  the  dark  to  check  sportiveness. 
They  are  not  bled  during  the  time  they 
are  fed,  and  a  lump  of  chalk  is  placed 
within  their  reach.  They  are  fed  from  4 
to  6  weeks,  when  they  fetch  from  £3  to 
£4  a-pieee ;  and  it  is  found  more  profitable 
to  fatten  the  larger  number  of  calves  for 
that  time,  to  snoeeed  each  other,  of  from 
25  lb.  to  80  lb.  per  quarter,  than  to  force 
a  fewer  nnmber  beyond  the  state  of 
marketable  veal." 

The  Caledonian  Railway  now  puts 
this  choice  ve«d  within  the  reach  of 
English  mouths ;  and  we  hope  it  will, 
at  the  same  time,  add  to  the  prosper- 
ity and  profits  of  the  Strathaven 
breeders. 

The  lambing  of  ewes,  the  care 
of  the  mothers  and  offspring,  the  dis- 
eases to  which  they  are  subject,  as 
well  as  the  other  operations  which  de- 
mand the  farmer's  care  in  the  months 
of  spring,  we  must  pass  by.  We 
could  go  on  conmienting  and  quoting 
from  this  book,  as  we  have  already 
done,  till  an  enture  number  of  Maga 
was  filled  up.  But  as  this  would 
be  preposterous,  we  stop,  earnestly 
pressing  upon  our  readers  to  place  a 
copy  of  this  storehouse  of  rural  infor- 
mation in  the  hands  of  every  practical 
husbandman,  in  whose  professional 
skill  they  are  at  all  interested. 

Those  who,  like  ourselves,  take  an 
interest  in  the  difiTusion  of  improved 
agriculture,  scientific  and  practical — 
and  especially  of  our  own  agricultural 
literature  in  other  countries — will  be 
pleased  to  learn,  not  onlv  that  the 
work  of  which  the  title  is  prefixed 
to  the  present  article,  as  well  as  the 
others  upon  agricultural  chemistry  to 
which  we  have  rrferred,  have  made 
their  way  into  the  common  stock  of 
the  book-stores  of  the  United  States, 
but  that  ^  editing  of  the  American 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


274                            Scientifk  and  PracHc<d  Agriculture*  [March, 

reprint  of  the  secoiid  edition  of  the  their  Transactions.    He  is  a  worthy 

Book  of  the  Farm  has  been  under-  representative   of  the    "  conntrj  of 

taken  by  onr  friend  Professor  Norton,  steady  habits"  to  which  he  belongs ; 

of  Yale  College,   (may  his  shadow  and  we  hope  his  countrymen  will  be 

never  be  less!)  so  well  known  and  discriminating  enough  to  appreciate 

esteemed  in  Scotland,  where  he  obtain-  his  own  character  and  scientific  la- 

^d  the  Highland  Society's  £50  prize  hours,  as  well  as  the  value  of  the 

for  a  chemical  examination  of  our  books  he  undertakes  to  bring  before 

native  oat,  which  was  published  in  them. 


THE  SYCAMIKE. 

I. 

The  fi*ail  yellow  leaves  they  are  falling 

As  the  wild  winds  sweep  the  grove  ; 
Flashy  and  dank  is  the  sward  beneath, 

And  the  sky  it  is  gray  above. 
II. 
Foaming  adown  the  dark  rocks. 

Dirge-like,  the  waterfall 
Mourns,  as  if  mourning  for  something  gone, 

For  ever  beyond  its  call. 

ni. 
Sing,  redbreast!  from  the  russet  spray ; 

Thy  song  with  the  season  blends  : 
For  the  bees  have  left  us  with  the  blooms. 

And  the  swallows  were  summer  friends. 

IV. 

The  hawthorn  bare,  with  berries  sere, 
And  the  bramble  by  the  stream. 

Matted,  with  clay  on  its  yellow  trails. 
Decay's  wan  emblems  seem. 

V. 

On  this  slope  bank  how  oft  we  lay 
In  shadow  of  the  sycamine  tree ; 

Pause,  hoary  Eld,  and  listen  now — 
Twas  but  the  roaring  of  the  sea  I 

VI. 

Oh,  the  shouts  and  the  laughter  of  yore — 

How  the  tones  wind  round  the  heart ! 
Ob,  the  faces  blent  with  youth's  blue  skies — 

And  could  ye  so  depart ! 
vn. 
The  crow  screams  back  to  the  wood. 

And  the  sea-mew  to  the  sea. 
And  earth  seems  to  the  foot  of  man 

No  resting-place  to  be. 
vm. 
Search  ye  the  comers  of  the  world. 

And  the  isles  beyond  the  main. 
And  the  main  Itself,  for  those  who  went 

To  come  not  back  again ! 

IX. 

The  rest  are  a  remnant  scattered 
Mid  the  living ;  and,  for  the  dead. 

Tread  lightly  o'er  the  churchyard  mounds  ; 
Ye  know  not  where  ye  tread ! 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


AfltT  a  Ytar^s  Repuhlkcaiism, 


^Ib 


AFTEB  A  year's  REPUBLICANISM. 


The  revolationary  year  has  almost 
closed ;  the  anniversary  of  the  days 
of  February  is  at  hand.  A  Year's  Re- 
publicanism has  run  the  course  of  its 
unchecked  experience  in  France :  to  be- 
lieve its  own  boast,  it  has  ridden  boldly 
forward^seated  upon  public  and  popular 
opinion,  in  the  form  of  the  widest,  and, 
upon  republican  principle,  the  honest 
basis  of  universal  suffrage ;  it  has  been 
left  to  its  own  full  career,  unimpeded 
by  enemies  either  at  home  or  abroad. 
And  what  has  been  the  result  of  the 
race? — ^what  has  been  the  harvest  which 
the  republican  soil,  so  carefully  turned 
over,  tilled,  andmanured,hasproduced? 

It  would  be  a  useless  task  to  re- 
capitulate all  the  different  stages  of 
the  growth  of  the  so-called  fair  green 
tree  of  liberty,  and  enumerate  aU  the 
fruits  that  it  has  let  drop  from  time 
to  time,  from  the  earliest  days  of  last 
spring,  to  the  tempestuous  summer 
month  of  June;  and  then,  thmugh  the 
duller,  heavier,  and  gloomy  months  of 
autumn,  to  those  of  winter,  which 
brought  a  president  as  a  Christmas- 
box,  and  which  have  shown  a  few 
scattered  gleams  of  fancied  sunshine, 
cold  at  the  best,  and  quickly  obscured 
again  by  thick-coming  clouds  of  dis- 
accord, misapprehension,  and  startling 
opposition  of  parties.  All  the  world 
has  had  these  fruits  dished  up  to  it — 
has  handled  them,  e»uiiined  them, 
tasted  them ;  and,  according  to  their 
opinions  or  prejudices,  men  have 
judged  their  savour  bitter  or  sweet. 
All  that  can  be  said  on  the  subject,  for 
those  who  have  digested  them  with 
pleasure,  is,  that  "  there's  no  account- 
ing for  tastes.''  In  calculating  the 
value  of  the  year's  republicanism 
which  France  has  treasured  up  in  its 
history,  it  is  as  well,  then,  to  make 
no  further  examination  into  the  items, 
but  to  look  to  the  sum- total  as  far  as 
it  can  be  added  up  and  put  together, 
in  the  present  aspect  of  affairs.  In 
spite  of  the  openly  expressed  detesta- 
tion of  the  provinces  to  the  capital — 
in  spite  of  the  increasing  spirit  of  de- 
centralisation, and  the  efforts  made 
by  the  departments  to  insure  a  certain 
degree  of  importance  to  themselves — 
it  is  still  Paris  that  reigns  paramount 


in  its  power,  and  as  the  influential 
expression,  however  false  in  many  re- 
spects it  may  be,  of  the  general  spirit 
of  the  country.  It  is  upon  the  aspect 
of  affairs  in  Paris,  then,  and  all  its 
numerous  conflicting  elements,  that 
observation  must  stiU  be  directed,  in 
order  to  make  a  resumd^  as  far  as  it 
is  practicable,  of  this  sum-total  of  a 
year's  republican  rule.  The  account 
must  necessarily  be,  more  or  less,  a 
confused  one,  for  accounts  are  not 
strictly  kept  in  Republican  Paris — are 
continually  varying  in  their  results, 
according  as  the  p<>litical  arithmeti- 
dans  set  about  their  "  casting  up" — 
and  are  constantly  subject  to  dispute 
among  the  accountants:  the  main 
flgures,  composing  the  sum-total,  may, 
however,  be  enumerated  without  any 
great  error,  and  then  they  may  be  put 
together  in  their  true  amount,  and  ac- 
cording to  their  real  value,  bv  those 
before  whom  they  are  thus  laid. 

One  of  the  most  striking  figures  in 
the  row,  inasmuch  as  the  lateness  of  the 
events  has  made  it  one  of  the  most 
prominent,  is  to  be  derived  from  the 
position  and  designs  of  those  who  de- 
clare themselves  to  be  the  only  true 
and  pure  republicans  in  the  anoma- 
lous Republic  of  France,  as  exemplified 
by  that  revolutionary  movement 
which,  although  it  led  to  no  better  re- 
sult than  a  revohuian  avortee^  takes  its 
date  in  the  history  of  the  Republic 
beside  the  more  troublous  one  of  May, 
and  the  more  bloody  one  of  June,  as 
"  the  affdr  of  the  29th  of  January." 
Paris,  after  the  removal  of  the 
state  of  siege,  had  done  its  best  to 
put  on  its  physiognomy  of  past  vears, 
had  smeared  over  its  wrinkles  as  best  it 
might,  and  had  made  sundry  attempts 
to  smile  through  all  this  hasty  plas- 
tering of  its  poor  distorted  face.  Its 
shattered  commerce  still  showed  many 
rags  and  rents ;  but  it  had  pulled  its 
disordered  dress  with  decency  about 
it,  and  set  it  forth  in  the  best  lights ; 
it  had  called  foreigners  once  more 
around  it,  to  admire  it ;  and  they  had 
come  St  the  call,  although  slowl^  and 
with  mistrust.  It  had  some  hopes 
of  mending  its  rags,  then,  and  even 
furbishing  up   a   new  fresh  toilette^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


fje 


After  a  ¥ear*M  BqmbHeamimtL 


Pifarcht 


almost  as  smart  as  of  yore ;  it  danced 
and  sang  again,  although  faintly  and 
with  effort.  The  National  Assembly 
clamoared  and  fonght,  it  is  true ;  but 
Paris  was  grown  accustomed  to  such 
discordant  mosic,  and  at  most  only 
stopped  its  ears  to  it :  ministers  held 
their  portfolios  with  ticklish  balance, 
as  if  about  to  let  them  fall ;  bat  Paris 
was  determined  not  to  care  who 
dropped  portfolios,  or  who  eanght 
them :  there  were  doods  again  upon 
the  political  horizon,  and  distant 
rumblings  of  a  crisis-thunderstorm; 
but  Paris  seemed  resolved  to  look  out 
for  fine  weather.  All  on  a  sudden, 
one  bright  morning,  on  the  29th  of 
January,  the  smile  yanished:  the 
troubled  physiognomy  was  again 
there;  the  rerolutionary  air  again 
pervaded  it ;  and  foreigners  once 
more,  not  liking  the  looks  of  the  con- 
vulsed face,  b^gan  to  start  back  in 
alarm.  The  rappel  was  again  beaten, 
for  the  turning  out  of  the  national 
guards  at  the  eariiest  hour  of  the 
morning:  that  drumming,  which  for 
many  months  had  filled  the  air  inces- 
santly, again  deafened  sensitive  ears 
and  harassed  sensitive  nerves.  The 
streets  were  thronged  with  troops, 
marching  forwards  in  thick  battalions; 
while  before  them  retreated  some  hun- 
dreds of  those  nameless  beings,  who 
come  no  one  knows  whence,  and  go  no 
one  knows  whither — those  mysterious 
beings,  peculiar  to  revolntionsuy  cities, 
who  only  appear  like  a  cloud  of 
stinging  dust  when  the  wind  of  the 
revolution-tempest  begins  to  blow, 
and  who  in  Paris  are  either  brigands 
or  heroes  of  barricades,  according  as 
the  language  of  the  day  may  go — 
back,  back,  grumbling  and  threaten- 
ing, into  the  faubourgs,  where  they 
vanished  until  the  gale  may  blow 
stormier  again,  and  meet  with  less 
resistance.  The  garden  of  the  Tuileries 
was  closed  to  the  public,  and  ex- 
hibited an  armed  array  once  more 
among  its  leafless  trees ;  the  Champs 
Ely 8^8  had  again  become  a  camp 
and  a  bivouac;  cannon  was  again 
posted  around  the  National  Assembly. 
Formidable  military  posts  surrounded 
every  public  bnilding  ;  the  streets 
were  crowded  with  the  curious ;  thick 
knots  of  men  again  stood  at  every 
comer ;  people  asked  once  more, 
"  What  *s  on  foot  now  ?  "  but  no  one 


at  first  could  answer :  they  only  re- 
peated from  mouth  to  mouth  the 
mysterious  words  of  General  Chan- 
gamier,  that  **he  who  should  venture 
to  displace  a  paving-stone  would  never 
again  replace  it ;"  and  they  knew 
what  that  meant.  Paris  was,  all  at 
once,  its  revolutionary  self  again; 
and,  in  some  degree,  so  it  remained 
during  the  ensuing  we^LS — with  can- 
non displayed  on  haaardoiis  pointa, 
and  the  great  nulway  stations  of  the 
capital  Sled  with  battalions  of  sol- 
diers, bivouacking  upon  straw  in 
courts  and  aalki  d^atttemU;  »ad  huge 
military  posts  at  every  turn,  and  thidc 
patrols  parading  Roomily  at  night, 
and  palaces  and  public  buildhigs 
closed  and  guarded,  just  as  if  retro- 
grade monarchy  were  about  to  sup- 
press fervent  liberalism,  and  a 
'^  glorious  republic  "  had  not  been 
established  fbr  a  country's  happiness 
wellnigh  a  year  already;  just  as  if 
republicans,  who  had  conspired  daridj 
a  year  before,  had  not  obtained  all 
they  then  clamoured  for — a  republic 
based  upon  institutions  resulting  from 
universal  suffrage  —  and  were  con- 
spiring again.  And  so  it  was.  A 
deep-laid  conspiracy — a  conspiracy 
of  republicans  against  a  republict 
which  they  chose  to  caU  deceptive  and 
illuswy — ^was  again  on  fbot.  They 
bad  possessed,  for  nigh  a  year,  the 
blessing  for  which  tiiey  had  con- 
spired, intrigued,  and  fbught ;  and 
they  conspired,  intrigued,  and  would 
have  fought  again .  One  df  the  figures, 
then,  to  form  the  total  which  has  to* 
be  summed  up  as  the  result  of  a  year's 
republicanism,  is — conspiracy;  con- 
spiracy more  formidaUe  than  ever, 
because  more  desperate,  more  bloody- 
minded  in  its  hopes,  more  destructive 
in  its  dedgns  to  all  society. 

In  spite  of  the  denegations  of  the 
Red-republican  party,  and  the  counter- 
accusations  of  their  allies  the  Montag- 
nards  in  the  Assembly,  the  question 
of  all  Paris,  "  What's  on  foot  now  ?'* 
was  soon  answered ;  and  the  answer, 
spite  of  these  same  denegations,  and 
counter-accusations,  was  speedily  un- 
derstood and  believed  by  all  France* 
A  conspiracy  of  the  ultra-democrats. 
Red  republicans  and  Socialists,  (all  now 
so  shaken  up  together  in  one  common 
dark  bag  of  underhand  design,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  distingui^  the  shades 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849w] 


Aftat  aY^s  RipMioamim. 


277 


of  BQdi  ptrtiflB,)  was  on  the  point  of 
brotking  oat  in  the  capital :  the  29th 
of  January  bad  been  fixed  npon  by 
the  conspirators  font  their  general  in- 
aarrection.  The  Bed  repablicans  (to 
inclnde  all  the  factions  of  the  anarchist 
parties  nnder  that  title,  in  which  they 
tbems^yes  rejoice,  although  the  desig- 
nation be  derived  from  '^  blood'')  had 
felt  how  strong  and  overpowering  had 
become  the  clamour  raised  throughout 
the  land  against  that  National  Assem- 
\Aj  which  had  run  its  course,  and 
was  now  placed  in  constant  opposition, 
not  only  to  the  president  of  the  repub- 
lic, as  represented  by  his  ministers, 
but  to  the  general  spirit  and  feeling  of 
the  country  at  large;  tiiey  were 
aware,  but  too  feelingly,  that,  should 
the  Assembly  give  way  before  this 
clamour,  in  spite  of  its  evidences  of 
resistance,  and  decree  its  own  dissolu- 
tion, the  elections  of  a  new  Legis- 
lative Assembly  by  that  universal 
Buffirage  which  had  once  been  their 
idol,  and  was  now  to  be  scouted  and 
deepned,  would  inevitably  produce 
what  they  termed  a  reactionary,  and 
what  they  suspected  might  prove,  a 
counter-revolutionary  and  monarchic 
majority ;  and  they  had  determined, 
in  E^kiA  of  their  defeat  in  June,  to 
attempt  another  revolution,  in  the 
hope  of  again  smprisinff  the  capital 
by  a  coup-de'tnam^  and  seizing  the 
reins  of  power  into  their  own  hands 
at  once.  This  conspiracy  was  affilia- 
ted together,  in  its  various  branches, 
by  those  formidable  societes  secrkies^ 
which,  long  organised,  had  been  again 
called  into  service  by  the  per- 
severing activity  of  the  party,  not 
only  in  Paris,  but  in  all  the  larger 
provincial  towns,  and  for  which  fresh 
lecmits  had  been  zealously  drummed 
together.  A  general  outbreak  all  over 
the  country  was  regulated  to  explode 
simultaneously  on  the  29th  of  Janu- 
ary, or  during  the  following  night : 
thmt  monomania,  which  has  never 
ceased  to  possess  the  miuds  of  the 
frantic  chiefs  of  the  Red-republican 
party,  and  which  still  entertains  the 
vain  dream  that,  if  they  rise,  all  the 
lower  classes,  or  what  they  call  **  the 
peo;^"  must  rise  at  theur  call,  to 
fight  in  their  wild  cause,  gave  them 
support  in  tiieir  designs.  Pretexts 
for  discontent,  at  the  same  time,  were 
not  warning.     The   project   di  the 


government  for  a  general  mppression 
of  the  dubs — a  measure  which  they 
declared  unconstitntiima],  gave  a 
colour  to  disaffection  and  revolt ;  and 
hopes  that  fresh  allies  would  join  the 
insurrection  gave  the  party  a  bold 
confidence,  which  it  had  not  possessed 
since  the  days  of  June.  The  garde 
mobiie^  in  fact,  had  been  tampered 
with.  The  spirit  of  these  young  janis- 
saries of  the  capital,  for  the  most 
part  but  a  year  ago  the  mere  gamuu 
de  Paris^  idways  vacillating  and  little 
to  be  relied  upon,  spite  of  their  deeds 
in  June,  had  ahnoady  been  adroitly 
worked  upon  by  the  fostering  of  that 
jealousy  which  subsisted  between  them 
and  the  regular  army  into  a  more 
decided  hatred,  when  a  decree  of  the 
government  for  the  reorganisation 
of  the  eorpa  was  interpreted  by 
the  designing  conspirators  into  an  in- 
sult offered  to  the  whole  institution, 
and  a  preparatory  measure  to  its  total 
dissolution.  Sudi  insinuations,  care- 
fully fomented  among  these  young 
troops,  led  to  tumultuous  demonstra- 
tions of  disaffection  and  discontent. 
This  ferment,  so  opportune  for  the  de- 
signs of  the  Red  republicans,  induced 
them  to  believe  that  their  hour  of 
struggle  and  of  approaching  triumph 
was  at  hand:  they  counted  on  their 
new  allies ;  all  was  ready  for  the  out- 
break. But  the  government. was  alive 
to  the  tempest  rising  around  it ;  it  was 
determined  to  do  its  duty  to  the  coun- 
try in  preventing  the  storm,  rather 
than  in  suppressing  it  when  once  it 
should  have  broken  forth.  Hence  the 
military  preparations  which,  on  the 
morning  of  the  29th  of  J»auary,  had 
once  more  rendered  all  Paris  a  for- 
tress and  a  camp ;  hence  the  warning 
sound  of  the  rappeL,  which  at  an  early 
hour  had  once  more  roused  all  the 
citizens  from  their  beds,  and  called 
alarmed  faces  forth  at  windows  and 
upon  balconies  in  the  gloom  of  the 
dawn;  hence  the  stem  commanding 
words  of  General  Changamier,  and 
the  orders  to  the  troops  and  the  na- 
tional guards,  that  any  man  attempt- 
ing to  raise  a  stone  from  the  streets 
should  be  shot  forthwith,  and  without 
mercy ;  hence  the  consternation  with 
which  the  outpost  allies  of  the  Red 
republicans  hurried  back  growling  to 
their  mysterious  dens,  wherever  such 
may  exist.     Prevention   was   con- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


278 

sidered  better  than  core,  in  spite  of 
the  misinterpretations  and  misappre- 
hensions to  which  it  might  be  exposed, 
and  by  which  it  was  subsequently  as- 
sailed by  the  disappointed  faction. 
Arrest  then  followed  upon  arrest; 
upwards  of  two  hundred  of  the  sus- 
pected chiefs  of  the  conspiracy  were 
hurried  off  to  prison.  Among  them 
were  former  delegates  to  the  once 
famous  committee  of  the  Luxembourg, 
whose  conduct  gave  evidence  of  the 
results  produced  by  the  dangerous 
Utopian  theories  set  forth  under  the 
lectureship  of  M.  Louis  Blanc,  and  his 
noble  friend  the  soudiscmt  oumrier  Al- 
bert. Chiefs  of  the  dubs  bore  them 
company  in  their  incarceration;  and 
the  ex- Count  D' Alton  Shee,  the  er- 
elegant  of  the  fashionable  salons  of 
Fans,  but  now  the  socialist- atheist 
and  anarchist,  suffered  the  same  pen- 
alty of  his  actions  as  leading  mem- 
ber of  the  club  "  De  la  SoUdarlti 
RepvbUcainey  Turbulentofficersof  the 
Garde  Mobile  underwent  a  similar 
fate.  Even  the  national  guard  was 
not  spared  in  the  person  of  one  of  its 
superior  officers,  whose  agitation  and 
over-zealous  movements  excited  sus- 
picion ;  and,  by  the  way,  in  the  gene- 
ral summing  up,  arrest,  imprisonment, 
restriction  of  liberty,  may  also  take 
theur  place  in  the  row  as  another  little 
figure  in  the  total. 

The  conspiracy,  however,  was  sup- 
pressed-; the  insurrection  failed  en- 
tirely for  the  time;  and  Paris  was 
told  that  it  might  be  perfectly  reas- 
sured, and  dose  quietly  again  upon  its 
pillow,  without  any  fear  that  Eed- 
republicanism  should  again  '*  murder 
sleep.**  But  Paris,  which  has  not 
learned  yet  to  recover  its  old  quiet 
habit  of  sleeping  calmly,  and  has  got 
too  much  fever  in  its  system  to  dose 
its  ^yeB  at  will,  is  not  to  be  lulled  by 
such  mere  sedatives  of  ministerial  as-  * 
surance.  Once  roused  in  startled 
hurry  from  its  bed  again,  and  seeing 
the  opiate  of  confidence  which  was 
beginning  to  work  its  effect  in  very 
small  doses  snatched  from  its  grasp,  it 
cannot  calm  its  nerves  at  once.  It  will 
not  be  persuaded  that  the  crisis  is  over, 
and  has  passed  away  for  ever ;  like  a 
child  awakened  by  a  nightmare,  it 
looks  into  all  sorts  of  dark  holes  and 
comers,  thinking  to  see  the  spectre 
lurking  there.    It  knows  what  it  had 


After  a  Yearns  lUpublkanism. 


[March, 


to  expect  from  the  tender  merdes  of 
its  pitiless  enemies,  had  they  suc- 
ceeded in  their  will ;  what  was  the 
programme  of  a  new  Red-republican 
rale— a  comite  du  sahtt  pubHc^  the 
regime  of  the  guillotine^  the  ^puratioH 
of  suspected  aristocrats,  the  confisca- 
tion of  the  property  of  emigrants,  a 
tax  of  three  milHards  upon  the  rich,  a 
spoliation  of  all  who  ^^  possess,"  the 
dissolution  of  the  national  guard,  the 
exclusive  possession  of  all  arms  by 
the  soi'disant  people,  and — ^but  the 
list  of  such  new-old  measures  of 
ultra-republican  government  would 
be  too  long ;  it  is  an  old  tale  often 
told,  and,  after  all,  only  a  free  trans- 
lation from  the  measures  of  other 
times.  Paris,  then,  knows  all  this ; 
it  knows  the  fanatic  and  inexpressible 
rage  of  its  antagonist,  to  which  the 
fever  of  madness  lends  strength ;  it 
allows  itself  to  be  told  all  sorts  of 
fearful  tales — ^how  Socialists,  in  imita- 
tion of  their  London  brethren,  have 
hired  some  thousand  apartments  in 
different  quarters  of  the  capital,  in 
order  to  light  a  thousand  fires  at 
once  upon  a  given  signal.  It  goes 
about  repeating  the  old  vague  cry — 
"  Nous  aUons  avoir  quelque  chose  ;*' 
and,  however  foolishly  exaggerated 
its  alarm,  the  results  it  experiences 
are  the  same — again  want  of  con- 
fidence arising  from  anxiety,  again 
suspension  of  trade,  again  a  renewal 
of  misery.  The  fresh  want  of  con- 
fidence, then,  with  all  the  attendant 
evils  in  its  train,  may  again,  as  the 
year  of  republicanism  approaches  to 
its  dose,  be  taken  as  another  figure 
in  the  sum-total  that  is  sought. 

In  the  midst  of  this  sudden  ferment, 
which  has  appeared  towards  the  end 
of  the  republican  year  like  a  tableau 
final  at  the  condusion  of  an  act  of  a 
drama — hastily  thrust  forward  when 
the  interest  of  the  piece  began  to 
languish,— how  stands  the  state  of 
parties  in  that  Assembly  which,  al- 
though it  is  said — and  very  con'ectly, 
it  would  appear — ^no  longer  to  repre- 
sent the  spirit  of  the  country  at  large, 
must  still  be  considered  as  the  great 
axis  of  the  republic,  around  whidi  all 
else  moves?  Always  tumultuous, 
disorderly,  and  disdainfjil  of  those 
parliamentary  forms  which  could  alone 
insure  it  the  aspect  of  a  dignified 
deliberative  body,  the  National  As- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


After  a  Yeat^i  lUpublicanum. 


sembly,  as  it  sees  its  last  days  inevi- 
tabljapproachiog— alttioQgh  it  retards 
its  dissolation  by  every  quack-doctor- 
ing meuis  within  its  grasp — seems  to 
have  plunged,  in  its  throes,  into  a 
worse  sloueh  of  triple  confusion,  dis- 
order, and  uncertainty  than  eyer. 
Jealous  of  its  dignity,  unwilling  to 
quit  its  power,  unwilling — say  mali- 
cious tongues — to  quit  its  profit,  and 
yet  pressed  upon  by  that  public 
opinion  which  it  would  vainly  attempt 
to  deny,  to  misinterpret,  or  to  de- 
spise, it  has  shown  itself  more  vacillat- 
ing, capricious,  and  childish  than 
ever.  It  wavers,  votes  hither  and 
thither,  backwards  and  forwards — 
now  almost  inclined  to  fall  into  the 
nets  spread  for  it  by  the  ultra-demo- 
cratic party,  that  supports  its  resist- 
ance against  all  attempts  to  dissolve  it, 
and  upon  the  point  of  throwing  it- 
self into  that  party's  arms  ;  and  now, 
again,  alarmed  at  the  allies  to  whom  it 
would  unite  itself,  starting  back  from 
their  embrace,  turning  round  in  its  ma- 
jority, and  declaring  itself  against  the 
sense  of  its  former  decisions.  Now,  it 
offers  an  active  and  seemingly  spiteful 
opposition  to  the  government ;  and  now, 
again,  it  accepts  the  first  outlet  to 
enable  it  to  turn  back  upon  its  course. 
Now  it  is  sulky,  now  alarmed,  at  its 
own  sulkiness;  now  angry,  now  beg- 

fing  its  own  pardon  for  its  hastiness. 
t  is  like  a  child  that  does  not  know 
its  own  mind  or  temper,  and  gives 
way  to  all  the  first  va^^es  that 
spring  into  its  childish  brain :  it  ne- 
glects the  more  real  interests  of  the 
country,  and  loses  the  country's  time 
in  its  service,  in  its  eternal  interpella- 
tions, accusations,  recriminations^ 
jealousies,  suspicions,  and  ofiended 
susceptibilities ;  it  quarrels,  scratches, 
fights,  and  breaks  its  own  toys — and 
all  this  in  the  midst  of  the  most  inex- 
tricable confusion.  To  do  it  justice, 
the  Assembly,  as  represented  by  its 
wavering  majority,  is  placed  between 
two  stools  of  apprehension,  between 
which  it  is  continually  coming  to  the 
ground,  and  making  wofuUy  wry 
faces :  and,  between  the  two,  it  is  not 
very  easy  to  see  how  it  should  pre- 
serve a  decent  equilibrium.  On  the 
one  hand,  it  spspects  the  reactionary, 
and  perhaps  counter-revdutionary 
designs  of  the  moderate  party  on 
the   right,  whose  chie&  and  leaders 


279 

have  chosen  to  hold  themselves  back 
firom  any  participation  in  the  govern- 
mental posts,  which  they  have  other- 
wise coveted  and  fatally  intrigued  for, 
as  if  they  had  an  arriere-pensee  of 
better  and  more  congenial  opportuni- 
ties in  store,  and  whose  reliance  in 
this  respect  seems  equivocal ;  and  it 
looks  upon  them  as  monarchists  biding 
their  time.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
dreads  the  Montagnards  on  the  ex- 
treme left,  with  their  frantic  excesses 
and  violent  measures,  however  much 
it  has  looked  for  their  support  in  the 
momentous  question  of  the  dissolution 
of  the  Assembly.  It  bears  no  good- 
will to  the  president,  whose  immense 
majority  in  the  elections  has  been 
mainly  due  to  the  hopes  of  the  anti- 
republicans  that  his  advent  might 
lead  to  a  total  change  of  government : 
it  bears  still  less  good-will  to  the  mi- 
nisters of  that  president's  choice.  Be- 
tween its  two  fears,  then,  no  wonder 
that  it  oscillates  like  a  pendulum. 
The  approach  of  its  final  dissolution, 
which  it  has  at  last  indefinitely  voted, 
and  yet  endeavours  to  retard  by 
fresh  obligations  for  remaining,  gives 
it  that  character  of  bitterness  which 
an  old  coquette  may  feel  when  she 
finds  her  last  hope  of  conquest  slip- 
ping indubitably  away  from  her. 
Without  accusing  the  majority  of  that 
desperate  clinging  to  place  from  inte- 
rested motives — whicn  the  country, 
however,  is  continually  casting  in  its 
teeth — it  may  be  owned  that  it  is  not 
willing  to  see  power  wrested  from  it, 
when  it  fears,  upon  its  return  to  its 
constituents,  it  may  never  find  that 
power  placed  in  its  hands  again,  and 
seeks  every  means  of  prolonging  the 
fatal  hour  under  the  pretence  of 
serving  the  best  interests  of  that 
country  to  which  it  fears  to  appeal : 
and  to  this  state  of  temper,  its  wasp- 
ishness,  uncertainty,  and  increasing 
disorder,  may  be  in  some  degree  at- 
tributed. 

Of  the  hopes  and  designs  of  the 
extreme  moderate  and  supposed  reac- 
tionaiy  party,  little  can  be  said,  inas- 
much as  it  has  kept  its  thoughts 
to  itself,  and  not  permitted  itself  to 
give  any  open  evidences  whatever 
upon  the  point.  But  the  ardent  and 
impetuous  Moniagnardi  are  by  no 
means  so  cautious :  their  designs,  and 
hopes,  and  fears,  have  been  clearly 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


280 


Afier  a  Jaor't  JUpMieaamHitu 


[Mnchy 


enough  expressed;  and  they  flash 
forth  continually,  as  lightnings  in  the 
midst  of  the  thunder  of  their  incessant 
tumult.  The  allies  and  representa- 
tiyes,  and,  if  all  tales  be  true,  thechie^ 
(tf  the  Bed-republican  party  out  of  the 
Assembly — they  still  cherish  the  hope 
of  establishing  an  ultra-democratic  re- 
publican government,  by  some  means 
or  other^*^  by  foul  if  fair  should  fail*' 
— a  government  of  despotic  rule  by 
violence — of  propagandism  by  con- 
straint— of  systematic  anarchy.  They 
still  form  visions  of  someluture  Con- 
vention of  which  they  may  be  the 
heroes —of  a  parliamentary  tyrannical 
oligarchy,  by  which  they  may  enforce 
their  extravagant  opinions.  Driven 
to  the  most  flagrant  inconsistencies 
by  their  false  position,  they  declare 
themselves  also  the  true  and  supreme 
organ— not  only  of  those  they  call 
*^the  people,"  but  of  the  nation  at 
large ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  they 
aflect  to  despise,  and  they  even 
denounce  as  criminal,  the  general 
expression  of  public  opinion,  as  evi- 
denced by  universal  suffrage.  They 
assume  Uie  attitudes  of  wHoeuTB  dt 
lapatn'e;  and  in  the  next  breath  they 
declare  that  pairie  traitre  to  itself. 
They  vaunt  themselves  to  be  the  eius 
de  la  nation;  and  they  openly  express 
their  repugnance  to  meet  again,  as 
candidates  for  the  new  legislative  as- 
sembly, that  majority  of  the  nation 
which  they  now  would  drag  before 
the  tribunal  of  republicanism  as  coun- 
ter-revolutionary and  reactionary. 
In  short,  the  only  universal  suffiiige 
to  which  they  would  appeal  is  that  of 
the  furious  minority  of  their  perverted 
or  hired  bands  among  the  dregs  of  the 
people.  They  have  thus  in  vain 
used  every  effbrt  to  prolong  to  an  in- 
definite period,  or  even  to  render 
permanent,  if  possible,  the  existence 
of  that  Assembly  which  their  own 
party  attacked  in  May,  and  which 
they  themselves  have  so  often  de- 
nounced as  reactionary.  It  is  the 
rock  of  salvation  upon  which  they  fix 
their  frail  anchor  of  power,  in  defuilt 
of  that  more  solid  and  elevated  foun- 
dation for  their  sway,  which  they  are 
well  aware  can  now  only  be  laid  for 
them  by  the  hands  of  insurgents,  and 
cemented  by  the  blood  of  civil  strife 
in  the  already  blood-flooded  streets  of 
Paris.    With  the  same  necessary  in- 


consistency which  nuyriu  tiieir  whole 
oondnct,  they  fix  their  hopes  Gi  ad- 
vent to  power  upon  the  overthrow  of 
the  Assembly  or  which  they  are  not 
masters,  together  with  the  whole  pre- 
sent system  of  government ;  while  they 
support  the  principle  <tf  the  Invisi- 
bility and  immovalMlity  of  that  same 
Assembly,  under  such  drcumstanoee 
called  by  them  ^^  the  holy  ai^  of  the 
country,"  when  a  fresh  appeal  is  to 
be  made  to  the  mass  of  the  nation  at 
large.  During  the  waverings  and 
vadllationa  of  the  nu^rity — itself 
clinging  to  place  and  power— they 
more  than  once  expected  a  trium|^ 
for  theuiselves  in  a  declaration  of  the 
Assembly's  permanence,  with  the 
secret  hope,  «n(irrt^«p0M^  of  finding 
fair  cause  for  that  insurrection  by 
which  alone  they  would  fhlly  profit, 
if  a  conqf-de-main  were  to  be  attempt- 
ed by  the  government,  in  obedience 
to  the  loudly-expressed  clamour  of 
popular  opinion,  to  wredc  that  '^  holy 
ai^"  in  which  they  had  embarked 
their  lesser  hopes.  When,  however, 
they  found  that  the  crew  were  dis- 
posed to  desert  it,  on  feeling  the 
storms  (tf  public  manifestation  blow- 
ing too  hard  against  it — when  they 
found  that  they  themselves  must  in  a 
few  weeks,  or  at  latest  months,  quit 
its  tottering  planks,  their  rage  has 
known  no  bounds.  Every  manoeuvre 
that  can  be  used  to  prolong  life,  by 
prolonging  even  the  daily  existence  of 
the  Assembly,  is  unscrupulously  put 
into  practice.  They  damoor,  they 
interrupt  discussion — they  denounce 
— ^they  produce  those  daily  "wct- 
cientf"  ofFrench  parliamentary  tradi- 
tion which  prevent  the  progress  of  par- 
liamentary business — they  inv^t  fresh 
interpellations,  to  create  furtherdelayt 
by  long-protracted  angry  quarrel  and 
acrimony.  Part  of  all  this  system  of 
denunciation,  recrimination,  and  acri- 
monious accusation,  belongs,  it  is  true, 
to  their  assumed  character  as  the  dra-- 
mtUig  persomm  of  an  imaginary  Con- 
vention.  They  have  their  cherished 
models  of  old,  to  copy  which  is  their 
task,  and  their  glory;  the  dramatic 
traditions  of  the  old  Convention  are 
ever  in  their  minds,  and  are  to  be 
followed  in  manner,  and  even  costume, 
as  far  as  possible.  And  thus  Ledm 
Bollin,  another  would-be  Danton, 
tosses  back  hk  head,  and  raises  hi» 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S».} 


AfUta  Tmr^M BtpMicamtm^ 


2S1 


nose  aloft,  snd  pidls  op  his  burly 
ftHrm,  to  timnder  torth  his  angry  Red- 
repnldican  indignation  ;  and  Felix 
Pyat,  the  melodramatic  dramatist, 
of  the  boulevard  du  crim^—foXiy  in 
Ids  place  where  living  dramas,  almost 
as  extravagant  and  ranting  as  those 
finom  his  own  p^,  are  to  be  performed 
— rolls  his  large  ronnd  dark  eyes,  and 
swells  his  yoice,  and  shouts,  and 
throws  abont  his  arms,  after  the 
fashion  of  those  melodrama  actors 
Ibr  whose  nmsy  declamation  he  has 
afforded  snch  good  staff,  and  because 
of  his  pktnresqne  appeaorance,  fancies 
himself,  it  would  seem,  a  new  St  Just. 
And  Sarrans,  soi-ducaU  ^^  the  young," 
acts  after  no  less  melodramatic  a 
ftishion,  as  if  in  rivalry  for  the  parts  of 
jeime  premier  in  the  drama,  but  can- 
not get  beyond  the  airs  of  a  provincial 
ffroundling;  and  L^^prange,  with  his 
nrocions  and  haggard  countenance, 
and  his  grizzled  long  hair  and  beard, 
yells  fh>m  his  seat,  although  in  the 
tribune  he  affects  a  milder  language 
now,  as  if  to  contradict  and  deny  his 
past  deeds.  And  Prondhon  shouts 
too,  although  he  puts  on  a  benevolent 
mrpatekr^  beneath  the  spectacles  on 
his  round  face,  when  he  proposes  his 
schemes  for  the  destruction  of  the 
whole  fabric  of  society.  And  Pierre 
Leroux,  the  frantic  philosopher,  shakes 
his  wild  greasy  mane  of  hair  about 
his  heavy  greasy  face,  and  raves,  as 
ever,  disoordantly ;  and  old  Lamme- 
nais,  the  renegade  ex- priest,  bends 
his  gloomy  head,  and  snarls  and 
iprowls,  and  utters  low  imprecations, 
instead  of  priestly  blessings,  and  looks 
like  another  Marat,  even  if  he  denies 
the  moral  resemblance  to  its  fhll  ex- 
tent. And  Greppo  shouts  and  struggles 
with  Felix  Pyat  for  the  much-desired 
part  of  St  Just.  And  gray-bearded 
Coathons,  who  have  not  even  the 
ardour  of  youth  to  excuse  their  ex- 
travagancies, rise  from  their  cnmle 
obairs  to  toss  up  their  arms,  and  howl 
in  chorus.  And  even  Jules  Favre, 
although  he  belongs  not  to  their  party, 
barks,  bites,  accuses,  and  denounces 
too,  all  things  and  all  men,  and  spits 
forth  venom,  as  if  he  was  regardless 
where  tiie  venom  fell,  or  whom  it 
Mistered ;  and,  with  his  pale,  bilious 
free,  and  scmpulonsly-attired  spare 
form,  seems  to  endeavour  to  preserve, 
as  feur  as  he  can,  in  a  new  republic. 


the  agreeable  tradition  of  aaol^ier 
Robespierre.  And  let  it  not  be  sup- 
posed, that  malice  or  prejudice  at- 
taches to  the  Mbntagnarda  these 
names.  The  men  of  the  last  republi- 
can era,  whom  history  has  exeorated, 
calumniously  and  unjustly  they  will 
say,  are  their  heroes  and  their  demi- 
gods ;  the  sage  legislators,  whose 
principles  they  vaunt  as  those  of 
republican  civilisation  and  humanity ; 
the  models  whom  they  avowedly,  and 
with  a  confessed  ur  of  ambition, 
aspire  to  copy  in  word  and  deed. 
Part,  however,  of  the  systematic  con- 
fusion, which  it  is  their  evident  aim 
to  introduce  into  the  deliberations  of 
the  Assembly,  is,  in  latter  days^  to  be 
attributable  to  their  desire  to  create 
delays,  and  lead  to  episodical  discus- 
sions of  angry  quarrel  and  recrimina- 
tion, which  may  prolong  the  convul^ 
sive  existence  of  the  ii^mbly  to  an 
indefinite  period,  or  by  which  they 
may  profit  to  forward  their  own 
designs.  Thus  the  day  is  rare,  as  a 
ray  of  sunshine  in  a  permanent  equi- 
noctial storm,  when  the  Montagnard& 
do  not  start  from  their  seats,  upon 
the  faintest  pretext  for  discontent  or 
accusation  of  reactionary  tendencies ; 
and,  either  en  masse  or  individually, 
fulminate,  gesticulate,  clamour,  shout^ 
denounce,  and  threaten.  The  thun- 
der upon  the  "Mountain's"  brow 
is  incessant:  if  it  does  not  burst 
forth  in  heavy  peals,  it  never  ceases 
to  growl.  Each  3f(nita^iMir</ is  a  Jupi- 
ter in  his  own  conceit,  and  hurls  his 
thunderbolt  with  what  force  he  may. 
Not  a  word  can  be  spoken  by  a  sup- 
posed reactionary  orator  without  a 
murmur — not  a  phrase  completed 
without  a  shout  of  denegation,  a  tor- 
rent of  interruptions,  or  peeling  bursts 
of  ironical  laughter.  The  "  Moun- 
tain "  is  in  perpetual  labour ;  but  its 
produce  bears  more  resemblance  to  a 
yelping  pack  of  hungry  blood-hounds^ 
than  to  an  innocent  mouse:  it  is  in 
perpetual  movement ;  and,  like  crush- 
ing avalanches  from  its  summit,  rush 
down  its  most  energetic  members  to 
the  tribune,  to  attempt  to  crush  the 
Assembly  by  vehemence  and  violence 
of  language.  These  scenes  of  syste- 
matic tumult  have  necessarily  in- 
creased in  force,  since  the  boiling  spite 
of  disappointment  has  flowed  over  ia 
hot  reality,  in  place  of  the  afi^cted 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


282  , 

and  acted  indignation :  the  rage  and 
agitation  no  longer  know  the  least 
control.  The  affair  of  the  abolition 
of  the  clubs  had  scarcely  lent  an  ex- 
cellent pretext  for  this  violence,  when 
the  suppression  of  the  insurrection, 
and  the  arrests  consequent  upon  the 
discomfiture  of  the  conspiracy  on  the 
29  th  of  January,  gave  a  wide  field  for 
the  exercise  of  the  system  of  denun- 
ciation commonly  pursued.  To  be 
beforehand  with  accusation  by  coun- 
ter-accusation, has  been  always  the 
tactics  of  the  party :  when  the  party- 
chiefs  find  themselves  involved  in  the 
suspicion  of  subversive  attempts,  they 
begin  the  attack.  The  Monlagnards 
have  burst  forth,  then,  to  declare  that 
the  military  precautions  were  a  syste- 
matic provocation  on  the  part  of  the 
ministry  and  General  Changarnier,  to 
incite  the  population  of  Paris  to  civil 
discord;  that  the  only  conspiracy 
existed  in  the  government  itself,  to 
suppress  liberty  and  overthrow  the 
republic — at  least  to  cast  a  slur  upon 
the  only  true  republicans,  and  have 
an  excuse  for '  tyrannical  oppression 
towards  them.  They  closed  their  eyes 
to  the  fact  that  the  insun*ection,  of  the 
proposed  reality  of  which  no  doubt 
can  remain,  spite  of  these  angry  dene- 
gations,  would  have  produced  a  crisis  to 
which  the  real  reactionary  anti-repub- 
licans looked  as  one  that  must  produce 
a  change  in  the  detested  government 
of  the  country,  should  the  moderate 
party  triumph  in  the  struggle,  as  was 
probable;  and  that  by  the  suppression 
of  the  insurrection  the  crisis  was 
averted,  and  the  republic  evidentlv 
consolidated  for  a  time,  not  weakened. 
With  their  usual  inconsistency,  and 
want  of  logical  deduction,  at  the  same 
time  that  they  accused  the  minister 
of  a  useless  and  provocative  display 
of  the  military  force,  they  denounced 
the  conspiracy  as  real,  but  as  proceed- 
ing from  ^^  infamous  royalists,"  and 
not  anarchist  Red  republicans.  And 
then,  to  follow  up  this  pell-mell  of  self- 
contradictions— while,  ontheonehand, 
they  denied  any  insurrectionary  move- 
ment at  all,  and,  on  the  other,  attri- 
buted it  to  royalists — they  called,  in 
their  language  at  the  rostrum,  the 
commencement  of  the  street  demon- 
stration on  the  morning  of  the  29th  of 
January— which  could  not  be  denied, 
and  which  had  come  down  as  usual 


After  a  Yearns  Eqmblicanism, 


[March, 


from  the  faubourgs,  ever  ripe  for 
tumult — *^  the  sublime  manifestation 
of  the  heroic  people."  Propositions 
couched  in  furious  language,  for  ^*  en* 
quetes  parlementaires,^^  and  for  the 
"  mise  en  accusation  des  minislres^^ — 
every  possible  means  of  denunciation 
and  intimidation  were  employed,  to 
increase  the  agitated  hurly-burly  of 
the  Assembly,  and  subvert,  as  far  as 
was  possible,  the  few  frail  elements  of 
order  and  of  confidence  that  still  sub- 
sisted in  it.  In  markmg  thus,  in 
hasty  traits,  the  position  of  parties  in 
the  Assembly,  called  together  to 
establish  and  consolidate  the  republic 
upon  a  basis  of  peace  and  order,  what 
are  the  figures  which  are  so  noted 
down  as  forming  part  of  the  sum- 
total,  as  the  approaching  conclusion 
of  the  revolutionary  year  is  about  to 
make  up  its  accounts?  As  regards 
the  Assembly,  increased  confusion, 
disunion,  bitter  conflict  of  exasperated 
parties,  suspicion,  mistrust,  disaffec- 
tion, violence. 

How  stands  the  government  of  the 
country  after  the  vear^s  republicanism  ? 
At  its  head  is  the  Republican  Presi- 
dent, elected  by  the  immense  majority 
of  the  country,  but  elected  upon  a 
deceptive  basis— elected  neither  for 
his  principles,  which  were  doubtful; 
nor  for  his  qualities,  which  were  un- 
known or  supposed  to  be  null ;  nor 
even  for  his  name,  (although  much 
error  has  been  founded  upon  the  sub- 
ject,) which,  after  all,  dazzled  only  a 
comparatively  small  minority — but 
because  he  was  supposed  to  represent 
the  principle  opposed  to  republican- 
ism— opposed  to  the  very  regime  he 
was  elected  to  support— opposed  to 
that  spirit  of  which  the  man  who  had 
once  saved  the  country  from  anarchy, 
and  had  once  received  the  country*s 
blessings,  was  considered  to  be  the 
type— because  hopes  were  founded  on 
his  advent  of  a  change  in  a  system  of 
government  uncongenial,  and  even 
hateful,  to  the  mass  of  the  nation; 
whether  by  the  prestige  of  his  name 
he  attempted  to  re-establish  an  em- 
pire, or  whether,  as  another  Monk, 
he  formed  only  a  stepping-stone  for  a 
new  monarch.  Elected  thus  upon 
false  principles,  the  head  of  the 
government  stands  in  an  eminently  false 
position.  He  may  have  shown  him- 
self moderate ;  inclined  to  support  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


After  a  Year's  BepubUcanism, 


republic  upon  that  "honest"  basis 
-which  the  better-thinking  republi- 
cans demand ;  firm  in  the  support  of 
a  cabinet,  the  measures  of  which  he 
approves ;  and  every  way  smcere  and 
straightforward,  although  not  m  all 
his  actions  wise :  but  his  position  re- 
mains the  same— placed  between  the 
ambitions  hope  of  a  party  which 
might  almost  be  said  to  exist  no 
longer,  and  which  has  become  that 
only  of  a  family  and  a  few  old  adhe- 
rents and  connexions,  but  which  at- 
tempts to  dazzle  a  country  vain  and 
proud  of  the  word  "  glory,"  like 
France,  by  the  somewhat  tarnished 
glitter  of  a  name,  and  the  prospect  of 
another  which  calls  itself  legitimate ; — 
the  p<nnt  de  mire  of  the  army,  but,  at 
the  same  time,  the  stalking-horse  of  a 
nation  miserably  wearied  with  the 
present  hobby,  upon  which  it  has 
been  forced  unwillingly  to  ride,  with 
about  as  much  pleasure  and  aplomb 
as  the  famous  tailor  of  Brentford — 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  suspected, 
accused,  and  denounced  by  those  who 
claim  to  themselves  the  only  true  and 
pure  essence  of  veritable  republican- 
ism. It  is  a  position  placed  upon  a 
'*•  sec-saw" — placed  in  the  centre,  it  is 
true,  but  liable,  in  any  convulsive 
crisis,  to  be  seriously  compromised 
by  the  violent  and  abrupt  elevation  of 
either  of  the  ends  of  the  plank,  as  it 
tosses  up  and  down :  for  the  feet  of 
the  president,  instead  of  du*ecting  the 
movements  of  this  perpetually  agitated 
"  see-saw,"  and  .giving  the  necessary 
steadiness,  without  which  the  whole 
present  republican  balance  must  bo 
overturned,  seem  more  destined  to  slip 
hither  and  thither  in  the  struggle,  at 
the  imminent  risk  of  losing  all  equi- 
librium, and  slipping  off  the  plank  alto- 
gether. As  yet,  the  president,  when- 
ever he  appears  in  public,  is  foUowed 
by  shouting  and  admiring  crowds,  who 
run  by  his  horse,  clap  their  hands,  call 
upon  his  name,  greet  him  with  noisy 
cries  of  "  twtf,"  grasp  his  hands,  and 
of  course  present  some  hundreds  of 
petitions;  but  these  demonstrations 
of  respect  must  be  attributed  far  less 
to  personal  consideration,  or  popular 
affection,  or  even  to  the  prestige  of 
the  name  of  Napoleon,  than  to  the 
eagerness  of  the  Parisian  public,  even 
of  the  lowest  classes— spite  of  all  that 
may  be  said  of  their  sentiments  by 


288 

their  would-be  leaders,  the  ultra- 
democrats — to  salute  with  acclamation 
the  personage  who  represents  a  head, 
a  chief,  9k  point  cTapptti  quelconque — a 
leading  staff,  a  guiding  star,  a  unity, 
instead  of  a  disorderly  body — in  one 
word,  a  resemblance  of  royalty.  It  is 
the  president^  and  not  the  man,  who 
is  thus  greeted.  The  usual  curiosity 
and  love  of  show  and  parade  of  the 
Parisian  badauds,  at  least  as  "  cock- 
ney" as  the  famed  Londoner,  may  be 
much  mixed  up  again  in  all  this,  but 
the  sentiment  remains  the  same ;  nor 
do  these  demonstrations  alter  the 
position  of  the  man  who  stands  at  the 
head  of  the  government  of  France. 
The  ministry,  supported  in  principle 
by  the  country,  although  not  from 
any  personal  respect  or  Uking,  stands 
in  opposition  to  an  Assembly,  elected 
by  that  country,  but  no  longer  repre- 
senting it.  The  array  shows  itself 
inclined  to  protect  the  government, 
on  the  one  hand,  and  is  said  to  be 
i^eady,  on  the  other,  to  follow  in  the 
cry  of  "  vive  VEmpereurP^  should 
that  cry  be  raised.  The  garde  mobile^ 
although  modified  by  its  late  reor- 
ganisation, is  suspected  of  versatility 
and  unsoundness,  if  not  exactly  of 
disaffection :  it  stands  in  instant  col- 
lision with  the  dislike  and  jealousy  of 
the  army,  and,  spite  of  its  courageous 
part  in  June,  is  looked  upon  askance 
by  the  lovers  of  order.  What  aspect, 
then,  have  the  figures  which  may  be 
supposed  to  represent  all  this  in  the 
sum- total  of  the  year's  republicanism? 
They  bear  the  forms  of  instability, 
suspicion,  doubt,  collision,  want  of 
confidence  in  the  fature,  and  all  the 
evils  attendant  upon  the  uncertainty 
of  a  state  of  things  which,  spite  of 
assurances,  and  spite  of  efforts,  the 
greater  part  of  France  seems  inclined 
to  look  upon  merely  as  provisionary. 
Under  what  form,  then,  does  the 
public  spirit  exhibit  itself  in  circum- 
stances of  so  much  doubt  and  insta- 
bility ?  The  attitude  of  the  working 
classes  in  general,  of  the  verv  great 
majority,  in  fact— for  those  still  sway- 
ed by  the  delusive  arguments,  and 
still  more  delusive  and   destructive 

E remises  of  the  Socialists  and  Repub- 
cans  are  comparatively  few,  although 
formidable  in  the  ferocity  of  their 
doctrines  and  their  plans,  and  in  the 
active  restlessness  of  then*  feverish 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


^184 

and  excited  energies,  which  reeemble 
the  recklesB,  sleepless,  activity  of  the 
madman — ^the  attitude  of  the  work- 
ing classes  in  Paris  is  calm,  and  even 
expectant;  but  calm  from  ntter  weari- 
ness— calm  from  the  convictions, 
founded  on  the  saddest  experience,  in 
the  wretched  results  of  further  revolu- 
tions—calm  from  a  sort  of  prostrate  re- 
signation, and  almost  despair,  in  the 
midst  of  the  miseries  and  privations 
which  the  last  fatal  year  has  increased 
instead  of  diminishing,  and  written 
with  a  twofold  scourge  upon  their 
backs:  an  attitude  reassuring,  inas- 
much as  it  implies  hatred  and  opposi- 
tion to  the  subversive  doctrines  <k  the 
anarchists,  but  not  without  its  dangers, 
and,  to  say  the  least,  heartrending 
and  afflicting— and  expectant  in  the 
hope  and  conviction  of  change  in  the 
cause  of  stability  and  order.  The 
feeling  which,  after  a  few  months  of 
the  nde  of  a  reckless  provisionary 
government,  was  the  prevailing  one 
among  the  majority  of  the  wortdng 
classes — the  feeling,  which  has  been 
already  noted,  that  king  Log,  or  even 
king  Stork,  or  any  other  concen- 
trated power  that  would  represent 
stability  and  order,  would  be  prefer- 
able to  the  nncertainties  of  a  vacillat- 
ing republican  rule— has  ever  gained 
ground  among  them  since  those  hopes 
of  re-established  confidence,  and  a  c<m- 
seqnent  amelioration  of  their  wretched 
position,  which  they  first  founded 
upon  the  meeting  of  the  National  As- 
sembly, and  then  upon  the  election  of 
a  president,  have  twice  deceived  them, 
and  left  them  almost  as  wretched  as 
ever  in  the  stagnation  of  trade  and 
commercial  affairs.  The  feeling  thus 
prevalent  among  the  working  dasses 
m  the  capital,  is,  at  the  same  time, 
the  feeling  of  the  country  at  large,  but 
to  an  even  far  wider  extent,  and  more 
openly  expressed.  The  hatred  of  the 
departments  to  Paris,  as  the  chief 
seat  of  revolution  and  disorder,  has 
also  increased  rather  than  diminished ; 
and  everywhere  the  sentiments  of 
utter  weariness,  disaffection  to  the 
Republic,  and  impatience  under  a 
system  of  government  of  which  they 
are  no  longer  indined  to  await  the 
promised  blessings,  are  di^layed  upon 
all  possible  occasions,  and  by  eveiy 
possible  organ.  The  upper  classes 
among  moneyed  moi,  and  landed  pro« 


Afttr  «  Yen^*  Rqmblieamitm, 


[March, 


prietors,  remain  quiet  and  hold  their 
tongue.  They  may  be  expectant  and 
des&ous  of  change  also,  but  they  show 
BO  open  impatience,  for  th^  can  csffard 
to  wait,  it  is  they,  on  the  contrary, 
who  more  generally  express  their  opi- 
nions in  the  pott&iHty  of  the  esti^- 
lishment  of  a  prospanoos  rq>nUic — a 
possibility  which  thewoikii^f  classes 
in  their  impatience  deny.  In  spite  of 
all  that  ultra-democratic  journals  may 
say,  in  their  raving  d^rondations, 
borrowed  of  the  language  of  another 
R^ublic,  some  of  the  most  eager  and 
dedded  of  those  they  term  ^^reac- 
tionary,'* and  denounce  as  ^^aristo- 
crats," are  ^us  to  be  found  among 
the  lower  working  dasses.  To  do 
justice  to  the  truth  of  the  accusa- 
ti(ms  brought  by  tiie  Red  republican 
party,  in  another  respect,  it  is  in 
the  bourgeois  spirit  tiiat  is  to  be 
found  the  strongest  and  most  openly 
avowed  reactionaiy  feeling.  It  is 
impossible  to  enter  any  shop  of  the 
better  order  in  Paris,  and  speak  upon 
the  position  of  afiairs,  without  hearing 
not  only  the  hope,  but  the  expectation 
openly  expressed,  of  a  m(marchic 
restoration,  and  that  restoration  in  fa- 
vour of  the  dder  branch  of  the  Bour- 
bons. The  feeling  is  universal  in  this 
class :  the  name  of  ^'  HenriV.,"  scarce 
mentioned  at  all,  and  never  under  this 
title,  during  the  reign  of  Louis  Phi- 
lippe, except  in  the  exclusive  cirdes 
of  the  Faubourg  St  Germain,  is  now 
in  every  shopke^>er's  mouth.  Louis 
Philippe,  the  Regenay,  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Orleans  fiunily,  the  Em- 
pire, a  Bonapartist  rule — all  are  set 
aside  in  the  minds  of  these  dasses  for 
the  now-desired  idol  of  their  fickle 
choice,  the  Duke  of  Bordeaux.  In 
these  classes  a  restoration  in  favour  of 
Henri  V.  is  no  longer  a  question  of 
possibility;  it  is  a  mere  question  of 
time:  it  is  not  ^^  VoHroms-nousf*^ 
that  they  ask;  itis  ^' Qmmd  Paurofu- 
now  f ''  In  this  respect  the  real  and 
true  republicans,  in  the  ^^  honest"  de- 
signation of  the  term,  have  certainly 
every  reason  to  raise  an  angry  cla- 
mour ;  if  sedition  to  the  existing 
rSgime  of  the  country  is  not  opoily 
practised,  it  is,  at  all  events,  openly 
and  generally  expressed*  Nor  are 
thehr  accusations  brouflfat  against  the 
government  entirdy  inthout  justice ; 
for  whUOi  on  the  one  hand,  a  measure 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 

<if  a  nature  attogetiier  acUtrary,  under 
the  freedom  of  a  repnbliean  rale,  is  ex- 
erased  agahttt  a  well-known  artist, 
ty  aeizittg  in  his  ateUar  the  portraits 
<if  the  Dnke  of  Bordeaux,  or,  as  he 
is  called,  the  Oonnt  of  Chambord, 
and  of  the  Countess,  as  seditiooslj  ex- 
hibited, li^ographed  likenesses  of  the 
Bourbon  heir  are  to  be  seen  on  all 
aides  at  print-shop  whidows,  and  in 
popular  temporary  print-stalls;  in  gal- 
leries, arcades,  and  upon  street  walls; 
in  tfigmeUes,  upon  ballads,  with  such 
tides,  as  ^^  Diem  Uvemt,^*  or  ^*' La  France 
h  twtff,*^  or  in  busts  of  all  dimensions. 
Ag^,  the  Henri-qumquUie  feeling, 
as  it  is  called,  is  universal  among  the 
fickle  bowrgeokie  of  Paris— the  ro<* 
upon  wtioh  Louis  Philippe  founded 
his  throne,  and  which  sank  under 
him  in  his  hour  of  need :  and  the 
hovrgeois,  eager  and  confident  in  their 
hopes,  wilftdlj  shut  their  eyes  to  the 
fact  that,  were  their  detested  repub- 
lic overthrown,  there  might  arise 
future  convulsions,  and  future  civil 
strife,  between  a  Bonapartist  faction— 
which  necessarily  grows,  and  increases, 
and  flourishes  more  and  more  under 
tiie  rule,  however  temporary,  of  a 
chief  of  the  name— and  the  legitimist 
party:  fbr  the  Oricanists,  whether 
fused  by  a  compromise  of  their  hopes 
with  the  Legitimists,  as  has  been  said, 
or  fallen  into  the  obscurity  of  forget- 
fulness  or  indiflPerence  in  the  majority 
of  the  nation,  hold  forth  no  decided 
banner  at  the  present  moment.  In 
regarding,  then^  the  public  spirit 
among  the  majority  of  all  classes  in 
Paris,  without  consultmg  the  still 
more  reactionary  feeling  of  the  de- 
partments, the  figures  to  be  added  to 
the  sum-total  of  the  year's  republican 
account  will  be  again  found  similar 
to  those  already  enumerated,  in  the 
shape  of  disaflfection,  abhorrence  of 
the  republican  government,  want  of 
confidence  in  its  stability,  expectation 
and  hope  of  a  change,  however  it  may 
come,  and  although  it  may  be  brought 
about  by  a  convulsion. 

Meanwhile  the  uncert^nty  and 
anxiety  are  increased  by  the  continued 
expectation  of  some  approaching 
crisis,  which  the  explosion  of  the  in- 
surrection, destined  for  the  29th  of 
Januaiy,  would  have  hastened,  and 
which  the  precautions  taken  for  the 
suppression  of  the  outbreak  have  evi- 


After  a  Year's  RepMkamsm. 


285 


deotly  averted  for  the  time.  But 
what  confidence  can  be  expressed  in 
the  stability  of  this  temporary  state 
of  order  in  a  country  so  full  of  excite- 
ment and  love  of  change,  and  in  a 
state  of  continud  revolution,  in  which 
such  cottspuracy  ceases  not  to  work  in 
darkness,  with  the  hope  of  attaining 
despotic  power,  and  in  which  disaffec- 
tion to  the  state  of  things  is  openly 
expressed?  Events  have  run  their 
course  with  such  fearful  rapidity,  and 
the  unexpected  has  been  so  greatly 
tiie  "  order  of  the  day,"  in  the  last 
year's  history  of  France,  that  who  can 
answer  for  the  future  of  the  next 
months,  or  even  weeks  ?  Political 
protects  have  long  since  thrown  up 
the  trade  of  oracle-giving  in  despair ; 
and  the  tripod  of  the  oracle  has  been 
left  to  the  occupation  of  the  chances 
of  the  impreou.  In  spite,  then,  of  the 
temporary  reassurance  of  peace  given 
by  the  hist  measures  of  the  govern- 
ment, which  have  been  denounced  by 
l^e  ultra-democrats  as  arbitrary,  sub- 
versive, and  unconstitutional,  the 
underground  agitation  still  continues. 
Paris  dances  once  more,  repeating  to 
itself,  however,  the  often-repeated 
words,  "  Nous  damsons  sw  un  volcany 
Thecarnival  pursues  itsnoisypleasures, 
under  the  protection  of  the  forests  of 
bayonets  that  are  continually  glitter- 
ing along  the  gay  sunlit  streets,  and 
to  the  sound  of  the  drum  of  the  march- 
ing military,  who  still  give  Paris  the 
aspect  of  a  garrison  in  time  of  war. 
Gay  salons  are  opened,  and  carriages 
again  rattle  along  the  streets  on  moon- 
lit nights ;  but  the  spirit  of  Parisian 
gaiety  reposes  not  upon  confidence, 
and  is  but  the  practical  application 
of  the  epicurean  philosophy  that 
takes  for  its  maxim,  "  Carpe  diem,'' 

Whatever  may  be  the  reality  of  an 
approaching  crisis,  which,  however 
feeble  the  symptoms  at  present,  the 
Parisians  insist  upon  regarding  as 
near  at  hand,— whatever  may  be 
the  hopes  of  some  that  the  crisis, 
however  convulsive,  must  produce  a 
desired  change,  and  the  fears  of  others 
of  the  civil  strife, — whatever  thus  the 
desires  of  the  sanguine,  the  expecta- 
tions of  the  hopeM,  the  apprehensions 
of  the  peaceful  and  the  terrors  of  the 
timorous,  the  result  is  still  the  same 
— the  uncertainty,  the  want  of  confi- 
dence, the  evils  attendant  upon  this 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


286 

feeling  of  instability,  so  often  already 
enumerated.  The  violence  and  strag- 
gling rage  of  the  ultra- democratic 
and  socialist  journals,  increasing  in 
denunciation  to  the  death,  and  posi- 
tively convulsive  in  their  rage,  as 
the  anti-republican  reactionary  spurit 
grows,  and  spreads  wider,  and  every 
day  takes  firmer  root,  and  even  dares 
to  blossom  openly  in  the  expression 
of  public  opinion,  are  looked  upon  as 
the  throes  of  dying  agony  by  the  bold, 
but  are  regarded  with  dread  by  the 
less  courageous,  who  know  the  force 
of  the  party's  exaggerated  violence, 
and  have  already  felt  the  miseries  of 
their  fanatic  subversive  attempts. 
Meanwhile,  the  moderate  or  honest 
republic,  which  vainly  attemps  v^  juste 
milieu  of  republicanism,  between  ex- 
travagance and  disaffection,  limps 
sadly  forwards ;  or,  as  one  of  the  late 
satirical  pieces,  which  openly  attack 
the  republic  on  the  stage,  expresses  it 
— amidst  the  applause  and  shouts  of 
deriding  laughter,  which  hail  it  nightly 
in  crowded  houses,  not  so  much  from 
the  boxes  as  from  the  galleries  throng- 
ed with  types  of  the  "  people" — "  EUe 
boite!  die  hotter  Republicans  may 
thus  clamour  against  the  culpable 
laxity  of  a  government,  which  permits 
these  much-applauded  attacks  upon 
the  Republic,  in  accordance  with  the 


After  a  Year's  Bepubliccmtsm. 


[March, 


principle  of  freedom  of  opinion,  and  in 
pursuance  of  the  abolition  of  a  theatri- 
cal censorship  which  they  themselves 
condemned:  but  so  it  is ;  and  therein 
may  be  sought  and  found  one  of  the 
strongest  popular  evidences  of  popu- 
lar aisa£^tion.  And  satires  too, 
and  caricatures,  abound,  in  which  the 
unhappy  Republic  is  still  more  sound- 
ly scourged--demonstrations  not  less 
lively,  although  they  call  not  forth 
the  evident  approbation  of  a  congre- 
gated multitude.  Now,  then,  that  the 
revolutionary  year  has  almost  dosed 
there — ^now  that  the  anniversary  of 
the  days  of  February  is  at  hand — ^let 
people  take  the  figures  enumerated, 
and  justly  enumerated,  as  they  will, 
and  place  them  as  they  fancy  in  the 
sum-total,  and  cast  them  up  as  they 
please,  or  deduce  what  value  they 
may  from  the  amount  of  the  first  year 
of  new  republicanism  in  France. 
Another  question.  Wh&t  fetes  are  to 
greet  the  anniversaries  of  the  "  glo- 
rious'' days  of  the  "  glorious"  revolu- 
tion which  established  a  "glorious" 
Republic  ?  Assuredly  the  fete  will 
not  be  in  the  people's  hearts :  no,  not 
even  in  the  hearts  of  those  whom  their 
mis-named,  self-appointed  Mends 
choose  to  call,  par  excellence^  "  the 
people." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  CaxUm.-^Part  XL 


287 


THE  CAXT0N8. — PART  XI. 


CHAPTER  LIT. 


The  next  day,  ou  the  ootside  of 
the  Cambridge  Telegraph,  there  was 
one  passenger  who  onght  to  have 
impressed  his  fellow-travellers  with  a 
very  respectfdl  idea  of  his  lore  in  the 
dead  languages ;  for  not  a  single  sylla- 
ble, in  a  live  one,  did  he  vouchsafe  to 
utter  from  the  moment  he  ascended 
that  ^^  bad  eminence,"  to  the  moment 
in  which  he  regained  his  mother  earth. 
"  Sleep,"  says  honest  Sancho,  "covers 
a  man  better  than  a  doak."  I  am 
ashamed  of  thee,  honest  Sancho!  thou 
art  a  sad  plagiarist ;  for  Tibnllus 
said  pretty  nearly  the  same  thing  be- 
fore thee, — 

"  Te  Bomntis  fusco  veUvit  amictu."  • 

But  is  not  silence  as  good  a  cloak  as 
sleep  ? — does  it  not  wrap  a  man  round 
with  as  oftusc  and  impervious  a  fold? 
Silence — what  a  world  it  covers! — what 
busy  schemes — ^what  bright  hopes  and 
dark  fears — what  ambition,  or  what 
despair !  Do  you  ever  see  a  man  in 
any  society  sitting  mute  for  hours,  and 
not  feel  an  uneasy  curiosity  to  pene- 
trate the  wall  he  thus  builds  up  be- 
tween others  and  himself?  Does  he 
not  interest  you  far  more  than  the 
brilliant  talker  at  your  left — the  airy 
wit  at  your  right,  whose  shafts  fall  in 
vain  on  the  sullen  barrier  of  the  silent 
man!  Silence,  dark  sister  of  Nox 
and  Erebus,  how,  layer  upon  layer, 
shadow  upon  shadow,  blackness  upon 
blackness,  thou  stretchest  thyself 
from  hell  to  heaven,  over  thy  two 
chosen  haunts — man^s  heart  and  the 
grave! 

So,  then,  wrapped  in  my  greatcoat 
and  my  silence,!  performed  my  jouraey; 
and  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day  I 
reached  the  old-fi^ioned  brick  house. 
How  shrill  on  my  ears  sounded  the 
bell !  How  strange  and  ominous  to  my 
impatience  seemed  the  light  gleaming 
across  the  windows  of  the  hall !  How 
my  heart  beat  as  I  watched  the  face 
of  the  servant  who  opened  the  gate 
to  my  summons  I 

"AUwell?"criedI. 


"  All  well,  sur,"  answered  the  ser- 
vant, cheerfully.  "  Mr  Squills,  in- 
deed, is  with  master,  but  I  don't  think 
there  is  anything  the  matter." 

But  now  my  mother  appeared  at 
the  threshold,  and  I  was  in  her  arms. 

"  Sisty,  Sisty  I— my  dear,  dear  son ! 
— ^beggared,  perhaps — and  my  fault, 
— mine." 

"  Yours  1 — come  into  this  room,  out 
of  hearing— your  fault  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes! — for  if  I  had  had  no 
brother,  or  if  I  had  not  been  led  away, 
•—if  I  had,  as  I  ought,  entreated  poor 
Austin  not  to  — " 

"  My  dear,  dearest  mother,  you  ac- 
cuse yourself  for  what,  it  seems,  was 
my  uncle's  misfortune  —  I  am  sure 
not  even  his  fault!  (I  made  a  gulp 
there,)  No,  lay  the  fault  on  the  right 
shoulders  —  the  defunct  shoulders  of 
that  horrible  progenitor,  William  Cax- 
ton  the  printer;  ror,  though  I  don't  yet 
know  the  particulars  of  what  has  hap- 
pened, I  will  lay  a  wager  it  is  con- 
nected with  that  fatal  invention  of 
printing.  Come,  come,  —  my  father 
IS  well,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  Heaven." 

"  And  you  too,  and  I,  and  Roland, 
and  little  Blanche!  Why  then,  you 
are  right  to  thank  Heaven,  for  your 
true  treasures  are  untouched.  But  sit 
down  and  explain,  pray." 

"  I  cannot  explain.  I  do  not  un- 
derstand anything  more  than  that  he, 
my  brother,  —  mine !  —  has  involved 
Austin  in  —  in — "  (a  fresh  burst  of 
tears.) 

I  comforted,  scolded,  laughed, 
preached,  and  adjured  in  a  breath ; 
and  then,  drawing  my  mother  gently 
on,  entered  my  father's  studv. 

At  the  table  was  seated  Mr  Squills, 
pen  in  hand,  and  a  glass  of  his  favou- 
rite punch  by  his  side.  My  father  was 
standing  on  the  hearth,  a  shade  more 
pale ;  but  with  a  resolute  expression 
on  his  countenance,  which  was  new 
to  its  indolent  thoughtful  mildness! 
He  lifted  his  e^es  as  the  door  opened, 
and  then,  pnttmg  his  finger  to  his  lips, 


VOL.  LXV.— NO,  CCCCI. 


Tiballus,  iii.  4,  55. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


288 


The  CaxUms^'-Part  XI. 


[Mvcb, 


as  he  glanced  towards  my  mother,  he 
said  gaily,  *^  No  great  harm  done. 
Don't  believe  her  I  Women  always 
exaggerate,  and  make  realities  of  their 
own  bugbears :  it  is  the  vice  of  their 
lively  imaginations,  as  Wierus  has 
clearly  shown  in  accoimting  for  the 
marks,  moles,  and  hare-lips  which 
they  inflict  upon  their  innocent  infants 
before  they  are  ev^  bom.  My  dear 
boy,"  added  my  father,  as  I  here 
kissed  him  and  smiled  in  his  face, 
^^I  thank  yon  for  that  smile!  God 
bless  you ! "  He  wrong  my  hand,  and 
turned  a  little  aside. 

^*  It  is  a  great  comfort,"  renewed  my 
father,  after  a  short  pause,  ^^  to  know, 
when  a  misfortune  happens,  that  it 
could  not  be  helped.  Squills  has  just 
discovered  that  I  have  no  bump  of 
cautiveness;  so  that,  craniok)gically 
speaking,  if  I  had  escaped  one  impru- 
dence, I  should  certainly  have  run  my 
head  against  another." 

"  A  man  with  your  development  is 
made  to  be  taken  in,"  said  Mr  Squills, 
consolingly. 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  my  own  Kitty! 
and  have  you  the  heart  to  blame  Jack 
any  longer — a  poor  creature  cursed 
with  a  bump  that  would  take  in  the 
Stock  Exchange  ?  And  can  any  one 
resist  his  bump.  Squills?  " 

*^  Impossible ! "  said  the  surgeon  an  • 
thoritatively. 

"  Sooner  or  later  it  must  involve 
him  in  its  airy  meshes— eh.  Squills  ? 
entrap  him  into  its  fatal  cerebral  cell. 
There  his  fate  waits  him,  like  the 
ant-lion  in  its  pit." 

"  Too  true,"  quoth  Squills.  "  What 
a  phrenological  lecturer  you  would 
have  made!" 

"  €rO,  then,  my  love,"  said  my 
father,  "  and  lay  no  blame  but  on  this 
melancholy  cavity  of  mine,  where 
cautiveness— is  not!  Go,  and  let 
Sisty  have  some  supper ;  for  Squills 
says  that  he  has  a  fine  development 
of  the  mathematical  organs,  and  we 
want  his  help.  We  are  hard  at  work 
on  figures,  Pisistratus." 

My  mother  looked  broken-hearted, 
and,  obeying  submissively,  stole  to 
the  door  without  a  word.  But  as 
she  reached  the  threshold  she  turned 
round,  and  beckoned  to  me  tofollow  her. 

I  whispered  my  fiither,  and  went 
out.  My  mother  was  standing  in  the 
liallf  and  I  saw  by  the  lamp  &at  she 


had  dried  her  tears;  and  that  her  face, 
though  very  sad,  was  more  composed. 
"I&ty,"she  said,  in  a  low  voice  which 
struggled  to  be  firm,  ^*  promise  me 
that  you  will  tell  me  all, — the  worst, 
Sisty.  They  keep  it  firom  me,  and 
that  is  my  hardest  punishment;  for 
when  I  don't  know  all  that  he — that 
Austin  suffers,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I 
had  lost  his  li^art.  Oh,  Sisty!  my 
child,  my  child,  don't  fear  nte !  I  shaU 
be  happy  whatever  befalls  us,  if  I  once 
get  Iwck  my  privilege — my  privflege, 
Sisty,  to  comfort,  to  share! — do  you 
understand  me?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  my  mother!  And 
with  your  good  sense,  and  dear 
woman's  wit,  if  you  will  but  feel  how 
much  we  want  them,  you  will  be  the 
best  counsellor  we  could  have.  So 
never  fear,  you  and  I  will  have  no 
secrets." 

My  mother  kissed  me,  and  went 
away  with  a  less  heavy  step. 

As  I  re-entered,  my  father  came 
across  the  room  and  embraced  me. 

"My  son,"  he  said  in  a  faltering 
voice,  "  if  your  modest  prospects  in 
life  are  ruined — " 

"  Father,  father,  can  you  think  of 
me  at  such  a  moment !  Me !— Is  it 
possible  to  ruin  the  young,  and  strong, 
and  healthy!  Buin  me,  with  these 
thews  and  sinews! — ruin  me,  with  the 
education  you  have  given  me — thews 
and  sinews  of  the  mind!  Oh  no! 
there.  Fortune  is  harmless !  And  you 
forget,  sir, — the  saffiron  bag !" 

Squills  leapt  up,  and,  wiping  his 
eyes  with  one  hand,  gave  me  a  sound- 
ing slap  on  the  shoulder  with  the  other. 

'*  I  am  proud  of  the  care  I  took  of 
your  infancy,  Master  Caxton.  That 
comes  of  strengthening  the  digestive 
organs  in  early  childhood.  Such  sen- 
timents are  a  proof  of  magnificent 
gan^ons  in  a  perfect  state  of  order. 
When  a  man's  tongue  is  as  smooth  as 
I  am  sure  yours  is,  he  slips  through 
misfortune  like  an  eel." 

I  laughed  outright,  my  father  smiled 
faintly ;  and  seating  myself,  I  drew 
towards  me  a  paper  filled  with  Squills' 
memoranda,  and  said,  "  Now  to  find 
the  unknown  quantity.  What  on 
earth  is  this?  *  Supposed  value  of 
books,  £750.'  Oh,  father !  this  is  im- 
possible. I  was  prepared  for  anything 
but  that.  Your  books— they  are  your 
lifer 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


184ft.] 


The  Caxkmi^^Piart  XI. 


289 


"  Nay,**  said  my  father;  "  after  all, 
they  jure  the  offending  party  m  this 
case,  and  so  ought  to  be  the  principal 
Tictims.  Besides,  I  believe  I  know  most 
of  them  by  heart  Bat,  in  trath,  we 
are  only  entering  aU  onr  effects,  to  be 
sore  (added  my  father  prondly)  that, 
come  what  may,  we  are  not  dis- 
honoored." 

'*  Hnmonr  him,**  whispered  Squills ; 
*^  we  will  save  the  Books."  Then  he 
added  aloud,  as  he  laid  finger  and 
thumb  on  my  pulse,  ^^  One,  two,  three, 
about  seventy — capital  pulse — soft  and 
full — ^he  can  bear  the  whole :  let  us 
administer  it." 

My  fiither  no<Med — "  Certainly. 
But,  Pisistratus,  we  must  manage 
your  dear  mother.  Why  she  shomd 
think  of  Maming  herself,  because  poor 
Jack  took  wrong  ways  to  enrich  us, 
I  cannot  understand.  But,  as  I  have 
had  occasion  before  to  remark.  Sphinx 
and  Enigma  are  nouns  feminine." 

My  poor  father !  that  was  a  vain 
struggle  for  thy  wonted  innocent 
humour.    The  lips  quivered. 

Then  the  story  came  out.  It  seems 
that,  when  it  was  resolved  to  under- 
take the  publication  of  the  LUerary 
Times^  a  certain  number  of  share- 
holders had  been  got  together  by  the 
indefotigable  energies  of  Uncle  Jack ; 
and,  in  the  deed  of  association  and 
partnership,  my  father's  name  figured 
conspicuously  as  the  holder  of  a  fourth 
of  tlds  joint  property.  If  in  this  my 
father  had  conunitted  some  impru- 
dence, he  had  at  least  done  nothing 
that,  according  to  the  ordinary  cal- 
culations of  a  secluded  student,  could 
become  ruinous.  But,  just  at  the  time 
when  we  were  in  the  huny  of  leaving 
town.  Jack  had  represented  to  my 
fiather  that  it  might  be  necessary  to 
alter  a  little  the  plan  of  the  paper ; 
and,  in  order  to  allure  a  larger  circle 
of  readers,  touch  somewhat  on  Uie 
more  vulgar  news  and  interests  of  the 
day.  A  change  of  plan  might  involve 
a  change  of  title ;  and  he  suggested  to 
my  father  the  expediency  of  leaving 
the  smooth  hands  of  Mr  Tibbets 
altogether  unfettered,  as  to  the  tech- 
nical name  and  precise  form  of  the 
publication.  To  this  my  father  had 
unwittingly  assented,  on  hearing  that 
the  other  shareholders  would  do  the 
same.  Mr  Peck,  a  printer  of  con- 
flidwable  opulence,  and  highly  respect- 


able name,  had  been  found  to  ad- 
vance the  sum  necessary  for  the  pub- 
lication of  the  eariier  numbers,  upon 
the  guarantee  of  the  said  act  of  part- 
nership, and  the  additional  security  of 
my  father's  signature  to  a  document, 
authorising  Wc  Tibbets  to  make  any 
change  in  tiie  form  or  title  of  the  perio- 
dical that  might  be  judged  advisable, 
concurrent  with  the  consent  of  the 
other  shareholders. 

Now  it  seems  that  Mr  Peck  had,  in 
his  previous  conferences  with  Mr 
l^bbets,  thrown  much  cold  water 
on  the  idea  of  the  Liierary  Timesy 
and  had  suggested  something  that 
should  "catch  the  moneyed  public," — 
the  fact  being,  as  was  aiterwards  dis- 
covered, that  the  printer,  whose  spirit 
of  enterprise  was  congenial  to  Uncle 
Jack's,  had  shares  in  three  or  four 
speculations,  to  which  he  was  natur- 
ally glad  of  an  opportunity  to  invite 
the  attention  of  the  public.  In  a 
word,  no  sooner  was  my  poor  father's 
back  turned  than  the  Literary  Times 
was  dropped  incontinently,  and  Mr 
Peck  and  Mr  Tibbets  began  to  con- 
centre their  luminous  notions  into  that 
brilliant  and  comet-like  apparition 
which  ultimately  blazed  forth  under 
the  title  of  The  CapitoHst, 

From  this  change  of  enterprise  the 
more  prudent  and  responsible  of  the 
original  shareholders  had  altogether 
withdrawn.  A  majority,  indeed,  were 
left ;  but  the  greater  part  of  those  were 
shareholders  of  that  kind  most  amen- 
able to  the  influences  of  Unde  Jack, 
and  wUlmg  to  be  shareholders  in  any- 
thing, since  as  yet  they  were  posses- 
sors of  nothing. 

Assured  of  my  father's  responsi- 
bility, the  adventurous  Peck  put  plenty 
of  spirit  into  the  first  launch  of  Tlie 
CapHdUst.  All  the  walls  were  pla- 
carded with  its  announcements;  ciroilar 
advertisements  ran  fix>m  one  end  of 
of  the  kingdom  to  the  other.  Agents 
were  engaged,  correspondents  levied 
en  masse.  The  invasion  of  Xerxes  on 
the  Greeks  was  not  more  munificently 
provided  for  than  that  of  The  Capi- 
talist upon  the  credulity  and  avarice  of 
mankind. 

But  as  Providence  bestows  upon 
fishes  the  instrument  of  fins,  whereby 
tiiey  balance  and  direct  their  move- 
ments, however  rapid  and  erratic, 
through  the  pathless  deeps,  so  to  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


290 


The  Caxtons.'-Part  XL 


[Marchr 


cold-blooded  creatures  of  om-  own 
species— that  may  be  classed  nnder 
the  genns  money-makers — the  same 
protective  power  accords  the  fin-like 
properties  of  prudence  and  caution, 
wherewith  your  true  money-getter 
buoys  and  guides  himself  mtgestically 
through  the  great  seas  of  speculation. 
In  short,  the  fishes  the  net  was  cast 
for  were  all  scared  from  the  surface 
at  the  first  splash.  They  came  round 
and  smelt  at  the  mesh  with  their 
shark  bottle-noses,  and  then,  plying 
those  invaluable  fins,  made  off  as 
fast  as  they  could — ^plunging  into  the 
mud — hiding  themselves  under  rocks 
and  coral  banks.  Metaphor  apart, 
the  capitalists  buttoned  up  their 
pockets,  and  would  have  nothing  to 
say  to  their  namesake. 

Not  a  word  of  this  change,  so 
abhorrent  to  all  the  notions  of 
poor  Augustine  Caxton,  had  been 
breathed  to  him  by  Peck  or  Tibbets. 
He  eat,  and  slept,  and  worked  at  the 
great  Book,  occasionally  wondering 
why  he  had  not  heard  of  the  advent 
of  the  Literan/  Times^  unconscious  of 
all  the  awful  responsibilities  which 
The  Capitalist  was  entailing  on  him ; — 
knowing  no  more  of  The  Capitalist 
than  he  did  of  the  last  loan  of  the 
Eothschilds. 

Difficult  was  it  for  all  other  human 
nature,  save  my  father's,  not  to 
breathe  an  indignant  anathema  on  the 
scheming  head  of  the  brother-in-law 
who  had  thus  violated  the  most  sacred 
obligations  of  trust  and  kindred,  and 
so  entangled  an  unsuspecting  recluse. 
But,  to  give  even  Jack  Tibbets  his 
due,  he  had  firmly  convinced  himself 
that  The  Capitalist  would  make  my 
father's  fortune;  and  if  he  did  not 
announce  to  him  the  strange  and  ano- 
malous development  into  which  the 
original  sleeping  chrysalis  of  the  Lite* 
rary  Times  had  taken  portentous  wing, 
it  was  purely  and  wholly  in  the  know- 
ledge that  my  father's  "  prejudices,"  as 
he  termed  them,  would  stand  in  the 
way  of  his  becoming  a  Croesus.  And, 
in  fact.  Uncle  Jack  had  believed  so 
heartily  in  his  own  project,  that  ho 
had  put  himself  thoroughly  into  Mr 
Peck's  power,  signed  bills  in  his  own 
name-  to  some  mbulous  amount,  and 
was  actually  now  in  the  Fleet,  whence 
his  penitential  and  despairing  con- 
fession was  dated,  arriving  simulta- 


neously with  a  short  letter  from 
Mr  Peck,  wherein  that  respectable 
printer  apprised  my  father  that  he 
had  continued,  at  his  own  risk,  the 
publication  of  The  Capitalist,  as  far  as 
a  prudent  care  for  his  family  would 
permit ;  that  he  need  not  say  that  a 
new  daily  journal  was  a  very  vast 
experiment;  that  the  expense  of 
such  a  paper  as  The  Capitalist  was 
immeasurably  greater  than  that  of 
a  mere  literanr  periodical,  as  origi- 
nally suggested;  and  that  now,  being 
constrained  to  come  upon  the  share- 
holders for  the  sums  he  had  advanced, 
amounting  to  several  thousands,  he 
requested  my  father  to  settle  with 
him  immediately — delicately  implying 
that  he  himself  might  settle  as  he 
could  with  the  other  shareholders, 
most  of  whom,  he  grieved  to  add,  he 
had  been  misled  by  Mr  Tibbets  into 
believing  to  be  men  of  substance, 
when  in  reality  they  were  men  of 
straw ! 

Nor  was  this  all  the  evil.  The 
"Great  Anti-Bookseller  Publishing 
Society,"— which  had  maintained  a 
struggling  existence— evinced  by  ad- 
vertisements of  sundry  forthcoming 
works  of  solid  interest  and  endnring 
nature,  wherein,  out  of  a  long  list, 
amidst  a  pompous  array  of"  Poems ;" 
"  Dramas  not  intended  for  the 
Stage;"  "Essays  by  Philentheros, 
Philanthropos,  Fhilopolis,  Philode- 
mus,  and  Philalethes,"  stood  promi- 
nently forth  "  The  History  of  Hu- 
man Error,  Vols.  I.  and  H.,  quarto, 
with  illustrations,"— the  "Anti-Book- 
seller Society,"  I  say,  that  had 
hitherto  evinced  nascent  and  budding 
life  by  these  exfoliations  firom  its 
slender  stem,  died  of  a  sudden  blight, 
the  moment  its  sun,  in  the  shape  of 
Uncle  Jack,  set  in  the  Cimmerian 
regions  of  the  Fleet ;  and  a  polite 
letter  from  another  printer  (O  Wil- 
Kam  Caxton,  William  Caxton!— fatal 
progenitor!)  informing  my  father 
of  this  event,  stated  complimentarily 
that  it  was  to  him,  "as  the  most 
respectable  member  of  the  Associa- 
tion," that  the  said  printer  would  be 
compelled  to  look  for  expenses  in- 
curred, not  only  in  the  very  costly  edi- 
tion of  the  History  of  Human  Error, 
but  for  those  incurred  in  the  print  and 
paper  devoted  to  "Poems,"  "Dramas, 
not  intended  for  thestage,"  "Essaysby 


L 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  CaxUms^^Part  XI. 


291 


Pbileatlieros,  Fhilantbropos,  Pbilopo- 
lis,  Philodemi2s,and  Phllalethes,"  with 
sundry  other  works,  no  doubt  of  a 
very  valuable  nature,  but  in  wbich  a 
considerable  loss,  in  a  pecuniary  point 
of  view,  must  be  necessarily  expected . 

I  own  that,  as  soon  as  I  had  mas- 
tered the  above  agreeable  facts,  and 
ascertained  from  Mr  Squills  that  my 
father  really  did  seem  to  have  ren- 
dered himself  legally  liable  to  these 
demands,  I  leant  back  in  my  chair, 
stunned  and  bewildered. 

^'So  you  see,"  said  my  father, 
*^  that  as  yet  we  are  contending  ^vith 
monsters  in  the  dark-^in  the  dark  all 
monsters  look  larger  and  uglier. 
Even  Augustus  CsBsar,  though  cer- 
tainly he  had  never  scrupled  to  make 
as  many  ghosts  as  suited  his  con- 
venience, did  not  like  the  chance  of  it 
visit  from  them,  and  never  sate  alone 
in  tenebris.  What  the  amount  of  the 
sums  claimed  from  me  may  be,  we 
know  not ;  what  may  be  gained  from 
the  other  shareholders  is  equally 
obscure  and  undefined.  But  the  first 
thing  to  do  is  to  get  poor  Jack  out  of 
prison." 

"  Uncle  Jack  out  of  prison  I"  ex- 
claimed I :  "  surely,  sir,  that  is  carry- 
ing forgiveness  too  far." 


"  Why,  he  would  not  have  been  in 
prison  if  I  had  not  been  so  blindly 
forgetful  of  his  weakness,  poor  man  t 
I  ought  to  have  known  better.  But 
my  vanity  misled  me ;  I  must  needs 
publish  a  great  book,  as  if  (said  Mr 
Caxton,  looking  round  the  shelves,) 
there  were  not  great  books  enough  in 
the  world !  I  must  needs,  too,  think  of 
advancing  and  circulating  knowledge 
in  the  form  of  a  journal — ^I,  who  had 
not  knowledge  enough  of  the  charac- 
ter of  my  own  brother-in-law  to  keep 
myself  from  ruin  1  Come  what  will,  I 
should  think  myself  the  meanest  of 
men  to  let  that  poor  creature,  whom 
I  ought  to  have  considered  as  a  mono- 
mamac,  rot  in  prison,  because  I,  Aus- 
tin Caxton,  wanted  common  sense. 
And  (concluded  my  father  resolutely) 
he  is  your  mother's  brother,  Pisistra- 
tus.  I  should  have  gone  to  town  at 
once ;  but,  hearing  that  my  wife  had 
written  to  you,  I  waited  till  I  could 
leave  her  to  the  companionship  of 
hope  and  comfort — two  blessings  that 
smile  upon  every  mother  in  the  face  of 
a  son  like  you.    To-morrow  I  go." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Mr  Squills 
firmly ;  "  as  your  medical  adviser,  I 
forbid  you  to  leave  the  house  for  tho 
next  six  days." 


CHAFTEBLm. 


^^  Sir,"  continued  Mr  Squills,  biting 
off  the  end  of  a  cigar  which  he 
pulled  from  his  pocket,  ^*  you  concede 
to  me  that  it  is  a  very  important 
business  on  which  you  propose  to  go 
to  London." 

"  Of  that  there  is  no  doubt,"  re- 
plied my  father. 

^'  And  the  doing  of  business  well  or 
ill  entirely  depends  upon  the  habit  of 
body!"  cried  Mr  Squills  triumphantly. 
'*Do  you  know,  Mr  Caxton,  that 
while  you  are  looking  so  calm,  and 
talking  so  quietly— just  on  purpose  to 
sustain  your  son  and  delude  your 
wife — do  you  know  that  your  pulse, 
which  is  naturally  little  more  than 
sixty,  is  nearly  a  hundred?  Do  you 
know,  sir,  that  your  mucous  mem- 
branes are  in  a  state  of  high  irritation, 
apparent  by  the  papilkB  at  the  tip  of 
your  tongue  ?  And  if,  with  a  pulse  like 
this,  and  a  tongue  like  that,  you  think 
of  settling  money  matters  with  a  set  of 


sharp-witted  tradesmen,  all  I  can  say 
is,  that  yon  are  a  ruined  man." 

**  But — "  began  my  father. 

"  Did  not  Squu^  Kollick,"  pursued 
Mr  Squills— "Squire  RoUick,  tho 
hardest  head  at  a  bargainlknow  of— 
did  not  Squire  Rollick  sell  that  pretty 
little  farm  of  his,  Scranny  Holt,  for 
thirty  per  cent  below  its  value?  j\nd 
what  was  the  cause,  sir?— the  whole 
county  was  in  amaze ! — what  was  the 
cause,  but  an  incipient  simmering  at- 
tack of  the  yellow  jaundice,  which 
made  him  take  a  gloomy  view  of 
human  life,  and  the  agricultural  into- 
rest?  On  the  other  hand,  did  not 
Lawyer  Cool,  the  most  prudent  man 
in  the  three  kingdoms — Lawyer  Cool, 
who  igras  so  methodical,  that  all  the 
clocks  in  the  county  were  set  by  his 
watch — ^plunge  one  morning  head  over 
heels  into  a  frantic  speculation  for 
cultivating  the  bogs  in  Ireland,  (his 
watch  did  not  go  right  for  the  next 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


292 


ne  Oaxtomi.^-nPari  XT. 


[Mirdi, 


three  months^  which  made  our 
whole  shire  an  hoar  in  advance  of 
the  rest  of  England !)  And  what  was 
the  canse  of  that  nobody  knew,  till  I 
was  called  in,  and  found  the  cerebral 
membranes  in  a  state  of  acute  irrita- 
tion, probably  just  in  the  region  of  his 
acquisitiyeness  and  ideality.  No, 
Mr  Oaxton,  you  will  stay  at  home, 
and  take  a  soothing  preparation  I  shall 
send  yon,  of  lettuce  leaves  and  marsh- 
mallows.  But  I,"  continued  Squills, 
lighting  his  cigar  and  taking  two  de- 
termined whiffs — "  but  /  will  go  up  to 
town  and  settle  the  busmess  for  you, 
and  take  with  me  this  young  gentle- 
man, whose  digestive  functions  are 
just  in  a  state  to  deal  safely  with  those 
horrible  elements  of  dyspepsia — the 
L.  S.  D." 

As  he  spoke,  Mr  Squills  set  his  foot 
significantly  upon  mine. 

"  But,"  resumed  my  father  mildly, 
**  though  I  thank  you  very  much, 
Squills,  for  your  kind  offer,  I  do  not 
recognise  the  necessity  of  accepting  it. 
I  am  not  so  bad  a  philosopher  as 
you  seem  to  imagine ;  and  the  blow  I 
have  received  has  not  so  deranged 
my  physical  organisation  as  to  rendo* 
me  unfit  to  transact  my  affairs." 

**  Hum !  "  grunted  Squills,  starting 
up  and  seizing  my  father's  pulse; 
**  ninety- six — ninety -six  if  a  beat! 
And  the  tongue,  sir !" 

"  Pshaw  !  "  quoth  my  father,  "  you 
have  not  even  seen  my  tongue !  " 

^^  No  need  of  that,  I  know  what  it 
is  by  the  state  of  the  eyelids — tip 
scarlet,  sides  rough  as  a  nutmeg 
grater ! " 

"Pshaw!"  again  said  my  father, 
this  time  impatiently. 

"■  Well,"  said  Squills  solemnly,  "  it 
is  my  duty  to  say,  (here  my  mother 
entered,  to  tell  me  that  supper  was 
ready,)  and  I  say  it  to  you,  Mrs  Cax- 
ton,  and  you,  Mr  Pisistratns  Caxton, 
as  the  parties  most  nearly  interested, 
that  if  you,  sir,  go  to  London  upon 
this  matter,  I'll  not  answer  for  the 
consequences." 

"  Oh  1  Austin,  Austin  I "  cried  my 


motiier,  nmnlag  op  snd  tfaiowttig  her 
arms  round  my  father's  neck ;  whik 
I,  little  less  alarmed  by  Sqvilis*  serioot 
tone  and  aspect,  represented  strongly 
the  inutility  of  Mr  Caxton*s  personal 
interference  at  the  first  moment.  Aft 
he  could  do  on  arriving  in  town  would 
be  to  put  the  matter  into  the  hands  of 
a  good  lawyer,  and  that  we  cookl  do 
for  him  ;  it  would  be  time  enongh  to 
send  for  him  when  the  extent  of  the 
mischief  done  was  more  clearly  aaoer- 
tained.  Meanwhile  Squills  griped  my 
father's  pulse,  and  my  mother  hung 
on  his  ucNsk. 

"  Ninety  -  six  —  ninety  -  seven  I " 
grosmed  Squills  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  cried  my 
father,  almost  in  a  passion — "  never 
better  nor  cooler  m  my  life." 

"And  the  tongue — look  at  his 
tongue,Mrs  Caxton — a  tongue,  ma'am^ 
so  bright  that  you  oould  see  to  read 
by  it !" 

"Oh!  Austin,  Austin!" 

"  My  dear,  it  is  not  my  tongue  that 
is  in  fault,  I  assure  yon,"  said  my 
father,  speaking  through  his  teeth; 
"  and  the  man  knows  no  more  of 
my  tongue  than  he  does  of  the  mys- 
teries of  Eleusis." 

"Put  it  ou^  then,"  exdaimed 
Squills,  "and  if  it  be  not  as  I  say,  yon 
have  my  leave  to  go  to  London,  and 
throw  your  whole  fortune  into  the 
two  great  pits  you  have  dug  for  it. 
Put  it  out !  " 

"Mr  Squills!"  said  my  father, 
colouring — "  Mr  Squills,  for  shame !" 

"  Dear,  dear  Austin !  your  hand  is 
so  hot— you  are  feverish,  I  am  sure." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"But,  sir,  only  just  gratify  Mr 
Squills,"  said  I  coaxiugly. 

"There,  there!"  said  my  father, 
fairly  baited  into  submission,  and 
shyly  exhibiting  for  a  moment  the 
extremest  end  of  the  vanquished 
organ  of  eloquence. 

Squills  darted  forward  his  lynx- like 
eyes.  "  Red  as  a  lobster,  and  rough 
as  a  gooseberry  bush ! "  cried  Squills, 
in  a  tone  of  savage  joy. 


OBAFTER  UV. 


How  was  it  powible  for  one  poor 
tongue,  90  reviled  and  persecuted,  so 
humbled,    insulted,    and    triumphed 


over — ^to  resist  three  tongues  in  league 
against  it? 
Finally,  my  father  yielded;    and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 

Sqoills,  in  high  spirite,  dedaied  that 
he  woold  go  to  sapper  with  me,  to 
see  that  I  eat  nothing  that  oonld  tend 
to  discredit  his  reliance  on  my  sys- 
tem. Leaving  my  mother  still  with 
her  Austin,  the  good  surgeon  then 
took  my  arm,  and,  as  soon  as  we  were 
in  the  next  room,  shnt  the  door  care- 
fully, wiped  his  forehead,  and  said — 
^'  I  think  we  have  saved  him  1  ** 

^«  Would  it  really,  then,  have 
injured  my  father  so  much  ?  " 

*'^  So  much! — why,  you  fooUsh 
yomg  man,  don't  you  see  that,  with 
his  igncnranoe  of  business,  where  he 
himself  is  concerned — ^though,  for  any 
other  one*s  business,  neither  Bol- 
lick  nor  Cool  has  a  better  judgment 
— and  with  his  d— d  Quixotic  spirit 
of  honour  worked  up  into  a  state  of 
excitement,  he  would  have  rushed 
to  Mr  Tibbets,  and  exclaimed  ^  How 
much  do  yon  owe  ?  thane  it  is !  '—settled 
in  the  same  way  with  these  printers, 
and  come  back  without  a  sixpence; 
whereas  you  and  I  can  look  coolly 
about  us,  and  rednce  the  inflamma- 
tion to  the  minimum  I'' 

^^  I  see,  and  thank  you  heartily, 
Squills." 


ne  Caxtons.^Part  XL 


298 


**  Besides,"  said  the  surgeon,  with 
more  feelmg,  *^  your  father  has  reidly 
been  making  a  noble  effort  over  him- 
self. He  suffers  more  than  you  would 
think— not  for  himself^  (for  I  do  believe 
that,  if  he  were  alone  in  the  world,  he 
would  be  quite  contented  if  he  could 
save  fifty  pounds  a-year  and  his  books,) 
but  for  your  mother  and  yourself; 
and  a  fresh  access  of  emotional 
excitement,  all  the  nervous  anxiety 
of  a  journey  to  London  on  such  a 
business,  might  have  ended  in  a 
paralytic  or  epileptic  affection.  Now, 
we  have  him  here  snug;  and  the 
worst  news  we  can  give  him  will 
be  better  than  what  he  will  make 
up  his  mind  for.  But  you  don't 
eat." 

*'  Eat  I  How  can  I?  My  poor 
father!" 

^^  The  effect  of  grief  upon  the 
gastric  juices,  through  the  nervous 
system,  is  very  remarkable,"  said  Mr 
Squills,  philosophically,  and  helping 
himself  to  a  broiled  t>one ;  ^^  it  in- 
creases the  thirst,  while  it  takes 
away  hunger.  No— don't  touch  Port  I 
— Cheating  I    Sherry  and  water." 


CHAFTSB  LV. 


The  house-door  had  closed  upon 
Mr  SquiUs — ^that  gentleman  having 
promised  to  breakfast  with  me  the 
next  morning,  so  that  we  might  take 
the  coach  firom  our  gate  —  and  I 
remahied  alone,  seated  by  the  supper- 
table,  and  revolving  all  I  had  heard, 
when  my  £ather  walked  in. 

*'  Pisistratus,"  said  he,  gravely, 
and  looking  round  him,  ^^  your  mother ! 
— suppose  the  worst — ^your  first  care, 
then,  must  be  to  try  and  secure  some- 
thing for  her.  You  and  I  are  men — 
we  can  never  want,  while  we  have 
health  of  mind  and  body;  but  a 
woman — and  if  anything  happens  to 
me"— 

My  father's  lip  writhed  as  it  uttered 
these  brief  sentences. 

''  My  dear,  dear  father !"  said  I, 
suppressing  my  tears  with  difficulty, 
«^  all  evils,  as  you  yourself  said,  look 
worse  by  anticipation.  It  is  impossible 
that  your  whole  fortune  can  be  in- 
volved. The  newspaper  did  not  run 
many  weeks ;  and  only  the  first  volume 
(tf  your  work  is  printed.      Besides, 


there  must  be  other  shareholders  who 
will  pay  their  quota.  Believe  me,  I 
feel  sanguine  as  to  the  result  of  my 
embassy.  As  for  my  poor  mother,  it 
is  not  the  loss  of  fortune  that  will 
wound  her— depend  on  it,  she  thinks 
very  little  of  that ;  it  is  the  loss  of  your 
confidence." 

"My  confidence!" 
"Ah  yes !  tell  her  all  your  fears, 
as  your  hopes.     Do   not   let  your 
affectionate  pity  exclude  her  from  one 
comer  of  your  heart." 

**  It  is  thatr— it  is  tkat,  Austin, — 
my  husband — my  joy— my  pride — 
my  soul— my  all!"  cried  a  soft, 
broken  voice. 

My  mother  had  crept  in,  unobserved 
by  us. 

My  father  looked  at  us  both,  and 
the  tears  which  had  before  stood  m 
his  eyes  forced  their  way.  Then 
opening  his  arms  —  into  which  his 
KiUy  threw  herself  joyfully— he  lifted 
those  moist  eyes  upward,  and,  by  the 
movement  of  his  lips,  I  saw  that  he 
thanked  God. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


2U 
I  stole  out  of  the  room. 


I  felt 
that  those  two  hearts  should  be  left 
to  beat  and  to  blend  alone.  And 
from  that  hoar,  I  am  convinced  that 
Angostine  Caxton  acqalred  a  stouter 


The  CaxtoM.^Part  XL  [March, 

philosophy  than  that^  of  the  stoics. 
The  fortitude  that  concealed  pain  was 
no  longer  needed,  for  the  pain  was  no 
longer  felt. 


CHAFTEB    LVI. 


Mr  Squills  and  I  performed  our 
journey  without  adventure,  and,  as 
we  were  not  alone  on  the  coach,  with 
little  conversation.  We  put  up  at  a 
small  inn  at  the  city,  and  the  next 
morning  I  sallied  forth  to  see  Treva- 
nion — for  we  agreed  that  he  would  be 
the  best  person  to  advise  us.  But,  on 
arriving  at  St  James's  Square,  I  had 
the  disappointment  of  heaiing  that  the 
whole  family  had  gone  to  Paris  three 
days  before,  and  were  not  expected 
to  return  till  the  meetingof  Parliament. 

This  was  a  sad  discouragement, 
for  I  had  counted  much  on  Trevanion*s 
clear  head,  and  that  extraordinary 
range  of  accomplishment  in  all  mat- 
ters of  business—all  that  related-  to 
practical  life — which  my  old  patron  pre- 
eminently possessed.  The  next  thing 
would  be  to  find  Treyaniou's  lawyer, 
(for  Trevaniou  was  one  of  those  men 
whose  solicitors  are  sure  to  be  able  and 
active.)  But  the  fact  was,  that  he 
left  so  little  to  lawyers,  that  he  had 
never  had  occasion  to  communicate 
with  one  since  I  had  known  him ;  and 
I  was  therefore  in  ignorance  of  the 
very  name  of  bis  solicitor ;  nor  could 
the  porter,  who  was  left  in  charge  of 
the  house,  enlighten  me.  Luckily,  I 
bethought  myself  of  Sir  Sedley  Beau- 
desert,  who  could  scarcely  fail  to  give 
me  the  information  required,  and  who, 
at  all  events,  might  recommend  me 
jsome  other  lawyer.    So  to  him  I  went. 

I  found  Sir  Sedley  at  breakfast  with 
a  young  gentleman  who  seemed  about 
twenty.  The  good  baronet  was  de- 
lighted to  see  me ;  but  I  thought  it 
was  with  a  little  confusion,  rare  to  his 
cordial  ease,  that  he  presented  me  to 
his  cousin,  Lord  Castleton.  It  was  a 
name  familiar  to  me,  though  I  had 
never  before  met  its  patricum  owner. 

The  Marquis  of  Castleton  was  in- 
deed a  subject  of  envy  to  young  idlers, 
and  afibrded  a  theme  of  interest  to 
gray-beard  politicians.  Often  had  I 
Jieard  of"  that  lucky  fellow  Castleton," 
who,  when  of  age,  would  step  into 


one  of  those  colossal  fortunes  which 
would  realise  the  dreams  of  Aladdin — 
a  fortune  that  had  been  out  to  nurse 
since  his  minority.  Often  had  I  heard 

graver  gossips  wonder  whether 
astleton  would  take  any  active  part 
in  public  life— whether  he  would  keep 
up  the  family  influence.  His  mother 
(still  alive)  was  a  superior  woman, 
and  had  devoted  herself,  from  his 
childhood,  to  supply  a  father's  loss, 
and  fit  him  for  his  great  position.  It 
was  said  that  he  was  clever— had  been 
educated  by  a  tutor  of  great  academic 
distinction,  and  was  reading  for  a 
double  first  class  at  Oxford.  This 
young  marquis  was  indeed  the  head  of 
one  of  those  few  houses  still  left  in  Eng- 
land that  retaui  feudal  importance* 
He  was  important,  not  only  from  his 
rank  and  his  vast  fortune,  but  from  an 
immense  circle  of  powerful  connec- 
tions ;  from  the  ability  of  his  two 
predecessors,  who  had  been  keen  poli- 
ticians and  cabinet-ministers;  from 
t\kt  prestige  they  had  bequeathed  to  his 
name ;  from  the  i>eculiar  nature  of  his 
property,  which  gave  him  the  returning 
interest  in  no  less  than  six  parliamen- 
tary seats  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland 
— besides  that  indurect  ascendency 
which  the  head  of  the  Castletons  had 
always  exercised  over  many  powerful 
and  noble  allies  of  that  princely 
house.  I  was  not  aware  that  he  was 
related  to  Sir  Sedley,  whose  world  of 
action  was  so  remote  from  politics ; 
and  it  was  with  some  surprise  that  I 
now  heard  that  announcement,  and 
certainly  with  some  interest  that  I, 
perhaps  from  the  verge  of  poverty, 
gazed  on  this  young  heir  of  fabulous 
El-Dorados. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  Lord  Castle- 
ton had  been  brought  up  with  a  care- 
ful knowledge  of  his  future  greatness, 
and  its  senons  responsibilities.  He 
stood  immeasurably  aloof  from  all  the 
affectations  common  to  the  youth  of 
minor  patricians.  He  had  not  been 
taught  to  value  himself  on  the  cut  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Tlie  Caxtons.^Part  XL 


295 


a  coat,  or  the  shape  of  a  bat.  His 
world  was  far  above  St  Jameses 
Street  and  the  clubs.  He  was  dressed 
plamly,  though  in  a  style  peculiar  to 
himself— a  white  neckcloth,  (which 
was  not  at  that  day  quite  so  uncom- 
mon for  morning  use  as  it  is  now,) 
trowsers  without  straps,  thin  shoes 
and  gaiters.  There  was  nothing  in 
his  manner  of  the  supercilious  apathy 
which  characterises  the  dandy  intro- 
duced to  some  one  whom  he  doubts 
if  he  can  nod  to  from  the  bow- win- 
dow at  White's— none  of  such  vulgar 
coxcombries  had  Lord  Castleton ;  and 
yet  a  young  gentleman  more  empha- 
tically coxcomb  it  was  impossible  to 
see.  He  had  been  told,  no  doubt,  that, 
as  the  head  of  a  house  which  was 
almost  in  itself  a  party  in  the  state, 
he  should  be  bland  and  civil  to  all 
men;  and  this  duty  being  grafted 
npon  a  nature  singularly  cold  and  un- 
social, gave  to  his  politeness  some- 
thing so  stiff,  yet  so  condescending, 
that  it  brought  the  blood  to  one's 
cheek — though  the  momentary  anger 
was  counterbalanced  by  something 
almost  ludicrous  in  the  contrast  be- 
tween this  gracious  majesty  of  de- 
portment, and  the  insignificant  figure, 
with  the  b03rish  beardless  face,  by  which 
it  was  assumed.  Lord  Castleton  did 
not  content  himself  with  a  mere  bow 
at  our  introduction.  Much  to  my  won- 
der how  he  came  by  the  information  he 
displayed,  he  made  me  a  little  speech 
after  the  manner  of  Louis  XIY.  to  a 
provincial  noble — studiously  modelled 
upon  that  royal  maxim  of  urbane 
policy  which  instructs  a  king  that  he 
should  know  something  of  the  bu-th, 
parentage,  and  family,  of  his  meanest 
gentleman.  It  was  a  little  speech,  in 
which  my  father's  learning,  and  my 
nucleus  services,  andthe  amiable  quali- 
ties of  your  humble  servant,  were 
neatly  interwoven  —  delivered  in  a 
falsetto  tone,  as  if  learned  by  heart, 
though  it  must  have  been  necessarily 
impromptu;  and  then,  reseating  him- 
self, he  made  a  gracious  motion  of  the 
bead  and  hand,  as  if  to  authorise  me 
to  do  the  same. 

Conversation  succeeded,  by  galva- 
nic jerks  and  spasmodic  starts— a  con- 
versation that  Lord  Castleton  con- 
trived to  tug  so  completely  out  of 
poor  Sir  Sedl^'s  ordinary  course  of 
«mali  and  polished  small-talk,  that 


that  charming  personage,  accustomed, 
as  he  well  deserved,  to  be  Coryphieus 
at  his  own  table,  was  completely 
silenced.  With  his  light  reading,  hisrich 
stores  of  anecdote,  his  good-humoured 
knowledge  of  the  drawing-room  world, 
he  had  scarce  a  word  that  would  fit 
into  the  great,  rough,  serious  matters 
which  Lord  Castleton  threw  upon  the 
table,  as  he  nibbled  his  toast.  Nothing 
but  the  most  grave  and  practicid 
subjects  of  human  interest  seemed  to 
attract  this  future  leader  of  mankind. 
The  fact  is  that  Lord  Castleton  had 
been  taught  everything  that  relates 
to  property — (a  knowledge  which  em- 
braces a  very  wide  cu*cumference.) 
It  had  been  said  to  him  *^  You  will  be 
an  immense  proprietor — knowledge 
is  essential  to  your  self-preservation. 
You  will  be  puzzled,  bubbled,  ridi- 
culed, duped  every  day  of  your  life,  if 
you  do  not  make  yourself  acquainted 
with  all  by  which  property  is  assailed 
ordefended,  impoverished  orincreased. 
You  have  a  vast  stake  in  the  country 
— ^you  must  learn  all  the  interests  of 
Europe — nay,  of  the  civilised  world — 
for  those  interests  react  on  the  country, 
and  the  interests  of  the  country  are 
of  the  greatest  possible  consequence 
to  the  interests  of  the  Marquis  of 
Castleton."  Thus  the  state  of  the 
Continent— the  policy  of  Mettemich — 
the  condition  of  the  Papacy— the 
growth  of  Dissent— the  proper  mode 
of  dealing  with  the  general  spirit 
of  Democracy,  which  was  the 
epidemic  of  European  monarchies 
— the  relative  proportions  of  the 
agricultural  and  manufacturing  popu- 
lation—corn-laws,  currency,  and  the 
laws  that  regulate  wages  —  a  criti- 
cism on  the  leading  speakers  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  with  some  dis- 
cursive observations  on  the  impor- 
tance of  fattening  cattle— the  intro- 
duction of  fiax  into  Ireland— emigra- 
tion—the  condition  of  the  poor— the 
doctrines  of  Mr  Owen— the  pathology 
of  potatoes;  the  connexion  between 
potatoes,  pauperism,  and  patriotism ; 
these,  and  suchlike  stupendous  sub- 
jectsfor  reflection— all  branching,  more 
or  less  intricately,  from  the  single 
idea  of  the  Castleton  properly — the 
young  lord  discussed  and  disposed 
of  in  half-a-dozen  prim,  poised  sen- 
tences— evincing,  I  must  say  injustice, 
no  inconsiderable  information,  and  a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


296 


Tkt  CbfltoM.— i\vf  XI. 


[Mm^ 


rmghty  fldemn  tora  of  mind.  The 
oddUy  was,  that  the  Bubjects  bo  select- 
ed and  treated  should  not  come  rather 
from  some  yoang  barrister,  or  mature 
political  economist,  than  from  bo 
goiigeons  a  lily  of  the  field.  Of  a  less 
man,  certainly,  one  would  have  said — 
"  Cleverish,  but  a  prig;"  but  there 
really  was  something  so  respectable 
in  a  man  bora  to  such  fortunes,  and 
haying  nothing  to  do  but  to  bask  in 
the  sunshine,  voluntarily  taking  such 
pains  with  himself,  and  condescending 
to  identify  his  own  interests — the 
interests  of  the  Castleton  property — 
with  the  concerns  of  his  lesser  fellow- 
mortals,  that  one  felt  the  young  mar- 
quis had  in  him  the  stuff  to  become  a 
very  considerable  man. 

Poor  Sir  Sedley,  to  whom  all  these 
matters  were  as  unfamiliar  as  the 
theology  of  the  Talmud,  after  some 
vain  efforts  to  slip  the  conversation 
into  easier  grooves,  fairly  gave  in,  and, 
with  a  compassionate  smile  on  his 
handsome  oountenanoe,  took  refuge  in 
his  easy- chair  and  the  contemplation 
of  his  snuff-box. 

At  last,  to  our  great  relief,  the 
servant  announced  Lord  Castleton's 
carriage;  and  with  another  speech 
of  overpowering  affability  to  me, 
and  a  cold  shake  of  the  hand  to  Sir 
Sedley,  Lord  Castleton  went  his  way. 

The  breakfast  parlour  looked  on 
the  street,  and  I  turned  mechanically 
to  the  window  as  Sir  Sedley  followed 
his  guest  out  of  the  room.  A  travelling 
carriage,  with  four  post-horses,  was  at 
the  door ;  and  a  servant,  who  looked 
like  a  foreigner,  was  in  waiting  with 
his  master's  doak.  As  I  saw  Lord 
Castleton  step  into  the  street,  and 
wrap  himself  in  his  costly  mantle 
lined  with  sables,  I  observed,  more 
than  I  had  while  he  was  in  the  room, 
the  enervate  slightoess  of  his  frail 
form,  and  the  more  than  paleness  of 
his  thin, joyless  face;  and  then,  in- 
stead of  envy,  I  felt  compassion  for 
the  owner  of  all  this  pomp  and  gran- 
deur— felt  that  I  would  not  have 
exchanged  my  hardy  health,  and  easy 
liumour,  and  vivid  capacities  of  enjoy- 
ment in  things  the  slightest  and  most 
within  the  reach  of  all  men,  for  the 
wealth  and  greatness  Which  that  poor 
youth  perhaps  deserved  the  more  for 
putting  them  so  little  to  the  service 
of  pleasure. 


"  Well,"  said  Sir  Sedley, ''  and  what 
do  you  think  of  him?" 

^^  He  is  just  the  sort  of  man  Tre- 
vanion  would  like,"  said  I,  evamvely. 

''  That  is  true,"  answered  %  Sed- 
ley, in  a  serious  tone  of  voice,  and 
looking  at  me  somewhat  earnestly. 
"  Have  yon  heard  ?— but  no,  you  can- 
not have  heard  yet." 

"Heard  what?" 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  said  the 
kindest  and  most  delicate  of  all  fine 
gentlemen,  sauntering  away  that  he 
might  not  observe  the  emotion  he 
caused,  "  Lord  Castleton  is  going  to 
Paris  to  join  the  Trevanions.  The  ob- 
ject Lady  Ellinor  has  had  at  heart  for 
many  a  long  year  Is  won,  and  onr 
pretty  Fanny  will  be  Marchioness  of 
Castleton  when  her  betrothed  is  of 
age — that  is,  in  six  months.  The  two 
mothers  have  settled  it  all  between 
them  I " 

I  made  no  answer,  but  continued  to^ 
look  out  of  the  window. 

"  This  alliance,"  resumed  Sir  Sed- 
ley, "was  all  that  was  wanting  to 
assure  Trevanion's  position.  When 
parliament  meets,  he  will  have  some 
great  office.  Poor  man !  how  I  shall 
pity  him !  It  is  extraordinary  to  me,"^ 
continued  Sir  Sedley,  benevolently 
going  on,  that  I  might  have  full  time 
to  recover  myself,  "  how  oonta^ous 
that  disease  called  bnsiness  is  in  our 
foggy  England  !  Not  only  Trevanion, 
you  see,  has  the  complaint  in  its  very 
worst  and  most  complicated  farm,  but 
that  poor  dear  cousin  of  mine,  who  is 
so  young,  (here  Sir  Sedley  sighed,) 
and  might  enjoy  himself  so  much,  is 
worse  than  you  were  when  Trevanion 
was  fagging  yon  to  death.  But,  to  be 
sure,  a  great  name  and  position,  like 
Castleton's,  must  be  a  veiy  heavy 
affliction  to  a  ccmscientions  mind.  Yon 
see  how  the  sense  of  its  responsibilities 
has  aged  him  already — positively,  two 
great  wrinkles  under  his  eyes.  Well, 
after  all,  I  admire  him,  and  respect 
his  tutor :  a  soil  naturally  very  lliin, 
I  suspect,  has  been  most  carefully 
cultivated ;  and  Castleton,  with  Tre- 
vanion^s  help,  will  be  the  first  man  in 
the  peerage— prime-minister  someday, 
I  dare  say.  And,  when  I  think  of  it, 
how  grateful  I  ought  to  feel  to  his 
father  and  mother,  who  produced  him 
quite  in  then*  old  age ;  for,  if  he  bad 
not  been  bom,  I  should  have  been  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Tke  CowAmw.— i\irf  Z/, 


1849.] 

most  miserable  ci  m^— yes,  posi- 
tiTely,  that  horrible  marqiuBate  would 
hare  come  to  me  1  I  never  think  over 
Horace  Walpole's  regrets,  when  he 
got  the  earldom  of  Orford,  without 
the  deepest  sympathy,  and  without  a 
shudder  at  the  thought  of  what  my 
dear  Lady  Castleton  was  kkud  enough 
to  save  me  from — ^all  owing  to  the 
Ems  waters,  after  twenty  years^  mar- 
riage! Well,  my  young  friend,  and 
how  are  all  at  home?" 

As  when,  some  notable  perfiDrmer 
not  having  yet  arrived  behind  the 
scenes,  or  having  to  change  his  dress, 
or  not  having  yet  quite  recovered  an 
unlucky  extra  tumbler  of  exciting 
fluids — and  the  green  curtain  has 
therefore  unduly  delayed  its  ascent — 
you  perceive  that  the  thorough-bass 
in  the  orchestra  charitably  devotes 
himself  to  a  prelude  of  astonishing 
prolixity,  calling  in  Lodouka  or  Der 
FreMaUz  to  beguile  the  time,  and  al- 
low the  procrastinating  histrio  leisure 
sufficient  to  draw  on  bis  flesh-coloured 
pantaloons,  and  give  himself  the  pro- 
per complexion  for  a  Coriolanus  or 
Macbeth  —  even  so  had  Sur  Sedley 
made  that  long  speech,  requiring  no 
rejoinder,  till  he  saw  the  time  had 
arrived  when  he  could  artfully  dose 
with  the  flourish  of  a  final  interro- 
gative, in  order  to  give  poor  Pisistra- 
tus  Caxton  all  preparation  to  compose 
himself,  and  step  forward.  There  is 
certainly  something  of  exquisite  kind- 
ness, and  thoughtful  benevolence,  in 
that  rarest  of  gifts,— ^/ftw  breeding; 
and  when  now,  remanned  and  reso- 
lute, I  turned  round  and  saw  Sir 
Sedley's  soft  blue  eye  shyly,  but  be- 
nignantly,  turned  to  me — ^while,  with  a 
grace  no  other  snuff-taker  ever  had 
since  the  days  of  Pope,  he  gently  pro- 
ceeded to  refresh  himself  by  a  pinch 
of  the  celebrated  Beaudesert  mixture — 
I  felt  my  heart  as  gratefully  moved 
towards  him  as  if  he  had  conferred 
on  me  some  colossal  obligation.  And 
this  crowning  question — "And  how 
are  all  at  home?"  restored  me  en- 
tirely to  my  self-possession,  and  for 
the  moment  distracted  the  bitter  cur- 
rent of  my  thoughts. 

I  replied  by  a  brief  statement  of 
my  father's  involvement,  disguising 
our  apprehoisions  as  to  its  extent, 
speaking  of  it  rather  as  an  annoy- 
ance than  a  possible  cause  of  ruin, 


297 


and  ended  by  asldng  Sir  Sedley  to  give 
me  the  address  of  Trevan ion's  lawyer. 
The  good  baronet  listened  with 
great  attention  ;  and  that  quick  p^ie- 
tration  which  belongs  to  a  man  of 
the  world  enabled  hun  to  detect,  that 
I  had  smoothed  over  matters  more 
than  became  a  faithful  narrator. 

He  shook  his  head,  and,  seating^ 
himself  on  the  sofa,  motioned  me 
to  come  to  his  side ;  then,  leaning  his 
arm  over  my  shoulder,  he  sud  in  his 
seductive,  winning  way — 

"  We  two  young  fellows  should 
understand  each  other,  wl^n  we  talk 
of  money  matters.  I  can  say  to  you 
what  I  could  not  to  my  respectable 
senior — ^by  three  years;  your  ex- 
cellent father.  Frankly,  Uien,  I  as- 
pect this  is  a  bad  business.  I  know 
little  about  newspapers,  except  that  I 
have  to  subscribe  to  one  in  my 
county,  which  costs  me  a  small  in- 
come ;  but  I  know  that  a  London 
daily  paper  might  ruin  a  man  in  a 
few  weeks.  And  as  for  shareholders, 
my  dear  Caxton,  I  was  once  teased 
into  being  a  shareholder  in  a  canal 
that  ran  through  my  property,  and 
ultimately  ran  off  with  £30,000  of  it  I 
The  other  shar^olders  were  all 
drowned  in  the  canal,  like  Pharaoh 
and  his  hosts  in  the  Red  Sea.  But 
your  father  is  a  great  scholar,  and 
must  not  be  plagued  with  such  mat- 
ters. I  owe  him  a  great  deal.  He 
was  very  kind  to  me  at  Cambridge, 
and  gave  me  the  taste  for  reading,  to 
which  I  owe  the  pleasantest  hours  of 
my  life.  So,  when  you  and  the  law- 
yers have  found  out  what  the  extent 
of  the  mischief  is,  you  and  I  must  see 
how  we  can  best  settle  it. 

"What  the  deuce  I  my  young  friend 
— I  have  no  ^  micumbranoes,'  as  the 
servants,  with  greatwant  of  politeness, 
call  wives  and  children.  And  I  am 
not  a  miserable  great  landed  million- 
naire,likeUiatpoordearCastleton,who 
owes  so  many  duties  to  society  that 
he  can't  spend  a  shilling,  except  in  a 
grand  way  and  purely  to  benefit  the 
public.  So  go,  my  boy,  to  Trevanion's 
lawyer :  he  is  mine  too.  Clever  fellow 
— sharp  as  a  needle.  Mr  Pike,  in  Great 
Ormond  Street — name  on  a  brass 
plate;  and  when  he  has  settled  the 
amount,  we  young  scapegraces  will 
help  each  other,  without  a  word  to 
the  old  folks." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


298 


What  good  it  does  to  a  man, 
throughout  life,  to  meet  kindness 
and  generosity  like  this  in  his 
youth ! 

I  need  not  saj  that  I  was  too 
faithful  a  representative  of  my  father's 
scholarly  pride,  and  susceptible  in- 
dependence of  spirit,  to  accept  this 
proposal;  and  probably  Sir  Sedley, 
rich  and  liberal  as  he  was,  did  not 
dream  of  the  extent  to  which  his  pro- 
posal might  involve  him.  But  I  ex- 
pressed my  gratitude,  so  as  to  please 
and  move  this  last  relic  of  the  De 
Coverleys,  ^nd  went  from  his  house 
straight  to  Mr  Pikers  office,  with  a 
little  note  of  introduction  from  Sir 
Sedley.  I  found  "Mr  Pike  exactly  the 
man  I  had  anticipated  from  Tre- 
vanion's  character—short,  quick,  in- 
telligent,' in  question  and  answer; 
imposing,  and  somewhat  domineering, 
in  manner — not  overcrowded  with 
business,  but  with  enough  for  expe- 
rience and  respectability;  neither 
young  nor  old ;  neither  a  pedantic 
machine  of  parch  ment,  nor  a  j  aunty  off- 
hand coxcomb  of  West  End  manners. 

**It  is  an  ugly  affair,"  said  he, 
"  but  one  that  requires  management. 
Leave  it  all  in  my  hands  for  three 
days.  Don't  go  near  Mr  Tibbets,  nor 
Mr  Peck ;  and  on  Saturday  next,  at 
two  o'clock,  if  you  will  call  here,  you 
sliall  know  my  opinion  of  the  whole 
matter."  With  that  Mr  Pike 
glanced  at  the  clock,  and  I  took  up 
my  hat  and  went. 

There  is  no  place  more  delightful 
than  a  great  capital,  if  yon  are  com- 
fortably settled  in  it — have  arranged 
the  methodical  disposal  of  yonr  time, 
and  know  how  to  take  business  and 
pleasure  in  due  proportions.  Bnt  a 
flying  visit  to  a  great  capital,  in  an 
nnsettled,  unsatisfactory  way — at  an 
inn — an  inn  in  the  city,  too — ^with  a 
great  worrying  load  of  business  on 
your  mind,  of  which  you  are  to  hear 
no  more  for  three  days ;  and  an  aching, 
jealous,  miserable  sorrow  at  the  heart, 
such  as  I  had — leaving  you  no  labonr 
to  pursue,  and  no  pleasure  that  you 
have  the^  heart  to  share  in — oh,  a 
great  capital  then  is  indeed  forlorn, 
wearisome,  and  oppressive!  It  is 
the  Castle  of  Indolence,  not  as  Thom- 
son built  it,  bnt  as  Beckford  drew  in 
his  Hall  of  Eblis — a  wandering  np  and 
down,  to  and  fro— a  great  awfol  space. 


The  Caxions.'—Part  XL  [March, 

with  yonr  hand  pressed  to  yonr  heart ; 
and — oh  for  a  rush  on  some  half-tamed 
horse,  through  the  measureless  green 
wastes  of  Australia!  That  is  the 
place  for  a  man  who  has  no  home  in 
the  Babel,  and  whose  hand  is  ever 
pressing  to  his  heart,  with  its  dull, 
burning  pain. 

Mr  Squills  decoyed  me  the  second 
evening  into  one  of  the  small  theatres ; 
and  veiy  heartily  did  Mr  Squills  en- 
joy bU.  he  saw,  and  all  he  heard.  And 
while,  with  a  convulsive  effort  of  the 
jaws,  I  was  trying  to  laugh  too,  sud- 
denly, in  one  of  the  actors,  who  was 
performing  the  worshipfnl  part  of  a 
parish  beadle,  I  recognised  a  face  that 
I  had  seen  before.  Five  minutes 
afterwards,  I  had  disappeared  from 
the  side  of  Squills,  and  was  amidst 
that    strange    world — behind   the 

SCENES. 

My  beadle  was  much  too  busy  and 
important  to  allow  me  a  good  oppor- 
tunity to  accost  him,  till  the  piece 
was  over.  I  then  seized  hold  of  him, 
as  he  was  amicably  sharing  a  pot  of 
porter  with  a  eentleman  in  black 
shorts  and  a  laced  waistcoat,  who  was 
to  play  the  part  of  a  broken-hearted 
father  in  the  Domestic  Drama  in  Three 
Acts,  that  would  conclude  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  evening. 

"Excuse me,"  said  I  apologetically; 
"but,  as  the  Swan  pertinently  ob- 
serves,— "Should  auld  acquaintance 
be  forgot?'" 

"The  Swan,  sir  1"  cried  the  beadle 
aghast — "  the  Swan  never  demeaned 
himself  by  such  d— d  broad  Scotch 
as  that!" 

"  The  Tweed  has  its  swans  as  well 
as  the  Avon,  Mr  Peacock." 

it  St— St— hush— hush— h— u— sh!" 
whispered  the  beadle  in  great  alarm, 
and  eyeing  me,  with  savage  observa- 
tion, under  his  corked  eyebrows. 
Then,' taking  me  by  the  arm,  he  jerked 
me  away.  When  he  had  got  as  far 
as  the  narrow  limits  of  that  little 
stage  would  allow  ns,  Mr  Peacock 
said— 

"Sir,  yon  have  the  advantage  of 
roe ;  I  don't  remember  yon.  Ah !  you 
need  not  look  I — ^by  gad,  sir,  I  am  not 
to  be  bullied, — it  was  all  fair  play. 
If  you  will  play  with  gentlemen,  sir, 
you  must  mn  the  consequences." 

I  hastened  to  appease  the  worthy 
man. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Cartons.-^Part  XI. 


299 


"  Indeed,  Mr  Peacock,  if  you  re- 
member, I  refused  to  play  with  you ; 
and,  80  far  finom  wishing  to  offend  you, 
I  now  come  on  purpose  to  compli- 
ment you  on  your  excellent  acting, 
and  to  inquire  if  you  have  heard  any- 
thing lately  of  your  young  friend,  Mr 
Vivian. 

"  Virian  ? — ^never  heard  the  name, 
sir.  Vivian!  Pooh,  you  are  trying 
to  hoax  me ;  very  good." 

**  I  assure  you,  Mr  Peac" — 

"  St — 8t — How  the  deuce  did  you 
know  that  I  was  once  called  Peac — ' 
that  is,  people  called  me  Peac— A 
friendly  nickname,  no  more — drop  it, 
sir,  or  you  ^  touch  me  with  noble 
anger ! ' " 

"  Well,  well ;  '  the  rose,  by  any 
name,  will  smell  as  sweet,'  as  the  Swan, 
this  time  at  least,  jadiciously  observes. 
But  Mr  Vivian,  too,  seems  to  have 
other  names  at  his  disposal.  I  mean 
a  young,  dark,  handsome  man — or 
rather  Iwy— with  whom  I  met  you  in 
company  by  the  roadside,  one  morn- 
ing." 

"  O— h  I"  said  Mr  Peacock,  looking 
much  relieved,  "I know  whom  you 
mean,  though  I  don't  remember  to 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
before.  No  ;  I  have  not  heard  any- 
thing of  the  young  man  lately.  I 
wbh  I  did  know  something  of  him. 


He  was  a  'gentleman  in  my  own 
way.'  Sweet  will  has  hit  him  off  to  a 
hair!  — 

'  The    coartier^s,   soldier^s,    schoIar^s  eye, 
tongue,  sword.* 

Such  a  hand  with  a  cue  I — ^you  should 
have  seen  him  seek  *  the  bubble  repu- 
tation at  the  cannon's  mouth  ! '  I  may 
say,  (continued  Mr  Peacock,  empha- 
tically,) that  he  was  a  regular  trump — 
-trump!"  he  reiterated  with  a  start, 
as  if  the  word  had  stung  him — ^^  trump ! 
he  was  a  brick  !" 

Then  fixing  his  eyes  on  me,  drop- 
ping his  arms,  interlacing  his  fingers, 
in  the  manner  recorded  of  Talma  in 
the  celebrated  "Qu'en  dis-tu?"  he 
resumed  in  a  hollow  voice,  slow  and 
distinct — 

'*  When — saw — ^you — him, — ^yonng 
m — m — a — n — ^nnn  ?" 

Finding  the  tables  thus  turned  on 
myself,  and  not  willing  to  give  Mr 
Peac —  any  clue  to  poor  Vivian — who 
thus  appeared,  to  my  great  satisfac- 
tion, to  have  finally  dropped  an, 
acquaintance  more  versatile  than  re- 
putable— ^I  contrived,  by  a  few  eva- 
sive sentences,  to  keep  Mr  Peac— 's 
curiosity  at  a  distance,  till  ho  was 
summoned  in  haste  to  change  his 
attire  for  the  domestic  drama.  And 
so  we  parted. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 


I  hate  law  details  as  cordially  as  my 
readers  can,  and  therefore  I  shall  con- 
tent myself  with  statmg  that  Mr  Pike's 
management,  at  the  end,  not  of  three 
days,  but  of  two  weeks,  was  so  admur- 
able  that  Unde  Jack  was  drawn  out  of 
prison,  and  my  father  extracted  from 
all  his  liabilities,  by  a  sum  two-thirds 
less  than  was  first  startlingly  submitted 
to  our  indignant  horror — and  that,  too, 
in  a  manner  that  would  have  satisfied 
the  consdence  of  the  most  punctilious 
formalist,  whose  contribution  to  the 
national  fund,  for  an  omitted  payment 
to  the  Income  Tax,  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  ever  had  the  honour 
to  acknowledge.  Still  the  sum  was 
very  large  in  proportion  to  my  poor 
father's  income;  and  what  with  Jack's 
debts,  the  claims  of  the  Anti-Publisher 
Sodcty's  printer— including  the  very 


expensive  plates  that  had  been  so 
lavishly  bespoken,  and  in  great  part 
completed,  for  the  History  of  Human 
Error— Bud,  above  all,  the  liabilities 
incurred  on  The  Capitalist;  what  with 
the  plants  as  Mr  Peck  technically 
phrased  a  great  upas-tree  of  a  total, 
branching  out  into  types,  cases,  print- 
ing-presses, engines,  &c.,  all  now  to 
be  resold  at  a  third  of  their  value ; 
what  with  advertisements  and  bills, 
that  had  covered  all  the  dead  walls  by 
which  rubbish  might  be  shot,  through- 
out the  three  kingdoms;  what  with 
the  dues  of  reporters,  and  salaries  of 
writers,  who  had  been  en^ed  for  a 
year  at  least  to  The  Capitalist^  and 
whose  clums  survived  the  wretch  they 
had  kmed  and  buried ;  what,  in  short, 
with  all  that  the  combined  ingenuity 
of  Uncle  Jack  and  printer  Peck  coul4 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


300 


snpplj  for  the  tttter  ruin  of  the  €ax- 
toa  family — eyen  after  all  deductions, 
'Cortadiments,  and  after  all  that  one 
could  extract  in  the  way  of  just  con- 
tribution firom  the  least  unsubstantial 
of  those  shadows  called  the  share- 
holdei*s— my  father^s  fortune  was  re- 
duced to  little  more  tiian  £8000,  which 
being  placed  at  mortgage,  at  4  per 
cent,  yielded  just  £372, 10s.  a-year— 
enough  for  my  father  to  live  upon, 
but  not  enough  to  aftbrd  also  his  sons 
Pisistratus  the  advantages  of  educa- 
tion at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
The  blow  fell  rather  upon  me  than  my 
father,  and  my  young  shoulders  bore 
it  without  much  wincing. 

This  settled,  to  our  universal  satis- 
faction, I  went  to  pay  my  farewell 
visit  to  Sir  Sedley  Beaudesert.  He 
had  made  much  of  me,  during  my  stay 
in  London.  I  had  breakfasted  and 
dined  with  him  pretty  often;  I  had 
presented  Squills  to  him,  who  no 
sooner  set  eyes  upon  that  splendid 
conformation,  than  he  described  his 
character  with  the  nicest  accuracy 
as  the  necessary  consequence  of  such 
a  development  for  the  rosy  pleasures 
of  life,  and  whose  philosophy  delight- 
ed and  consoled  Sir  Sedley.  We  had 
never  once  retouched  on  the  subject  of 
Fanny  ^s  marriage,  and  both  of  us  tacitly 
avoided  even  mentioning  the  Treva* 
nions.  But  in  this  last  visit,  though 
lie  maintained  the  same  reserve  as  to 
Fanny,  he  referred  without  scruple  to 
her  father. 

"  Well,  my  young  Athenian,"  said 
he,  after  congratulating  me  on  the 
result  of  the  negotiations,  and  endea- 
vouring again  in  vain  to  bear  at  least 
some  share  in  my  father^s  losses — 
^*  well,  I  see  I  cannot  press  this  far- 
ther; but  at  least  I  can  press  on  yon 
any  little  interest  I  may  have,  in  ob- 


The  CaxtOHS.'-'Part  XL  [Mard, 

taining  some  af^intment  for  your- 


self in  one  of  the  pnfolic  offices.  Treva- 
nion  could  of  course  be  more  nsefhl, 
but  lean  understand  that  be  is  not  the 
kind  of  man  yon  would  like  to  apply 
to." 

**  Shall  I  own  to  yon>  my  dear  Sur 
Sedley,  that  I  have  no  taste  for  official 
employ m«it?  I  am  too  fond  of  my 
liberty.  Since  I  have  been  at  my 
uncle's  old  tower,  I  account  for  hatf 
my  character  by  the  Borderer's  blood 
that  is  in  me.  I  doubt  if  I  am  meant 
for  the  life  of  cities,  and  I  have 
odd  floating  notions  in  my  head,  that 
will  serve  to  amuse  me  when  I  get 
home,  and  may  settle  into  schemes. 
And  now,  to  change  the  subject,  may  I 
ask  what  kind  of  person  has  succeeded 
me  as  Mr  Trevanion's  secretary  ?" 

^^  Why,  he  has  got  a  broad-shoul- 
dered, stooping  fellow,  in  spectacles 
and  cotton  stoddngs,  who  has  written 
npon  'Kent,'  I  believe — an  imagi- 
native treatise  in  his  case,  I  fear,  poor 
man,  for  rent  is  a  thing  he  could 
never  have  received,  and  not  often 
been  trusted  to  pay.  However,  he  is 
one  of  your  political  economists,  and 
wants  Trevanion  to  sell  his  pictures, 
as  '  unproductive  capital.'  Less  mild 
than  Pope's  Narcissa,  *to  make  a 
wash,'  he  would  certainly  'stew  a 
child.'  Besides  this  official  secretary, 
Trevanion  trusts,  however,  a  good  deal 
to  a  clever,  good-looking  young  gen- 
tleman, who  is  a  great  favourite  with 
him." 
"What  is  his  name?" 

"  His  name?— oh.  Grower— a  natural 
son,  I  believe,  of  one  of  the  Gower 
fSwnily." 

Here  two  of  1^  Sedley's  fellow  fine 
gentlemen  lounged  in,  and  my  yk^t 
ended. 


CHAPTER  LVUI. 


[ 


*'  I  swear,"  cried  my  uncle,  "  that 
it  shall  be  so ;"  and  with  a  big  frown, 
and  a  truculent  air,  he  seized  the  fatal 
instrument. 

"Indeed,  brother,  it  must  not,"  said 
mj  father,  laying  one  pale,  scholar- 
like hand  mildly  on  Ci^tain  Ro- 
land's brown,  bellicose,  and  bony  fist ; 
and  with  the  other,  outstretched,  pro- 


tecting the  menaced,  palpitating  vic- 
tim. 

Not  a  w<»d  had  my  uncle  heard  of 
our  losses,  until  they  had  been  ad- 
justed, and  the  snm  paid ;  for  we  all 
knew  that  the  old  tower  would  have 
been  gone — sold  to  some  neighbouring 
sqoire  or  Jobbing  attorn^ — at  the  first 
impetuous  impnlfle  of  IJnde  fioland's 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18^9.] 


The  Caxtmu.^Pmt  HI. 


801 


afiectkmate  gmierosity.  Austin  en- 
dangered !  Austin  rnined ! — he  would 
never  ha^e  rested  till  he  came,  cash 
in  hand,  to  his  deliverance.  There- 
fore, I  saj,  not  till  all  was  settled  did 
I  write  to  the  Captain,  and  tell  him 
gMlj  what  had  (danced.  And,  how- 
ever light  I  made  of  onr  miBfortnnes, 
the  letter  brongfat  the  Captain  to  the 
red  brick  house  the  same  evening  on 
which  I  myself  reached  it,  and  about 
an  hour  later.  My  unde  had  not  sold 
the  tower,  but  he  came  prepared  to 
carry  us  o£f  to  it  vt  «<  wrmis.  We 
must  live  with  him,  and  on  him — ^let 
or  sell  the  brick  house,  and  put  out 
the  remnant  of  my  father's  income  to 
nurse  and  accumulate.  And  it  was 
on  finding  my  father's  resistance  stub- 
bom,  and  that  hitherto  he  had  made 
no  way, — that  my  unde,  stepping  back 
into  the  hall,  in  which  he  had  left  his 
carpet-bag,  &c,  returned  with  an  old 
oak  case,  and,  touching  a  spring 
roller,  out  flew — the  Caxton  pediigree. 

Out  it  flew — covering  all  the  table, 
and  undulating,  Nile-like,  till  it  had 
spread  over  books,  papers,  my  mo- 
ther's work-box,  and  the  tea- service, 
(for  the  table  was  large  and  compen- 
dious, emlrfematicof  its  owner's  mind) 
— and  then,  flowing  on  the  carpet, 
dragged  its  slow  length  along,  till  it 
was  stopped  by  the  fender. 

"Now,"  said  my  unde  solemnly, 
"  there  never  have  been  but  two  causes 
of  difierence  between  you  and  me, 
Austin.  One  is  over ;  why  should  the 
other  last?  Aha!  I  know  why  you 
bang  back ;  you  think  that  we  may 
qnanel  about  it ! " 

«'  About  what,  Roland  ?" 

"  About  it,  I  say— and  Til  be  d— d 
if  we  do !"  cried  my  uncle,  reddening, 
(I  never  heard  him  swear  before.) 
"  And  I  have  been  thinking  a  great 
deal  upon  the  matter,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  you  are  right.  So  I  brought 
the  old  parchment  with  me,  and  you 
shall  see  me  fill  up  the  blank,  just  as 
you  would  have  it.  Now,  then,  you 
will  come  and  live  with  me,  and  we 
can  never  quarrel  any  more." 

Thus  saying.  Uncle  Roland  looked 
round  for  pen  and  ink ;  and,  having 
found  them — not  without  difficulty,  for 
tiiey  had  been  submerged  under  the 
overflow  of  the  pedigree — he  was  about 
to  fill  up  the  iSacima,  or  hiatus,  which 
bad  given  rise  to  such  memon^  con- 


troversy,  with  the  name  of"  William 
Caxton,  printer  in  the  Sanctuary," 
when  my  fiither,  slowly  recovering  his 
breath,  and  aware  of  his  brother's 
purpose,  intervened.  It  would  have 
done  your  heart  good  to  hear  them — 
so  completely,  in  the  inconsistency 
of  human  nature,  had  they  changed 
sides  upon  the  question— my  father 
now  all  for  Sir  William  de  Caxton, 
the  hero  of  Bosworth ;  my  unde  all 
for  the  immortal  printer.  And  in  this 
discussion  they  grew  animated :  their 
eyes  sparkled,  their  voices  rose — ^Ro- 
land's voice  deep  and  thunderous, 
Austin's  sharp  and  piercing.  Mr 
Squills  stopped  his  ears.  Thus  it 
arrived  at  that  point,  when  my  uncle 
doggedly  came  to  Uie  end  of  all  argu- 
mentation— "  I  swear  that  it  shall  be 
so ;"  and  my  father,  trying  the  last 
resource  of  pathos,  looked  pleadingly 
into  Roland's  eyes,  and  said,  with  a 
tone  soft  as  mercy,  "  Indeed,  brother, 
it  must  not."  Meanwhile  the  dry 
parchment  crisped,  creaked,  and  trem- 
bled in  every  pore  of  its  yellow  skin. 

"  But,"  said  I,  coming  in,  oj^r- 
tunely,  like  the  Horatian  ddty,  "  I 
don't  see  that  either  of  you  gentlemen 
has  a  right  so  to  dispose  of  my  an- 
cestry. It  is  quite  clear  that  a  man 
has  no  possession  in  posterity.  Pos- 
terity may  possess  him ;  but  deuce 
a  bit  will  he  ever  be  the  better  for 
hia  great  great-grandchildren !" 

SQUILLS. — Hear,  hear! 

PisiSTRATUS  —  (^warming  ^  — But 
a  man's  ancestry  is  a  positive  pro- 
perty to  him.  How  much,  not  only 
of  acres,  but  of  his  constitution,  his 
temper,  his  conduct,  character,  and 
nature,  he  may  inherit  from  some  pro- 
genitor ten  times  removed!  Nay, 
without  that  progenitor  would  ho 
ever  have  been  bom  —  would  a 
Squills  ever  have  introduced  him  into 
the  world,  or  a  nurse  ever  have  car- 
ried him  upo  kolpo  f 

Squills. — Hear,  hear! 

PisiSTRATUS  —  (with  dignified 
emotion) — ^No  man,  therefore,  has  a 
right  to  rob  another  of  a  forefather, 
with  a  stroke  of  his  pen,  from  any 
motives,  howsoever  amiable.  In 
the  present  instance,  you  will  say, 
perhaps,  that  the  ancestor  in  question 
is  apocryphal — it  may  be  the  printer, 
it  may  be  the  knight.  Granted ;  but 
here,  where  hlsto^  is  in  fault,  shal' 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


302 


The  CaxtoM.—Part  XL 


[Marcfat 


a  mere  sentiment  decide?  Wliile  both 
are  doabtfal,  my  imagination  appro- 
priates both.  At  one  time  1  can 
reverence  industry  and  learning  in 
the  printer ;  at  another,  valonr  and 
devotion  in  the  knight.  This  kindly 
doubt  gives  me  two  great  forefathers ; 
and,  throngh  them,  two  trains  of  idea 
that  inflacnco  my  conduct  under 
different  circumstances.  I  will  not 
permit  yon.  Captain  Roland,  to  rob 
me  of  either  forefather— either  train 
of  idea.  Leave,  then,  this  sacred  void 
unfilled,  unprofaned ;  and  accept  this 
compromise  of  chivabrous  courtesy — 
while  my  father  lives  with  the  Cap- 
tain, we  will  believe  in  the  printer ; 
when  away  from  the  Captain,  wc  will 
stand  firm  to  the  knight." 

"Good  I"  cried  Uncle  Roland,  as  I 
paused,  a  little  out  of  breath. 

"  And,"  said  my  mother  softly,  "  I 
do  think,  Austin,  there  is  a  way  of 
settling  the  matter  which  will  please 
all  parties.  It  is  quite  sad  to  think 
that  poor  Roland,  and  dear  little 
Blanche,  should  be  all  alone  in  the 
tower ;  and  I  am  sure  that  we  should 
be  much  happier  altogether." 

"  Thei*e !"  cried  Roland,  triumph- 
antly. "  If  you  ai-e  not  the  most  ob- 
stinate, hardhearted,  unfeeling  brute 
in  the  world — which  I  don't  take  you 
to  be— brother  Austin,  after  that 
really  beautiful  speech  of  your  wife's, 
there  is  not  a  word  to  be  said  farther." 

"  But  we  have  not  yet  hew^  Kitty 
to  the  end,  Roland." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  a  thousand 
times,  ma'am — ^sister,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, bowing. 

"  Well,  I  waa  going  to  add,"  said 
my  mother,  "that  we  will  go  and 
live  with  vou,  Roland,  and  club  our 
^s  together.  Blanche  and 
3are  of  the  house,  and  we 
twice  as  rich  together  as 
•ately." 

sort  of  hospitality  that !" 
Captain.  "  I  did  not  cx- 
throw  me  over  in  that 
no ;  you  must  lay  by  for 
re, — what's  to  become  of 

shall  all  lay  by  for  him," 
other  simply;  "yon  as 
tin.    Wo  shall  have  more 

we  have  both  more  to 

re!— that  is  easily  swd: 


there  would  be  a  pleasure  in  saving, 
then  !"  said  the  Captain  mournfully. 

"And  what's  to  become  of  me?" 
cried  Squills,  very  petulantly.  "Am  I 
to  be  left  here,  in  my  old  age — ^not 
a  rational  soul  to  speak  to,  and  no 
other  place  in  the  village  where 
there's  a  drop  of  decent  punch  to  bo 
had !  *  A  plague  on  both  your  bouses' ! 
as  the  chap  said  at  the  theatre  the 
other  night. " 

"  There's  room  for  a  doctor  in  our 
neighbourhood,  Mr  Squills,"  said  the 
Captain.  "The  gentleman  in  3'our 
profession  who  does  for  us^  wants,  I 
know,  to  sell  the  business." 

"  Humph  I"  said  Squills—"  a  hor- 
rible healthy  neighbourhood,  I  sus- 
pect 1" 

"  Why,  it  has  that  misfortune,  Mr 
Squills ;  but  with  your  help,"  said  my 
uncle  slily,  "  a  great  alteration  for  the 
better  may  be  effected  in  that  respect." 

Mr  Squills  was  about  to  reply,  when 
ring  —  a  -  ting — ring — ting  I  there 
came  such  a  brisk,  impatient,  make- 
one's-self-at-home  kind  of  tintana- 
bnlar  alarum  at  the  great  gate,  that 
we  all  atarted  up  and  looked  at  each 
other  in  surprise.  Who  could  it  pos- 
sibly be  ?  We  were  not  kept  long  in 
suspense;  for,  in  another  moment. 
Uncle  Jack's  voice,  which  was  always 
very  clear  and  distinct,  pealed  through 
the  hall ;  and  we  were  still  staring  at 
each  other  when  Mr  Tibbets,  with 
a  bran-new  muffler  round  his  neck, 
and  a  peculiarly  comfortable  great- 
coat— best  double  Saxony,  equally 
new— dashed  into  the  room,  bringing 
with  him  a  very  considerable  quan- 
tity of  cold  air,  which  he  hastened  to 
thaw,  first  hi  my  father's  arms,  next 
in  my  mother's.  He  then  made  a  rush 
at  the  Captain,  who  ensconced  himself 
behind  the  dumb  waiter  with  a  "  Hem ! 
Mr — su: — Jack  —  sir — hem,  hem  I" 
Failing  there,  Mr  Tibbets  rubbed  off 
the  remaining  frost  upon  his  double 
Saxony  against  your  humble  servant ; 
patted  Squills  affectionately  on  the 
back,  and  then  proceeded  to  occupy 
his  favourite  position  before  the  fire. 

"  Took  you  by  surprise,  eh  ?  "  said 
Uncle  Jack,  nnpeeling  himself  by  the 
hearth-rug.  "  But  no — not  by  sur- 
prise ;  you  must  have  known  Jack's 
heart :  you  at  least,  Austin  Caxton, 
who  know  everything — ^you  must  have 
seen  that  it  overflowed  with  the  tcu- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Caxtans.—Part  XL 


303 


derest  and  most  brotherly  emotions ; 
that,  once  delivered  from  that  cnrsed 
Fleet,  (yon  have  no  idea  what  a  place 
it  is,  sir,)  I  could  not  rest,  night  or 
day,  till  I  had  flown  here — ^here,  to 
the  dear  family  nest  —  poor  wounded 
doye  that  I  am  I "  added  Uncle  Jack 
pathetically,  and  taking  out  his 
pocket-handlcerchief  from  the  donble 
Saxony,  which  he  had  now  flung  oyer 
my  father^s  arm-chair. 

Not  a  word  replied  to  this  elo- 
quent address,  with  its  touching  per- 
oration. My  mother  hung  down  her 
pretty  head,  and  looked  ashamed. 
My  uncle  retreated  quite  into  the  cor- 
ner, and  drew  the  dumb  wdter  after 
him,  so  as  to  establish  a  complete 
fortification.  Mr  Squills  seized  the 
pen  that  Roland  had  thrown  down, 
and  began  mending  it  fariously — that 
is,  cutting  it  into  sQyers — thereby  de- 
noting, symbolically,  how  he  would 
like  to  do  with  Uncle  Jack,  could  he 
once  get  him  safe  and  snug  under  his 
manipular  operations.  I  leant  oyer  the 
pedigree,  and  my  father  rubbed  his 
spectacles. 

The  silence  would  haye  been  ap- 
palling to  another  man  :  nothing 
appalled  Uncle  Jack. 

Uncle  Jack  turned  to  the  fire,  and 
warmed  first  one  foot,  then  the  other. 
This  comfortable  ceremony  performed, 
he  again  faced  the  company  —  and 
resumed  musingly,  and  as  if  answer- 
ing some  imaginary  obsenrations — 

"  Yes,  yes — ^you  are  right  there— 
and  a  deuced  unlucky  speculation  it 
proved  too.  But  I  was  overruled  by 
that  fellow  Peck.  Says  I  to  him— says 
I  — ^Capitalist !  pshaw  —  no  popular 
interest  there— it  douH  address  the 
great  public  1  Very  confined  class 
the  capitalists ;  better  throw  ourselves 
boldly  on  the  people.  Yes,' said  I,*  call 
it  the  on/i-Capitalist.*  By  Jove,  sir, 
we  should  have  carried  all  before  us  I 
but  I  was  overruled.  The  Anti-  Capi" 
taUst! — what  an  idea!.  Address  the 
whole  reading  world  then,  sir :  every- 
body hates  the  capitalist— everybody 
would  have  his  neighbour's  money. 
The  Anti'C<^itali8t!—siTyWe  should 
have  gone  off,  in  the  manufacturing 
towns,  like  wildfire.  But  what  could 
Ido?"— 

**  John  Tibbets,"  said  my  father 
solemnly,  *^  capitalist  or  anti- capi- 
talist, thou  hadst  a  right  to  follow 

VOL.  LXY.— KO.  COCCI. 


thine  own  bent,  in  either — but  al* 
ways  provided  it  had  been  with  thine 
own  money.  Thou  see'st  not  the 
thing,  John  Tibbets,  in  the  right 
point  of  view ;  and  a  little  repentance, 
m  the  face  of  those  thou  hast 
wronged,  would  not  have  misbecome 
thy  father's  son,  and  thy  sister's 
brother  I"— 

Never  had  so  severe  a  rebuke 
issued  from  the  mild  lips  of  Austin 
Caxton ;  and  I  raised  my  eyes  with  a 
compassionate  thrill,  expecting  to  see 
John  Tibbets  gradually  sink  and  dis- 
appear through  the  carpet. 

**  Repentance ! "  cried  Uncle  Jack, 
bounding  up,  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 
"  And  do  you  think  I  have  a  heart  of 
stone,  of  pummy-stone !  —  do  you 
think  I  don't  repent?  I  have  done 
nothinj^  but  repent — ^I  shall  repent  to 
my  dymg  day." 

^*  Then  there  is  no  more  to  be  said, 
Jack,"  cried  my  father,  softening,  and 
holding  out  his  hand. 

"  Yes  I"  cried  Mr  Tibbets,  seizing 
the  hand,  and  pressing  it  to  the  heart 
he  had  thus  defended  from  the  suspi- 
cion of  being  pummy  —  "  yes— that  I 
should  have  trusted  that  dunder- 
headed,  rascally,  curmudgeon  Peck : 
that  I  should  have  let  him  call  it  The 
Capitalist,  despite  all  my  convictions, 

when  the  Anti " 

"  Pshaw !"  interrupted  my  father, 
drawing  away  his  hand. 

**  John,"  said  my  mother  gravely, 
and  with  tears  in  her  voice,  ^*  you  forget 
who  delivered  you  from  prison, — you 
forgetwhom  you  have  nearly  consigned 
to  prison  yourself, — ^you  forg — " 

"  Hush,  hush ! "  said  my  father, 
"  this  will  never  do  ;  \and  it  is  you 
who  forget,  my  dear,  the  obligations 
I  owe  to  Jack.  He  has  reduced  my 
fortune  one  half,  it  is  true ;  but  I 
verily  Uiink  he  has  made  the  three 
hearts,  in  which  lie  my  real  treasures, 
twice  as  large  as  they  were  before. 
Pisistratus,  my  boy,  ring  the  bell." 

**  My   dear   Kitty,"    cried   Jack, 
whimperingly,  and  stealing  up  to  my 
mother,  "  don't  be  so  hard  on  me ;  I 
thought  to  make  all  your  fortunes— I 
did,  indeed." 
Here  the  servant  entered. 
"  See  that  Mr  ^•'^»^—  -^' —  — 
taken  up  to  his  n 
is  a  good  fire,"  sa 
"  And,"  contini 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


804 


M.  Prudhon. — Oimiraiieliem$  Beonomiques. 


[Mnth, 


w3l  make  all  joor  ftMrtnnes  jet.  I 
have  it  hereP'  and  he  strode hia head. 

^  Stay  a  moment,**  said  my  father 
to  tilie  servant,  who  had  got  back  to 
the  door.  ^  Stay  a  moment,"  said  mj 
father,  looking  extremely  Mghtened ; 
^^  perhaps  Mr  libbets  may  prefer  the 
inn?" 

^'Austin,"  said  Unde  Jack  with 
emotion,  *'if  I  were  a  dog,  with  no 
home  bnt  a  dog-kennel,  and  yon  came 
to  me  for  shetter,  I  would  tnm  out— 
to  give  yon  the  best  of  the  straw !" 

My  fiither  was  thoroughly  melted 
this  time. 

^^Primmins  will  be  sure  to  see 
eyerything  is  made  oemfortaUe  for 


Mr  Tibbets,"  said  he,  waging  his 
hand  to  the  servant.  ^^  Something 
nice  for  snpper,  Kitty,  my  dear — ana 
the  largest  ponch-bowL  Yo«  like 
pnnch.  Jade?" 

""  Pnneh,  Austin  1"  said  Unde  Jack, 
putting  his  handkerchitf  to  hie  eyes. 

The  Captain  pushed  aside  the  dnmb 
waiter,  strode  across  the  room,  asd 
shook  hands  with  Unde  Jack ;  my 
mother  buried  her  face  in  her  apron, 
and  fairly  ran  off ;  and  Squills  said  in 
my  ear,  ^^  It  all  comes  of  the  biliary 
secretiofis.  Nobody  coild  acooont 
for  tills,  who  did  not  know  the  pecu- 
liariy  fine  organisation  of  yonr  father's 
— Uverl" 


M.  ntUI>H<»f .^-COlfTBADICnC^^S  XCOOffOMIQUas. 


If  we  wished  to  convert  some  in- 
veterate democrat — some  one  of  those 
eternal  agitators  of  political  tatd 
social  revolutions — ^whose  reasonings, 
though  perhaps  unconsciously  to 
themselves,  are  all  based  on  a  far  too 
sanguine  view  of  the  probable  desti- 
nies of  human  society^there  is  no 
text-book  we  should  more  willingly 
select  than  this  mad  and  apparently 
destructive  work  of  M.  Prudhon's. 
The  bold  development  of  those  funda- 
mental truths  which  have  hitherto 
determined  the  framework  of  sodety, 
and,  still  more,  the  display  it  presents 
of  the  utter  impotraee  of  the  wit  of 
man,  and  all  his  speculative  ingenuity, 
to  reshi^>e  and  reorganise  the  social 
world,  must  have,  on  every  mind 
accustomed  to  reflection,  a  most 
sobering  and  canstrwative  influence. 
What  it  was  intended  to  teach  is 
another  matter ;  bnt  to  a  mind  well 
constituted  it  would  convey  this 
grave  lesson — ^to  recqgnise  and  sub- 
mit to  the  inevitable ;  to  be  content 
to  labour  for  partial  remedies  and 
limited  results;  to  be  satisfied  with 
doing  ffood,  though  it  be  something 
short  of  organic  change ;  to  think  it 
suffident  ambition  to  be  of  that  ^^  salt 
of  the  earth  "  which  preserves  what- 
ever is  pure  and  excellent,  without 
aspiring  to  be  that  consuming  flame 
which  is  to  fuse  and  recast  the  world. 

Such  was  the  reflection  with  whkh 


we  dosed  the  perusal  of  the  Comtra" 
dktkma  Ecomtmiqmes;  and  this  re- 
flection has  led  us  to  the  present 
notice  of  a  work  which  was  not  ori- 
ginally taken  up  with  the  intention 
of  bringing  it  before  our  readers.  We 
were  referred  to  it  as  tke  work  in 
which  a  man  who  has  obtained  unen- 
viable notoriety  had  most  systema- 
tically developed  his  ideas.  Whether 
it  is  so,  or  not,  we  do  not  pledge  onr^ 
sdves  to  dedde :  we  have  had  enough 
of  Prudhonerie.  But  after  a  perusal, 
induced  by  mere  curiosity,  it  oocmred 
to  us  that  some  brief  account  of  the 
book,  and  of  the  train  of  thought 
which  it  had  suggested  to  us,  and 
would  probably  sun;eet  to  most  Eng- 
lish readers,  wouldnot  be  unaceept- 
aUe. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  it  is 
not  uniformly  from  the  most  perfect 
works  that  we  derive  the  greatest 
stimulant  to  thinking,  or  the  laraest 
supply  of  food  for  reflection.  Many 
an  important  step  in  intellectual  pro- 
gress has  been  due  to  an  author,  not 
one  of  whose  views  have  been  finally 
adopted,  or  would  have  borne  perti^M 
a  searching  examination.  The  start- 
Img  effect  of  paradox— the  conflict 
witii  it— the  perplexing  entanglement 
of  known  truth  with  manifest  error, 
— all  this  has  supplied  a  m<M«  bracing 
and  vigoi;pus  exercise  for  the  mind, 
than  ludd  tenets  luddly  set  forth  by 


SyiUme  de$  ChniradUtioms  EconotMques ;  ou  PhUo$ophie  de  la  Mitkre. 
Pkudhon. 


P»r  J.  P. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


M.Pntdkon, — CotOntikiicm  Ee&mmdqueM* 


305 


writers  of  vnimpeacliable  good  sense. 
God  forlud  that  9bbj  one  should  accose 
US  of  sajing,  thai  it  Is  better  to  read  a 
bad  book  than  a  good  one ;  this  would 
be  the  greatest  of  all  absnrditiea ;  but 
there  are  eras  in  onr  mental  progress 
when  nnich  is  gained  bj  the  con- 
test with  bold  and  subtle  fallacies. 
There  is  not  a  book  in  onr  own  lan- 
guage more  replete  with  paradox  and 
sophistrj,  with  half  troths  and  tortn- 
ons  reasonings,  than  Godwin's  PoH-* 
Had  Justice;  yet  we  doubt  not  there 
are  those  liTing  who  would  acknow- 
ledge that  the  perusal  of  that  once, 
and  for  a  short  time,  celebrated  trea- 
tise, did  more,  by  the  incessant  com- 
bat it  proToked,  to  make  eyident  to 
them  the  real  constitution  of  human 
society,  than  the  smooth  sagacity  of  a 
hundred  Paleys  could  have  done. 

Indeed,  when  we  compare  the  PoH- 
tkxU  Justice  with  the  reveries  of  Com- 
munism, 80  rife  amcmgst  our  neigh- 
bours, we  feel  proud  of  our  English 
dreamer.  €iodwin*s  scheme  was 
somewhat  as  if  one  of  the  ancient 
stoics,  not  content  with  imposing 
upon  his  wise  man  rules  of  conduct 
quite  independent  of  all  human  pas- 
sions and  affections,  had  resolyed 
that  the  whole  multitude  of  the 
species  should  demean  themselves 
according  to  the  same  impracticable 
rules,  9xA  should  learn  to  live,  and 
labour,  and  enjoy,  like  reasoning  auto- 
mata. Under  the  light  diffused  upon 
them  by  the  author  of  the  PoHtictd 
Justice^  men  were  to  set  aside  all 
selfishness — aU  their  natural,  and  even 
kindly  afiections— and  to  act  in  un- 
ceasing conformity  to  certain  abstrac- 
tions of  the  reasoning  faculty ;  were, 
in  short,  neither  to  love  nor  to  hate ; 
but,  sitting  in  eternal  judgment  over 
themselves,  were  simply  to  reason 
and  to  act.  like  the  iron  figures 
that  formerly  stood  elevated  above 
the  Uving  crowd  of  fleet  Street,  on 
either  side  of  the  venerable  clo<±  of 
St  Dunstan's,  they  were  to  keep  their 
eye  fixed  on  the  dial-plate  of  a  most 
well-regulated  conscience ;  and  ever, 
as  the  hour  came  round,  they  were 
to  rise  and  strike,  and  then  subside 
into  their  metallic  repose.  Still, 
however,  the  great  sentiment  of  jus- 
tice, to  which  Godwin  made  his  appeal, 
afforded  him  a  far  more  noble  and 
manly  topic  than  the  affected  philan- 


thropy on  which  so  many  Frendi- 
men  have  been  descanting.  Justice, 
though  not  understood  after  the  man* 
ner  of  Mr  Godwin,  is  a  sentiment 
which  really  lives  and  moves  in  the 
very  heart  of  society.  Men  re^>ond 
to  an  appeal  to  their  sense  of  justice ; 
they  become  ungovernable  if  that 
sense  of  justice  is  lon^  outraged; 
they  work  upon  this  sentmient ;  they 
can  labour  and  endure  aeoor^gto 
its  dictates :  but  for  this  philanthropy, 
or  fraternity,  of  which  we  hear  so 
much — ^what  has  it  ever  done?  It 
never  regulated  the  transactions  of  a 
single  day;  never  produced  a  grain 
of  com,  or  a  shred  of  apparel ;  pro- 
duces nothing  but  theories.  It  is  a 
vain,  importunate,  idle,  and  clamorous 
sentiment :  it  is  justice  all  on  one 
side ;  it  demands  incessantiy,  it  gives 
never ;  it  has  hands  to  petition  with, 
to  clutch  with,  to  rob  with,  to  murder 
with,  but  not  to  work  with ;  it  has 
no  hand  that  holds  the  plough,  or 
strikes  upon  the  anvil. 

The  Systhne  ties  Contradictions  Eco^ 
nomiques  may  lay  claim  to  the  same 
sort  of  praise  we  have  accorded  to  the 
PoHticcU  Justice:  it  prompts  reflec- 
tion ;  and  a  man  of  intellect  sufficient- 
ly robust  to  profit  by  such  rude  gym- 
nastics, will  not  regret  its  perusal. 
It  also  avoids,  like  the  work  of  God- 
win, the  pernicious  cant  of  univer- 
sal philanthropy  —  pernicious  when 
brought  forwaiti  as  a  general  motive 
of  human  actions — and  looks  for  a 
renovation  of  society  in  a  more  en- 
lightened sentiment  of  justice— deter- 
mining anew  the  value  of  each  man^s 
labour,  and  securing  to  him  that 
value—property  being  legitimate  only 
(so  for  as  we  can  understand  our 
author)  when  it  contains  in  it  the 
labour  of  the  proprietor.  How  Justice 
is  to  execute  the  task  which  M.  Prud- 
hon,  in  very  vague  and  mysterious 
terms,  imposes  upon  her,  we  have 
not  the  least  idea ;  nor  has  an  atten- 
tive perusal  of  his  book  given  us  the 
remotest  conception  of  any  practical 
scheme  that  he  would  even  make  ex- 
periment of.  But,  at  all  events,  it  is 
better  to  descant  on  the  energetic 
sentiment  of  justice,  which  desh*es  to 
earn  and  keep  its  own,  than  on  the 
idle  sublimities  of  a  universal  frater- 
nity— a  sentiment  which  relaxes  the 
springs  of  industry,  by  teaching  every 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


8t)6 


M,  Prudhon, — ContracUcHons  Economiques, 


[March, 


man  to  expect  eveiything  from  his 
neighbom^,  or  from  an  omnipotent 
abstraction  he  calls  the  state.    It  is 
a  difference  of  some  importance,  be- 
cause all  these  schemes  for  the  reno- 
vation of  society  do,  in  fact,  end  in  a 
sort  of  moral  or  immoral  preachment. 
When  we  hare  said  thus  much,  and 
added  that  M.  Pmdhon  attacks  the 
Communists,  of  all  shades  and  descrip- 
tions, in  a  quite  overwhelming  man- 
ner, utterly  crushing  and  annihilating 
them, — ^we  have  said  the  utmost  that 
can  be  admitted,  or  devised,  in  praise 
of  his  work.  It  would  require  a  much 
longer  paragraph  to  exhaust  all  that 
might  bB  justly  said  in  its  condemna- 
tion.   It  is  strewed  over,  knee-deep, 
with  metaphysical  trash.  It  is  steeped 
in  atheism,  or  something  worse,  and 
infinitely  more  foolish ;  for  there  is  a 
pretence  of  sustainiug  "  the  hypo- 
thesis" of  a  Grod,  for  no  other  osten- 
sible reason  than  to  provide  an  object 
for  the  blasphemy  that  follows.    The 
rudest  savages,  in  their  first  concep- 
tion of  a  God,  regard  him  as  an 
enemy,  and  offer  sacrifices  to  propi- 
tiate   an   unprovoked   and    wanton 
anger— the  reflected  image  of  their 
own  wild  passions.      M.  Prudhon's 
philosophy  has  actually  brought  him, 
in  one  respect,  back  to  the  creed  of 
the  savages.    He  proves,  by  some  in- 
sane process  not  worth  foUowiug,  that 
the   Creator  of  man    is  essentially 
opposed  to  the  progress  of  human  so- 
ciety, and  is  to  be  utterly  deserted, 
desecrated,  defied.  He  does  not,  indeed, 
sacrifice,  like  the  savage  ;   he  rather 
talks  rebellious  like  Satan.     No  one 
would  believe,  who  had  not  read  the 
book,  with  what  a  mixture  of  outrage 
and  levity  he  speaks  of  the  most 
sacred  of  all  beings :  it  is  the  doc- 
trine of  the  rebel-fiend  taught  with  the 
gesticulation  of  a  satyr. 

We  shall  not  quote  a  single  passage 
to  justify  this  censure^  for  the  same 
i*eason  that  we  should  not  extract  the 
indecencies  of  a  volume  in  order  to 
prove  the  charge  of  obscenity.  Why 
should  the  ear  be  wounded,  or  the 
mind  soiled  and  disgusted,  when  no 
end  is  answered  except  the  conviction 
of  an  offender  who,  utterly  dead  to 
shame,  rejoices  to  see  his  impurities 
or  impieties  pitched  abroad? 


Notwithstanding  that  formidable 
appearance  of  metaphysics  to  which  we 
have  alluded — his  Kant  and  his  Hegel, 
his  thesis,  antithesis,  and  synthesis, 
and  allhis pretensions  to  extraordinary- 
profundity — it  so  happens  that  the 
veiy  first  elements  of  that  sdence  of 
political  economy,  which  he  affects  to 
look  down  upon  as  from  a  higher 
level,  are  often  miserably  misappre- 
hended; or — what  is  certainly  not 
more  to  his  credit — they  are  thrown, 
for  a  season,  into  a  wilful  oblivion. 
If  he  is  discoursing  upon  the  division 
of  labour,  and  its  effect  upon  the 
remuneration  of  the  workman,  he 
ignores,  for  the  time  being,  the  mani- 
fest relation  between  population  and 
wages,  and  represents  the  wages  as 
decreasing  onl^  because  the  nature  of 
the  work  reqmred  becomes  more  and 
more  simple  and  mechanical.  If  he 
is  discoursing  upon  population,  and 
its  pressure  upon  the  means  of  sub- 
-sistence,  he  can  venture  to  forget  the 
very  laws  of  nature.  ' '  You  state,"  he 
says,  ^*  that  population  increases  in  a 
geometrical  ratio  —  1,  2,  4,  8,  16; 
well,  I  will  show  that  capital  and 
wealth  follow  a  law  of  progre^on 
more  rapid  still,  of  which  each  term 
may  be  considered  as  the  square  of 
the  corresponding  number  of  the  geo- 
metrical series,  as  1,4, 16,  64,  256."* 
Since  all  our  wealth  is  derived  origi- 
nally from  the  soil,  man  must,  there- 
fore, have  it  in  his  power  to  increase 
the  fertility  of  the  soil  according  to  the 
above  ratio.  It  will  be  something 
new  to  our  farmers  to  learn  this. 

In  compensation,  we  presume,  for 
this  occasional  oblivion  of  the  truisms 
of  political  economy — truisms,  in  fact, 
of  common  sense — we  have,  here  and 
there,  strange  and  novel  definitions 
and  explanations,  ushered  in  with  that 
pomp  which  an  egotistical  Frenchman 
can  alone  display,  and  turning  out  to 
be  as  idle  verbiage  as  was  ever 
penned.  Take,  as  the  first  specimen 
we  can  call  to  mind,  the  following 
definition  of  labour.  We  cannot 
attempt  to  translate  it :  the  English 
language  does  not  easily  mould  itself 
to  nonsense  of  this  sort: — "  Qu'est-ce 
done  que  le  travail?  Nnl  encore  ne 
Ta  dMni.  Le  travail  est  IMmission 
de  Tesprit.   Travailler,  c'est  denser 


♦  Vol.  U.,  p.  461. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


M,  Prudhon, — Contradictions  Economiques. 


807 


sa  vie ;  travailler,  en  un  mot,  c*est  so 
d^yoaer,  c^est  moarir.  Quo  les  nto- 
pistos  no  nous  parlent  ploB  do  d^vofi- 
ment:  c^est  le  travail,  exprim^  et 
mesnr^  par  ses  ceuvres." — (Vol.  ii., 
p.  465.)  Laboar  needed  to  be  de- 
fined, it  seemed ;  and  this  is  the  defi- 
nition, '^  L*^mission  de  Tesprit  T*  And 
in  play,  then,  as  well  as  in  work,  is 
there  no  emission  of  the  spirits,  or 
mind,  or  life  of  the  man?  Did  M. 
Fmdhon  never  mn  a  race,  or  handle 
a  bat  at  cricket,  or  ride  with  the 
hoands?  or  can  he  not  remember  that 
such  things  are,^  though  not  in  his 
philosophy?  But  dear,  inexpressibly 
dear  to  M.  Prudhon,  is  every  idea  of 
his  own  that  savours  of  paradox ;  and 
the  more  it  violates  common  sense, 
the  more  tenderly  he  clings  to  it, 
cherishes,  and  vaunts  it.  This,  doubt- 
less, is  one  of  his  favourite  children. 
His  celebrated  aphorism,  *^  La  Pro- 
pria t^  c^est  le  vol,** — ^he  contradicts  it 
iilmself  in  every  page  of  his  writings, 
yet  boasts  and  cherishes  it  as  his 
greatest  i>ossession,  and  the  most  re- 
markable discovery  of  the  age.  **  La 
definition  de  la  propri^t^,**  he  says,  in 
answer  to  a  sarcasm  of  M.  Michelet, 
**  est  mienne,  et  toute  mon  ambition 
est  de  prouver  que  j*en  ai  compris  le 
sens  et  T^tendue.  La  propri&d  c'est 
levol!  il  ne  se  dit  pas,  en  mille  ans, 
deux  mots  comme  cclui-lk  Je  n*ai 
d^autre  bien  snr  la  terre  que  cette  de- 
finition de  la  propriety :  mais  je  la 
tiens  plus  preciense  que  les  millions 
des  Rothschild,  et  j*ose  dire  qn^elle 
sera  r^v^nement  le  plus  considerable 
da  gonvemement  de  Louis-Philippe." 
—Cyol.  ii.,  p.  828.) 

£ven  in  that  tenebrous  philosophy 
which  he  has  imported  m>m  Ger- 
many, and  which  he  teaches  with  such 
caustic  condescension  to  the  political 
economists,  he  is  very  much  at  fault. 
It  is  always,  we  know,  an  adven- 
tuvous  matter  to  accuse  any  one  who 
deals  in  the  idealistic  metaphysics 
of  modem  Germany  of  obscurity,  or 
of  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  theo- 
ries taught  in  his  own  school.  The 
man  has  but  to  dive  into  deeper  mud 
to  escape  from  you.  Follow  him  you 
assuredly  cannot ;  he  is  out  of  sight, 
and  the  thick  sediment  deters;  and 
thus,  in  the  eyes  of  all  who  are  not 
aware  what  the  capture  would  cost  to 
any  hapless  pursuer,  the  fugitive  is 


sure  of  his  triumph.  Nevertheless, 
we  venture  to  assert  that  M.  Prudhon 
is  but  a  young,  and  a  not  very  pro- 
mising scholar  in  the  philosophy  of 
Kant  and  of  Hegel.  Two  very  ma- 
nifest blunders  it  will  be  enough  to 
indicate :  he  assimilates  his  Contra- 
dictions Economiques  to  the  Antino- 
mies of  the  Pure  Reason  developed  by 
Kant ;  gnd  he  confounds  Kant  with 
Hegel  hi  a  matter  where  they  are 
widely  opposed,  and  speaks  as  if  the 
same  law  of  contradiction  were  com- 
mon to  both. 

After  alluding  to  some  of  his  own 
^*  contradictions,** he  says,  "Telesten- 
core  le  probl^me  de  la  divisibility  dela 
mati^re  a  Tinfini,  que  Kant  a  dd- 
montre  pouvoir  ^tre  nie  et  afiirme, 
tour- k* tour,  par  des  arguments  egale- 
ment  plausibles  et  irrefutables." — (Vol. 
i.  p.  43.)  It  is  the  object  of  Kant,  in 
one  of  the  most  striking  portions  of 
the  Critique  of  Pure  Rtason^  to  show 
that,  in  certain  problems,  the  mind  is 
capable  of  being  led  with  equal  force 
of  conviction  to  directly  opposite  con- 
clusions. The  pure  reason,  it  seems, 
gets  hold  of  the  forms  of  the  under- 
standing, and  can  extract  nothing  from 
them  but  a  series  of  antinomies,  like 
that  which  M.  Prudhon  has  alluded 
to,  where  the  infinite  divisibility  of 
matter  is  both  proved  and  disproved 
with  equal  success.  Now  what  ana- 
logy is  there  between  the  contradic^- 
tions  which  M.  Prudhon  can  develop, 
in  any  one  of  our  social  laws,  and  tho 
antinomies  of  Kant  ?  In  these  last, 
two  opposite  conclusions  of  speculative 
reason  are  arrived  at,  which  destroy 
each  other ;  in  the  Contradictions  Eco- 
nomiques, the  good  and  evil  flowing 
from  the  same  law  may  very  easily 
co-exist.  They  affect  different  per- 
sons, or  the  same  persons  at  different 
times.  Free  competition,  for  instance, 
in  trade  or  manufacture,  may  be 
viewed  on  its  bright  side  as  the  pro- 
moter of  industry  and  invention ;  on 
its  dark  side  as  the  fomenter  of  strife, 
and  the  inflicter  of  injury  on  those 
who  lose  in  the  game  of  wealth.  But 
the  benefit  and  injury  arising  from 
this  source  do  not  destroy  each  other, 
like  the  yes  and  no  of  an  abstract 
proposition;  they  can  be  balanced 
against  each  other;  they  co-exist,  and, 
for  aught  we  see,  will  eternally  co- 
exist.     Let   them  be  as  strikingly 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


906 


M.  Pmdhati. — Omtratketiomt  Eeomomtiquts. 


[March, 


opposed  as  yon  will,  thej  can  haye 
nothing  in  common  with  the  anti- 
nomies of  Kant.  M.  Prndhon  proves 
that  there  is  darkness  and  brightness 
scattered  over  the  surface  of  society : 
he  does  not  prove  that  the  same  spot, 
at  the  saa^  moment,  is  both  Uack 
and  white. 

From  Kant  he  slides  to  Hegel,  as 
if  their  tenets  on  this  subject  at  all  re- 
sembled each  other.  Kant  saw  in  his 
contradictions  an  arrest  of  the  reason, 
Hegel  the  very  principle  and  condition 
of  all  thought.  Thought  involves  con- 
tradictions. In  the  simplest  idea,  that 
of  being,  is  involved  the  idea  of  no- 
being;  neither  can  we  think  of  no- 
being  without  having  the  idea  of  being. 
Now  as  thought  and  thmg  are  identi- 
cal in  the  absolute,  (this  every  one 
knows,)  whatever  may  be  said  of  the 
thought  may  be  said  of  the  thing,  and 
hence  the  edd)rated  formula,  Bemg  3= 
no  being — sem  =>  mcki  son — some- 
thing and  nothing  are  identicaL 

As  thought  and  thing  are  identical 
in  the  absolute,  logic  is  a  creaticm  and 
creation  is  a  logic;  thus  the  meta- 
physics of  Hegel  became  a  cosmogony 
in  which  all  things  proceed  according 
to  the  laws  of  thought,  and  are  there- 
fore developed  in  a  series  of  contra- 
dictions. Now  let  M.  Prndhon  be  as 
thorough  master  of  the  Hegelian  logic, 
or  the  Hegelian  cosmogony,  as  he 
desires  to  be  esteemed,  how,  in  the 
name  of  commcm  sense,  can  he  hope 
to  clear  up  the  difficulties  of  political 
economy  by  mixing  them  with  a  phi- 
losophy like  this?  How  will  his 
thesis  and  his  antithesis  help  ns  to 
adjust  the  claims  between  labour  and 
capital?  If  he  has  any  adjustment 
to  propose— if  he  has  found  what  he 
calls  his  synthesis— let  us  hear  it.  If 
the  synthesis  is  only  to  be  developed  in 
those  fotnre  evolutions  of  time,  which 
neither  he  nor  we  can  divine,  of  what 
use  all  this  angry  exposition  of  the  in- 
evitable CofUradictumM  that  mark  and 
constitute  the  progress  of  humanity? 

Enough  of  these  metaphysics.  It 
was  necessary  to  say  this  much  of  the 
peculiar  form  into  which  M.  Prndhon 
nas  chosen  to  cast  his  thoughts ;  but 
there  will  be  no  occasion  to  allude  to 
it  again.  Whatever  there  is  of  truth 
or  significance  in  his  work,  may  eamly 
be  transfBrred  into  ^  i^g^Vg«»  familiar 
and  intelligible  to  alL 


We  have  eaten,  says  one,  of  tho 
forbidden  fimit  of  the  tree  of  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  and  the 
taste  of  them  has  been  thenceforth 
invariably  blended  together.  There 
is  a  law  of  compensation — thus  an- 
other expresses  it — ^throughout  the 
world,  both  moral  and  physical,  by 
which  every  evil  is  balanced  by  its 
good,  and  every  good  by  its  besetting 
evlL  Humanity,  says  a  third,  pro- 
greases  without  doubt,  and  obtains  at 
each  stage  a  fuller  and  a  higher  life; 
bat  there  is  an  original  proportion  of 
misery  in  its  lot,  firom  which  there  is  no 
escape :  this  also  swells  and  darkens 
as  we  rise.  To  use  the  language  of 
chemistry,  you  may  increase  the  vol- 
ume of  this  ambient  life  we  breathe, 
but  still,  to  every  one-hundred  part  of 
vital  air  there  shall  be  added  twraty- 
five  of  mepLitic  vapour.  All  th€^ 
are  different  modes  of  expressing  the 
homely  truth,  that  a  shadow  of  evil 
falls  even  firom  the  best  of  things;  and 
it  is  this  truth  which  is  really  de- 
veloped in  the  Comtradictiotu  Eamo^ 
migues. 

It  is  a  truth  which,  at  times,  it  may 
be  very  needful  fully  to  recognise. 
When  men  of  sincere  convictions  are 
found  agitating  society  for  some  or- 
ganic change,  their  errors  may  be  al- 
ways traced  to  an  over-sanguine  and 
one-sided  view  of  the  capalnlities  of 
man  for  hi^ipiness.  The  conservative 
and  the  movement  parties,  philoso- 
phically considered,  may  be  described 
as  branching  out  of  different  opinions 
on  the  probable  or  possible  progress 
of  society.  The  philosophical  conser- 
vative has  accepted  humanity  as  it  is — 
as,  in  its  great  features,  it  is  exhibited 
thix>nghout  all  regions  of  the  earth, 
and  in  the  page  of  history :  he  hails 
with  welcome  every  addition  to  human 
happiness;  he  believes  in  progress, 
he  derides  the  notion  of  perfectibility, 
—it  is  a  word  he  cannot  use;  herecog- 
nises  mudi  happiness  coming  in  to 
mankind  from  many  and  various 
sources,  but  still  believes  that  man 
will  never  find*  himself  so  content  on 
earth  as  to  cease  looking  forward 
for  the  complement  and  perfection  of 
his  felicity  to  another  world.  The  phi- 
losopher of  the  movement  party  has 
made  a  sort  of  religion  of  his  hopes 
of  homanity:  he  oonoetvea  some  ideal 
state,  and  anticipstea  its  developBieat 


Digitized  by 


Gooi 


1849.] 


Js«  xTWwiO.       CmtJfOthcitOHi 


300 


here;  he  dismantles  heayen  and  immor- 
UHty  to  famish  oat  his  masquerade 
Ofn  earth ;  or,  with  still  Tagoer  notions, 
he  rosbes  forward  upon  reforms  that 
imply,  for  their  justification,  the  exis- 
tence of  what  never  yet  was  seen — ^a 
temperate  and  enlightened  moltitode. 

It  follows  that  tht  oonservadye  has 
allotted  to  him  the  nngracioos  and 
iDvidioos  task  of  discoaraging  the 
hopes  of  a  too  eager  philanthropy; 
be  is  compelled  to  show,' of  certain 
evils,  that  they  are  constantly  to  be 
contended  against,  bat  never  can  be 
eradicated.  Society  has  been  often 
oompared  to  a  pyramid;  its  broad 
basis  on  the  earth,  and  towering  high 
or  not,  according  as  circamstances 
were  propitioos  to  its  formation ;  bat 
always  the  broad  basis  lying  on  the 
earth.  He  accepts  the  ancient  simile ; 
he  recognises  the  nnalterable  pyramid. 
Withoot  aid  of  priest  or  legislator, 
society  assomes  this  form ;  it  crystal- 
lises tbns ;  higher  and  higher,  broader 
and  broader,  it  rises,  and  extends, 
bat  still  the  lowest  stratum  is  lying 
close  upon  the  earth.  Will  you  dis- 
guise the  fact?  It  is  fruitless,  and 
the  falsehood  only  recoils  upon  your- 
eelf,  rendering  what  truth  you  utter 
weak  andsospicious.  Will  you  strive 
to  make  the  pyramid  stand  upon  its 
apex  ?  It  will  not  stand ;  and  what 
god  or  giant  have  you  to  hold  it  there? 
Or  will  you  join  the  madman,  who, 
because  the  lowest  stratam  cannot  be 
made  the  highest,  nor  any  other  but 
the  lowest,  would  lev^  the  whole 
pyramid  to  the  ground,  and  makeevery 
part  touch  the  earth?  No;  you  will 
do  all  in  your  power  for  that  lowest 
stratum,  but  you  will  not  consent 
that,  because  ail  cannot  be  cultivated 
and  refined,  no  one  shall  have  a  chance 
of  becoming  so.  You  aco^  the 
pjrramkL 

When  M.  Prodhon  criticises  the  laws 
which  preside  over  the  production  and 
distribution  of  wealth,  and  shows  their 
twofold  and  antagonistic  infinence, 
he  is  but  illustrating  the  inevitable 
formation  of  our  pyramid.  Let  us 
follow  him  in  a  fow  instances. 

The  Dwuiom  of  Labowr.—TinB  is 
the  first  topic  on  which  our  author 
descants—the  first  of  our  economic 
laws  in  which  he  finds  his  contradic- 
tiims — his  two  poles  of  good  and  evil. 
On  the  advantages  of  tibe  division  of 


labour,  we  have  bat  to  call  to  mind 
the  earlier  chapters  of  Adam  Smith, 
wherein  these  are  so  truthfoUy  and 
vividly  described.  Indeed,  the  least 
reflection  is  sufficient  to  show  tiiat,  if 
each  man  ondertook  by  his  own  labour 
to  {NTOvide  for  all  his  wants,  it  would 
be  impossible  for  society  to  advance 
beyond  the  very  rudest  form  of  exis- 
tence. One  man  must  be  tailor,  an- 
other shoemaker,  another  agricultu- 
rist, another  artist;  and  these  trades 
or  occupations,  to  be  brought  to  per- 
fection, must  again  be  subdivided  into 
differentdepartments  of  industry — and 
(me  man  makes  the  coat,  and  another 
weaves  the  cloth,  one  man  makes  the 
shoe,  and  another  dresses  the  leather. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  these  depart- 
ments are  again  divided  into  an  almost 
infinite  number  of  separate  occupa- 
tions; till,  at  length,  we  find  that  a 
man  employs  his  whole  day  in  turning 
one  thread  over  another,  or  in  manu- 
facturing the  eighteenth  part  of  a  pin. 

But  now,  no  sooner  does  this  division 
of  employments  obtain  in  society,  than 
our  pyramid  begins  to  form.  The 
man  of  manual  labour  rests  still  at  the 
basis ;  he  of  superior  skill,  the  artist, 
or  the  intellectual  workman,  rises  per- 
manently above  him.  The  more  mi- 
nute this  division  of  labour,  the  more 
simple  and  mechanical  becomes  the 
labour  of  the  artisan;  the  education 
he  receives  from  his  employment  be- 
comes more  and  more  limited ;  he  is 
wanted  for  so  little ;  he  is  esteemed, 
and,  if  other  circamstances  permit,  re- 
munerated accordingly. 

^^  Although,"  says  the  celebrated 
economist,  J.  B.  Say,  *^  a  man  who 
performs  one  operation  all  his  life 
comes  to  execute  it  better  and  m<H:o 
rapidly  than  any  other  man,  yet  at 
the  same  time  he  grows  less  capable 
of  every  other  occupation,  physicid  and 
moral ;  his  other  faculties  are  extin- 
guished, and  there  results  a  degrada- 
tion to  the  human  being  considered 
individually.  It  is  a  sad  account  to 
give  of  one's-self  to  have  accomplished 
nothing  but  the  eighteenth  part  of  a 
pin.  ...  In  ocmclusion,  it  may  be 
said  that  the  sepanrtion  of  labours  is 
a  skilful  employment  of  the  force  of 
man — that  it  increases  prodigiouslj 
the  products  of  society---but  it  de- 
stroys something  <tf  the  capacity  of  the 
individoal  man." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


M.  PnuBkom, — Oomiradietkm$  Eeomomtgues. 


810 


That  this  inevitable  diyisioa  and 
subdiyision  of  labour  gives  rise  to,  and 
renders  permanent,  ue  distinction  of 
classes  in  a  oommnnitj,  is  dear 
enough.  Bat  we  do  not  agree  with 
M.  Say,  and  other  economists,  in  re- 
presenting that  minnte  sabdivision  of 
labonr  which  accompanies  a  very  ad- 
vanced state  of  civilisation,  as  peco- 
liarlyinjorions  to  the  workman.  That 
degradation  of  the  artisan,  which  might 
ensne  from  the  monotony  and  triviality 
of  lus  employment,  is  counteracted  by 
that  variety  of  interests  which  spring 
up  in  a  civilised  conunonity.  This 
eighteenth  part  of  a  pin  is  not  all  that 
educates  or  engages  his  mind.  He  is 
not  a  solitary  workman.  His  file  and 
his  wire  are  not  lus  sole  companions. 
He  has  the  gossip  of  his  neighbour- 
hood, the  pNolitics  of  his  parish,  of  his 
town,  of  his  country — whatever  fills 
the  columns  of  a  newspaper,  or  gives 
topic  of  conversation  to  a  populous 
city— he  has,  at  least,  all  this  for  intel- 
lectual food.  The  man  of  handicraft 
is  educated  by  the  city  he  lives  in,  not 
by  his  handicraft ;  and  the  humblest 
artisan  feels  the  influence  of  that  high- 
er civUisation  from  which  he  seems  at 
first  to  be  entirely  shut  out.  Hodge 
the  countryman,  who  can  sow,  and 
plough,  and  reap ;  who  understands 
hed^g  and  ditching,  and  the  man- 
agement of  sheep ;  who  is  accomplish- 
ed in  all  agricultural  labours,  ought  to 
be,  if  lus  daily  avocations  alone  de- 
cided the  matter,  infinitely  superior  to 
the  village  cobbler,  who  travels  only 
from  the  sole  to  the  upper  leather,  and 
who  squats  stitching  all  day  long. 
But  the  cobbler  is  generally  the  more 
knowing,  and  certainly  the  more  talka- 
tive man.  Hodge  himselfis  the  first  to 
recognise  it ;  for  he  listens  to  him  at  the 
ale-house,which  sometimes  brings  them 
together,  as  to  an  oracle  of  wisdom. 

Machinery. — The  benefit  derived 
from  machinery  needs  no  explanation. 
The  more  simple  order  of  machines,  or 
instruments— as  the  plough,  the  axe, 
and  the  spindle — have  never  been 
otherwise  considered  than  as  precious 
gifts  to  human  industry ;  and  the  more 
complicated  machines,  which  have  been 
invented  in  modem  times,  have  no 
sooner  established  themselves,  so  to 
speak,  in  society—have  no  sooner,  at 
the  expense  of  some  temporary  evils, 
secured  themselves  a  quiet  recognised 


[March, 


poeitioii— than  they,  too,  have  been 
welcomed  in  the  same  character  as 
signal  aids  to  human  industry.  But 
while  the  machine  has  added  immense- 
ly to  the  products  of  labour,  it  has 
done  nothing  to  diminish  the  dass  of 
manual  labonrs.  It  has  done  nothing, 
nor  does  it  seem  probable  that  it  will 
ever  efiect  anything,  towards  render- 
ing that  class  less  requisite  or  less 
numerous.  On  the  oontrair,  it  has 
always,  hitherto,  multiplied  that  dass. 
The  machine  will  not  go  of  itself,  will 
not  manufacture  itself,  nor  keep  it- 
self in  repair.  The  human  labourer 
becomes  the  slave  of  the  madune. 
He  created  it  for  his  service,  and  it 
serves  him,  but  on  condition  only  that 
he  binds  himself  to  a  redprocal  bond- 
age. You  spin  by  a  steam-engine, 
and  some  complicated  system  of  reds 
and  pulleys,  but  the  human  finger  is 
not  spared — the  human  volition  is 
still  wanted.  To  manufacture  this 
machine,  to  tend  it,  to  govern  it — in 
short,  to  use  it — far  more  manual  la- 
bour is  called  into  requisition  than 
ever  turned  the  simple  spinning-wheel, 
or  teased  the  flax  from  the  distaff. 
Yon  have  more  garments  woven,  but 
the  better  dad  are  not  exactly  those 
who  weave  them.  The  machine  has 
called  into  existence,  for  its  own  ser- 
vice, an  immense  population,  ill  fed 
and  ill  dothed.  Our  pyramid  is  ex- 
tending at  the  basis :  as  it  rises  high- 
er it  is  growing  broader. 

ifoft^— C(9>tto/.— We  class  these 
together  because  they  are  intimately 
connected.  Capital  is  not  money,  but 
there  would  have  been  little  accumula- 
tion of  c^)ital  but  for  the  use  of  money. 

The  youthful  student  of  politiod 
economy  meets  with  no  chapter  in  his 
books  of  sdence  so  amusing,  and  so 
thoroughly  convincing,  as  that  which 
shows  him  the  utility  of  money,  and 
the  reasons  which  have  led  almost  all 
nations  to  prefer  the  predous  metals 
for  their  instruments  of  exchange. 
Without  some  such  instrument,  what 
is  to  be  done?  A  man  has  made  a 
hat,  and  wants  a  pound  of  butter.  He 
cannot  divide  his  hat :  what  would 
be  hiUf  a  hat  ?  Besides,  the  man  who 
has  the  butter  does  not  want  the  hat. 
But  the  predous  metals  come  in  mar- 
vellously to  his  aid.  They  are  divi- 
sible into  the  smallest  portions ;  they 
are  durable,  will  not  spoil  by  keeping  f 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


M,  Prudhan. — OmtradkHans  Economiquea, 


they  are  of  steady  valae,  and  wQl  not 
mach  depredate :  if  the  qian  of  bntter 
does  not  want  them,  he  can  always 
find  somebody  that  does ;  no  fear  bat 
that  they  will  easUy  pass  from  hand 
to  hand,  as  each  one  wishes  to  barter 
them  for  whateyer  he  may  want. 

It  is  generally  said,  that  it  is  the 
steadiness  of  their  valne  that  consti- 
tuted one  chief  reason  for  the  selection 
of  gold  and  silver  for  the  purposes  of 
money.  This  is  undoubtedly  tme;  but 
it  is  also  true  (and  we  do  not  remem- 
ber to  have  heard  this  previously  re- 
marked) that  the  use  of  the  precious 
metals  for  money  has  tended  to  pre- 
serve and  perpetuate  that  steadiness 
<^  value.  Had  gold  and  silver  re- 
mained as  simple  articles  of  merchan- 
dise, they  would  probably  have  suffered 
considerable  fluctuations  in  their  value 
from  the  caprice  of  foshion  and  the 
altered  taste  of  society.  In  them- 
selves, they  were  chiefly  articles  of 
luxury ;  the  employment  of  them  for 
money  made  them  objects  of  indispen- 
sable utiUty. 

Money  there  must  be.  Yet  mark 
how  its  introduction  tends  to  destroy 
equality,  to  favour  accumulation,  to 
raise  the  hill  and  sink  the  valley.  If 
men  bartered  article  against  article, 
they  would  generally  barter  in  order 
to  consume.  But  when  one  of  them 
barters  for  gold,  he  can  lay  it  by ;  he 
can  postpone  at  his  pleasure  the  period 
of  consumption;  he  can  postpone  it 
for  the  benefit  of  his  issue.  The  piece 
of  gold  was  bought  originallv  with  the 
sweat  of  his  brow ;  who  shall  say  that 
a  year,  ten  years,  fifty  years  hence,  he 
may  not  traffic  it  again  fbr  the  sweat 
of  the  brow?  The  pieces  of  gold 
accumulate,  his  children  possess  them, 
and  now  a  generation  appears  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  who  have  not  toiled, 
who  do  not  toil  all  their  lives,  who  are 
sustained  in  virtue  of  the  labours  of 
their  ancestor.  Their  fathers  saved, 
and  they  enjoy ;  or  they  employ  a  part 
of  the  accumulation  in  the  purchase  of 
the  labour  of  others,  by  which  means 
their  riches  still  further  increase.  The 
pyramid  rises.  But  the  descendants 
of  those  fathers  who  had  consumed 
the  product  of  their  labour,  they  bring 
no  postponed  claim  into  the  market. 
These  are  they  who  must  sell  their 
labour.  They  must  work  for  the  chil- 
dren of  those  who  had  saved.    Our 


811 

pyramid  broadens  at  the  base.    This 
perpetual  valne  given  to  money  has 
enabled  the  man  of  one  generation  to 
tax  all  ensuing  generations  with  the 
support  of  his  offspring.  Hence  much 
good;  for  hence  the  leisure  that  per- 
mits the  cultivation  of  the  mind,  that 
fosters  art,  and  refinement,  and  re- 
flection :  we  have  to  notice  here  only 
how  inevitably  it  builds  the  pyramid. 
And  now  two  classes  are  formed, 
distinct  and  far  asunder — the  capi- 
talist, and  he  who  works  for  wages. 
Comes  the  social  reformer,  and  he 
would  restore  the  equality  between 
them.     But  how?     We  will  fuse, 
says  one,  the  two  classes  together: 
they  shall  carry  on  their  mancSacture 
in  a  joint  partnership:  all  shall  be 
partners— all  shall  be  workmen.    But 
even  M.  Prudhon  will  tell  us  that,  if 
the  profits  of  the  great  capitalist  were 
divided  equally  amongst  all  the  arti- 
sans he  employs,  each  one  would  find 
his  gains  increased  by  a  very  little ; 
and  it  is  morally  certain  that  profits 
equal  to  those  he  had  obtained  would 
never  accrue  from  a  partnership  of 
many  hundreds  of  workmen.     The 
wealth  of  the  country  would,  there- 
fore, be  put  in  jeopardy,  and  all  the 
course  of  its  industry  and  property 
deranged,  for  no  end  whatever.    At 
all  events,  exclaims  another,  we  will 
reduce  the  inequality  which  we  cannot 
expunge,  and  put  down  the  enormous 
and  tyrannical  capitalist:    we   will 
have  a  law  limiting  the  fortune  of 
each  individual  to  so  many  hundreds 
or  thousands ;  or,  if  we  fdlow  a  man 
to   earn  and  appropriate  unlimited 
wealth,  we  will  take  care  that  it  shall 
be  dispersed  at  his  death, — ^not  even 
to  his  son  shall  he  be  permitted  to 
bequeath  more  than  a  certain  sum. 
But  all  schemes  of  this  kind  can  tend 
only  to  equalise  the  fortunes  of  the 
first  class— those  who  employ  labour ; 
they  do  not  affect,  in  the  least,  the 
condition   of  the  second  class — the 
employed.     These   will   not  obtain 
better  wages  from  smaller  capitalists 
than  from  larger.    A  third — It  is  M. 
Prudhon  himself— will  have  a  new 
law  of  value  established,  and  a  new 
law  of  property.    It  is  labour  only 
that  shall  give  title  to  property,  and 
the  exchangeable  value  of  every  article 
shall  be  regulated  according  to  the 
labour  it  may  be  said  to  contain  i 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


812 


A£,  /^'wftBiw.    OawfrxKPCfcoiig  SeonMiMiquei, 


[Mtfcb, 


gropositions,  however,  wfakh  do  not 
elp  Its  ia  tke  least  degree,  for  capi- 
tal is  itself  the  prodace  of  labour ;  its 
daiiOB,  tberdbre,  are  legitimate ;  and 
the  Tery  problem  given  is  to  arbitrate 
between  tiie  claims  of  capital  and 
labour. 

Rtnt  and  Property  m  Lami.—'nus 
is  l^e  last  tqiic  we  shall  mention. 
The  absolute  necessitj  of  property  in 
land,  in  order  diat  the  soil  should  be 
cultivated,  (that  is,  under  any  condi- 
tion in  which  humanity  has  hitherto 
presented  itself,)  is  a  palpable  tnusm. 
Yet  property  in  land  leads  to  the  exac- 
tion of  rent---leads  to  Uie  same  division 
which  we  have  seen  marked  out  by 
so  many  laws  between  two  classes  of 
society — ^those  who  may  enjoy  leisure, 
and  those  who  must  submit  to  labour; 
classes  whidi  are  genamlly  disdn- 
guished  as  the  rich  and  poor,  never, 
we  may  observe  in  passing,  as  the 
happy  and  nnhi^py,  for  leisure  may 
be  as  great  a  curse  as  labour. 

It  is  true  that  large  estates  in  land 
exist  before  corresponding  accorau- 
iations  of  capital  have  been  made  in 
commerce,  for  land  is  often  seized  by 
the  mere  right  of  conquest ;  but  stiU 
these  large  possessions  would  certain- 
ly arise  as  a  nation  increased  its 
wealth.  The  man  who  has  cultivated 
land  successfully  will  add  field  to 
field ;  and  he  who  has  gained  a  lai^ 
sum  of  money  by  commerce,  or  manu- 
facture, will  purchase  land  with  it 
The  fact  therefore,  that,  in  the  eariy 
period  of  a  nation's  history,  the  soil 
has  been  usurped  by  conquest,  or  by 
the  sheer  right  <^  the  strongest,  inter- 
feres not  at  all  with  the  real  nature  of 
that  property;  as,  independently  of 
this  accident  of  conquest,  land  would 
have  become  portioned  in  the  same 
onequal  manner  by  the  operation  of 
purely  economical  causes.  Just  in 
the  same  way,  the  fact  that  warlike 
nations  have  subjected  their  captives 
to  slavery— imposed  the  labours  of 
life  on  slaves — cannot  be  said  to  have 
had  ray  influence  in  origmating  the 
existence,  at  the  present  thne,  of  a 
dass  of  working  people. 

Thus  every  law  of  political  economy, 
having,  as  it  were,  its  two  poles,  up- 
wards and  downwards,  helps  to  erect 
our  pyramid.  Religion,  education, 
charity,  penneate  the  whole  mass, 
and  labour  to  rectify  the  apparent 


iiQustice  of  fortune.  Admirable  is 
their  inflnoice:  but  yet  we  cannot 
build  on  ray  other  model  than  this. 

**  Nay,  but  we  can!^  exclaim  the 
Communists ;  and  forthwith  they  pro- 
ject a  complete  demolition  of  the  old 
pyramid,  and  the  erection  of  a  series 
of  parallelogram  palaces,  all  level  with 
the  earth,  and  palace  every  inch  of 
them. 

We  have  said  that  M.  Pradhon  is 
a  formidable  adversary  of  these  Com- 
munists— ^the  more  formidable  from 
tiie  having  himself  no  great  attach- 
ment to  ^^  things  as  they  are."  His 
exposition  of  the  manifold  absurdities 
and  B^-contradictions  into  which 
they  fall,  may  possibly  render  good 
service  to  his  countrymen.  Especi- 
ally we  were  glad  to  see,  that  on  the 
subject  of  marriage  he  is  quite 
sound.  No  one  cotdd  more  distinctly 
perceive,  or  more  forcibly  state,  the 
intimate  connexion  that  lies  between 
property  and  marriage.  *^  Mais,  c'est 
surtout  dans  la  famiiie  que  se  decon- 
vre  le  sens  profond  de  la  propri^t^. 
La  famille  et  la  propria  marchent 
defixmt,  appuy6es  Tune  sur  Tantre, 
n'a3rantrane  et  Tantre  de  signification, 
et  de  vaieur,  que  par  le  rapport  qui  lea 
unit.  Avec  la  propri^^  commence 
le  rdle  de  la  femme.  Le  manage — cette 
chose  tonte  id^i^,  et  que  Ton  s'efforoe 
en  vain  de  rendre  ridicule— le  manage 
est  le  royanme  de  la  femme,  le  monu- 
ment de  ia  famiiie.  Otez  le  manage, 
otes  cette  pierre  du  foyer,  centre  d'at- 
traction  des  ^poux,  il  reste  des  couples, 
il  n'y  a  plus  de  families."— (Vol.  ii. 
253.) 

In  this  country,  happily,  it  would 
be  superfluous — a  mere  slaying  of  the 
slain — to  expose  the  folly  of  these 
Utopias.  Utopias  indeed  t — that  would 
deprive  men  of  personal  liberty,  of 
domestic  affection,  of  everything  that 
is  most  valued  in  lifo,  to  shut  them  up 
in  a  strange  building  which  is  to  be 
palace,  prison,  and  workhouse,  all  in 
one ;  which  must  have  a  good  deal  of 
the  workhouse,  if  it  has  anything  of 
the  palace,  rad  will  probably  have 
more  of  the  prison  in  it  thra  either. 

Briefly,  the  case  may  be  stated  thus : 
— ^The  €(mt  of  such  a  community  would 
be  liberty,  marriage,  enterprise,  hope, 
and  generosity— for,  under  such  an  in- 
stitution, what  could  ray  man  have  to 
give  or  receive?    The  gam  would  ba 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


M.  Pntdhom. — Cmiradki»m»  Eoonmmques. 


task-work  for  all,  board  and  lodging 
for  all,  and  a  shameless  sensnality ;  the 
working-bell,  the  dinner-bell,  and  the 
curfew.  It  would  be  a  sacrifice  of  all 
ihMi  is  high,  ennobling,  and  spiritual, 
to  all  that  is  material,  animal,  and 
vile. 

But  if  men  think  otherwise  of  the 
fraternal  community— if  they  think 
that,  because  philanthropy  presides,  or 
«eem8  to  preside,  over  its  formation, 
that  therefore  philanthropy  will  con- 
tinue to  animate  all  its  daily  func- 
tions— why  do  they  not  voluntarily 
unite  and  form  this  community?  Th^ 
are  fond  of  quoting  the  example  of 
the  early  Christians ;  these  were  really 
under  the  influence  of  a  firatemal  sen- 
timent, and  acted  on  it :  let  them  do 
likewise,  Uiere  is  nothing  to  prevent 
them.  But  no:  the  French  Socialist 
sees  in  imagination  a  whole  state 
working  for  him ;  he  has  no  idea  of 
<sommeocing  by  practisiog  the  stem 
virtues  of  industry,  and  abstinence, 
and  fortitude.  His  mode  of  thinking 
is  this — a  certain  being  called  Society 
is  to  do  everything  far  him — at  the 
cost,  perhaps,  of  some  slight  service 
rendered  upon  his  part.  If  he  is  poor, 
it  is  society  that  keeps  him  so ;  if  he 
Is  vicious,  it  is  society  that  makes 
him  so— upon  society  rest  all  our 
crimes,  and  devolve  ail  our  duties. 

There  lies  the  great  mischief  of 
promulgating  thc^  impracticable 
theories  of  Communism.  All  is  taught 
as  being  done  for  the  individnaL  The 
egregious  error  is  committed  of  trust- 
ing all  to  a  certain  organisation  of 
aociety,  which  is  to  be  a  substitute  for 
the  moral  efforts  of  individual  man. 
Patience,  fortitude,  self-sacrifice,  a  high 
aense  of  imperative  duty,  are  supposed 
to  be  rendered  unnecessary  in  a 
scheme  of  things  which,  if  it  were 
possible,  would  require  these  virtues 
in  a  pre-eminent  degree.  The  virtu- 
ous enthusiast  would  find  iiimself^ 
indeed,  utterly  mistaken — the  stage 
which  he  thought  prepared  for  the 
exhibition  of  Sie  serenest  virtues, 
would  be  a  scene  given  up  to  mere 
animal  life :  but  still,  if  he  limited 
liimself  to  the  teaching  of  these  virtues 
— K>f  a  godlike  temperance,  and  a  per- 
petual aelf-negatioo— it  is  not  pro- 


813 

bable,  indeed,  that  he  would  find  many 
disciples ;  neither  is  it  easy  to  see  that 
any  great  mischief  could  ensue.  Every 
conmiunity,  where  possessions  have 
been  in  common,  which  has  at  all 
succeeded,  has  been  sustained  <by 
reli^ous  zeal— the  most  potent  of  all 
sentiments,  and  one  extraneous  to 
the  frame-work  of  society.  French 
Communism  is  the  product  of  idleness 
and  sensnality,  provoked  into  ferocity 
by  commercial  distress;  clamouring 
for  means  of  self-indidgence  Jram  the 
state,  aad  prepared  to  extmrt'  its 
claim  by  any  amount  of  massacre. 

Thus  we  have  shown  that  the  work 
of  M.  Fradhon,  with  its  coniradictwnsy 
or  laws  of  good  and  of  evil,  tends  but 
to  illustrate  the  inevitable  rise  and 
unalterable  nature  of  our  social  pyra- 
mid. This  was  our  object,  and  here 
must  end  our  present  labours  on  M. 
Frudhon.  If  our  readers  are  disap- 
pointed that  they  have  not  heard  more 
of  his  own  schemes  for  the  better 
construction  of  society — ^that  they 
have  not  learned  more  of  the  mystery 
concealed  under  the  funous  paradox 
that  has  been  blown  about  by  all  the 
winds  of  heaven— fa  propriiU  c'ut  k 
vol! — we  can  only  say  that  we  have 
not  learned  more  ourselves.  More- 
over, we  are  fnUy  persuaded  he  has 
nothing  to  teach.  All  his  strength 
lies  in  exposing  evils  he  cannot 
remedy,  and  destroying  the  schemes 
of  greater  quacks  than  himself.  That 
property  itself  is  not  the  subject  of 
his  attack,  but  the  mode  in  which 
that  property  is  determined,  is  all  that 
we  can  gather.  The  value  <^  every 
object  of  exchange  is  to  be  determined 
by  the  labour  bestowed  upon  it ;  and 
the  property  in  it,  we  presume,  is  to 
be  decreed  to  him  whose  labour  has 
been  bestowed.  But  capital  has  been 
justly  defined  as  accumulated  labour ; 
he  who  supplies  capital  supplies  la- 
bour. We  are  brought  back,  therefore, 
to  die  old  difficulty  of  adjusting  ^by 
any  other  standard  than  the  relative 
proportion  which  capital  and  labour 
bear  at  any  time  in  the  market)  the 
claims  of  capital  and  labour.  Any 
such  equitable  adjustment,  by  a  legis- 
lative interfereuoe,  we  may  sa&ly 
prooooBce  to  be  inq^OBsible. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


3U 


The  Green  Hand,-— A  ''Short''  Yam.^Part  IT. 


[March, 


THE  GREEN  HAND. 
A  **  SHORT  "  TABN. — PART  IL 


We  left  the  forecastle  group  of  the 
''  Gloacester*'  disappointed  by  the 
abmpt  departure  of  their  story-teller, 
Old  Jack,  at  so  critical  a  thread 
of  his  yam.  As  old  Jacobs  went 
aft  on  the  quarter-deck,  where  the 
binnacle-lamp  before  her  wheel  was 
newly  lighted,  he  looked  in  with 
a  seaman^s  instinct  upon  the  com- 
pass-boxes, to  seehow  theship  headed ; 
ere  ascending  to  the  poop,  he  bestowed 
an  approving  nod  upon  his  friend  the 
steersman,  hitched  up  his  trousers, 
wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of 
his  hand  in  a  proper  deference  to 
female  society,  and  then  proceeded 
to  answer  the  captain^s  summons. 
The  passengers,  in  a  body,  had  left 
the  grand  cabin  to  the  bustling  stew- 
ard and  his  boys,  previously  to  as- 
sembling there  again  for  tea — not  even 
excepting  the  little  coterie  of  invete- 
rate whist-players,  and  the  pairs  of  in- 
separable chess-men,  to  whom  an 
Indian  voyage  is  so  appropriately  the 
school  for  future  nice  practice  in  eti- 
quette, war,  and  commerce.  Every- 
body had  at  last  got  rid  of  sea-sick- 
ness, and  mustered  for  a  promenade; 
so  that  the  lofty  poop  of  the  India- 
man,  dusky  as  it  was,  and  exposed 
to  the  breeze,  fluttered  with  gay 
dresses  like  the  midway  battlement 
of  a  castle  by  the  waves,  npon  which 
its  inmates  have  stolen  out  from  some 
hot  festivity.  But  the  long  heave 
from  below,  raising  her  stem-end  slow- 
ly against  the  westem  space  of  clear- 
obscure,  in  the  manner  characteristic 
of  a  sea  abaft  the  beam,  and  rolling 
her  to  either  hand,  exhibited  to  the 
eyes  on  the  forecastle  a  sort  of  alto- 
relievo  of  figures,  amongst  whom  the 
male,  in  then*  blank  attempts  to  ap- 
pear nautical  before  the  ladies,  were 
distinguished  from  every  other  object 
by  their  variety  of  ridiculous  postures. 
Under  care  of  one  or  two  bluff,  good- 
humoured  young  mates— officers  po- 
lished by  previous  opportunities  of  a 
kind  unknown  either  to  navy-men  or 
mere  "  cargo-fenders,"  along  with  se- 
veral roguish  little  quasi-midshipmen 
— theladies  were  supported  against  the 
poop-rail,  or  seated  on  the  after- 
gratings,  where  their  contented  de- 


pendence not  only  saved  them  from 
the  ludicrous  failures  of  their  fellow- 
passengers,  but  gained  them,  especially 
the  young  ones,  the  credit  of  being 
better  sailors.  An  accompaniment 
was  contributed  to  this  lively  ex- 
ercise on  the  part  of  the  gentlemen 
promenaders,  which  otherwise,  in  the 
glimmering  sea- twilight,  would  have 
been  striking  in  a  different  sense ;  by 
the  efforts,  namely,  of  a  little  band  of 
amateur  musicians  under  the  break 
of  the  poop,  who,  with  flute,  clarionet, 
bugles,  trombone,  and  violin,  after 
sundry  practisings  by  stealth,  had  for 
the  first  time  assembled  to  play 
''  Bule  Britannia."  What,  indeed, 
with  the  occasional  abrapt  checks, 
wild  flourishes,  and  fantastic  varia- 
tions caused  by  the  ship^s  roll;  and 
what  with  the  attitudes  overhead,  of 
holding  on  refractory  hats  and  caps, 
oi  intensely  resisting  and  staggering 
legs,  or  of  sudden  pausing  above  the 
slope  which  one  moment  before  was 
an  ascent,  there  was  additional  force 
in  the  designation  quaintly  given  to 
such  an  aspect  of  things  by  the  fore- 
mast Jacks—that  of  **  a  cuddy  jig." 
As  the  stiU-increasing  motion,  how- 
ever, shook  into  side-places  this  cen* 
tral  group  of  cadets,  civilians,  and 
planters  adrift,  the  grander  features 
of  the  scene  predominated :  the  broad 
mass  of  the  ship*s  hull—looming  now 
across  and  now  athwart  the  streak  of 
sinking  light  behind^lrawn  out  by 
the  weltering  outline  of  the  waters; 
the  entire  length  of  her  white  decks, 
ever  and  anon  exposed  to  view,  with 
their  parallel  lines,  their  nautical  ap- 
purtenances, the  duster  of  hardy  men 
about  the  windlass,  the  two  or  three 
''  old  Silts  "  rollingto  and  fro  along  the 
gangway,  and  the  variety  of  forms 
blending  into  both  railings  of  the 
poop.  High  out  of,  and  over  all,  rose 
the  lofty  upper  outline  of  the  noble 
ship,  statelier  and  statelier  as  the  dusk 
closed  in  about  her — ^the  expanse  of 
canvass  whitening  with  sharper  edge 
npon  the  gloom ;  the  hanled-up  clues 
of  the  main- course,  with  their  huge 
blocks,  swelling  and  lifting  to  the  fair 
wind— and  the  breasts  of  the  topsails 
divided  by  their  tightened  bunt-lines, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


W19.] 


The  Green  Hand.--A  ''Shorr  Yam.^PartIL 


315 


like  the  shape  of  some  fall-bosomed 
maiden,  on  which  the  reef-points  heaved 
like  silken  fringes,  as  if  three  sisters, 
diadowy  and  goddess-like,  trod  in  each 
other^s  steps  towards  the  deeper  soli- 
tude of  the  ocean ;  while  the  tall  spars, 
the  interlacing  complicated  tracery, 
and  the  dark  top-hamper  showing 
between,  gave  graceful  unity  to  her 
^gwre ;  and  her  three  white  trucks,  far 
overhead,  kept  describing  a  small  clear 
arc  upon  the  deep  blue  zenith  as 
she  rolled:  the  man  at  the  wheel 
midway  before  the  doors  of  the  poop- 
cabin,  with  the  light  of  the  binnacle 
upon  his  broad  throat  and  bearded 
chin,  was  lookhig  aloft  at  a  single  star 
Uiat  had  come  out  beyond  the  clue  of 
the  main-topsail. 

The  last  stroke  of  **  six  bells'*  or 
seven  o^clock,  which  had  begun  to  be 
struck  on  the  ship's  bell  when  Old 
Jack  broke  off  his  story,  still  lingered 
on  the  ear  as  he  brought  up  close  to 
the  starboard  quarter-gallery,  where 
a  little  green  shed  or  pent-house  af- 
forded support  and  shelter  to  the  ladies 
with  the  captain.  The  erect  figure  of 
the  latter,  as  he  lightly  held  one 
of  his  fur  guests  by  the  arm,  while 
pointing  out  to  her  some  object  astern, 
still  retained  the  attitude  which  had 
last  caught  the  eyes  of  the  forecastle 
group.  The  musical  cadets  had  just 
began  to  pass  from  ^^  Rule  Britannia" 
to  ^^  Shades  of  Evening ; "  and  the  old 
sailor,  with  his  glazed  hat  in  his  hand, 
stood  waiting  respectfully  for  the 
captain's  notice.  The  ladies,  how- 
ever, were  gazing  intently  down  upon 
the  vessel's  wake,  where  the  vast 
shapes  of  the  waves  now  sank  down 
mto  a  hollow,  now  rose  seething  up 
into  the  rudder-trunk,  but  all  marked 
throughout  with  one  broad  winding 
track,  where  the  hnge  body  of  the 
ship  had  swiftly  passed.  From  foam- 
ing whiteness  it  melted  into  yesty 
green,  that  became  in  the  hollow  a 
path  of  soft  light,  where  the  sparks 
mingled  like  golden  seed ;  the  wave- 
tops  glimmered  beyond:  star-like 
figures  floated  up  or  sank  in  their  long 
undulations ;  and  the  broad  swell  that 
heaped  itself  on  a  sudden  under  the 
mounting  stem  bore  its  bells,  and 
bubbles,  and  flashes,  upwards  to  the 
vye.  When  the  ship  rose  high  and 
steady  upon  it,  and  one  saw  down  her 
massy  taifrail,  it  looked  to  a  terrestrial 


eye  rather  like  some  mystic  current 
issuing  firom  the  archway  under  a  tall 
tower,  whose  foundations  rocked  and 
heaved :  and  so  said  the  romantic  girl 
beside  the  captab,  shuddering  at  the 
vividness  of  an  image  which  so  in- 
congruously brought  together  the 
fathomless  deep  and  the  distant  shores 
of  solid  old  England.  The  eye  of  the 
seaman,  however,  suggested  to  him 
an  image  more  akin  to  the  profession, 
as  he  directed  his  fair  companion's  at- 
tention to  the  trough  of  the  ship's 
fhrrow,  where,  against  the  last  low 
gleam  of  twilight,  and  by  the  luminous 
wake,  could  be  seen  a  little  flock  of 
black  petrels,  apparently  running  along 
it  to  catch  what  the  mighty  plough- 
share had  turned  up ;  while  a  gray 
guU  or  two  hovered  aslant  over  them 
in  the  blue  haze.  As  he  looked  round, 
too,  to  aloft,  he  exchanged  glances 
with  the  old  sailor  who  had  listened — 
an  expression  which  even  the  ladles 
understood.  **  Ah  I  Jacobs,"— said 
the  captain,  **  get  the  lamp  lighted  in 
my  cabin,  and  the  tea-kettle  aft.  With 
the  roll  she  has  on  her,  'twill  be  more 
ship- shape  there  than  in  the  cuddy." 
**  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  the  old  seaman. 
"  How  does  she  head  just  now,  Ja- 
cobs ?  "  "  Sou'- west  and  by  south,  sir." 
*^  She'd  lie  easier  for  the  ladies 
though,"  said  the  captain,  knowing  his 
steward  was  a  favourite  with  them, 
"  were  the  wind  a  point  or  two  less 
fair.  Oar  old  acquaintance  Captain 
Williamson,  of  the  Seringapatam 
now,  Jacobs,  old-fashioned  as  he 
was,  would  have  braced  in  his  lee- 
yards  only  to  steady  a  lady's  tea-cup." 
"  Ay,  your  honour,"  replied  Jacobs, 
and  his  weather  eye  twinkled,  *^  and 
washed  the  fok'sle  under,  too  !  Bat 
ye  know,  sir,  he'd  got  a  reg'lar-built 
Nabob  aboard,  and  a  beauty  besides!" 
"Ah,  Mr  Jacobs  I"  exclaimed  the 
romantic  young  lady,  what  was  that? 
Is  it  one  of  your  stories  ?  "  "  Well, 
your  ladyship,  *tis  a  bit  of  a  yam,  no 
doubt,  and  some'at  of  a  cur'ou^  one." 
"Oh  I"  said  another  of  the  captain's 
fair  prot^g^s, "  I  A)  love  these  'yams,' 
as  yon  call  them ;  they  are  so  expres- 
sive, so— and  all  that  sort  of  thing ! " 
"  Nonsense,  my  love,"  said  her  mo- 
ther ;  "  you  don't  understand  them, 
and  'tis  better  you  should  not,— they 
are  low,  and  contain  a  great  many  bad 
words,  I  fear."  "  But  think  of  the  ima- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


816 


The  Green  Hamd.-^A  •«  Short  '*  YanL-^Part  II. 


[Maidi^ 


ginatioiif  mmt,"  rejoined  the  other  girl, 
(^  and  theadTentares  1  Oh,  theocean  of 
allplaces  for  that !  Were  it  not  forsea- 
sickness,  I  should  dote  npon  it  1  As 
for  the  Harm  just  now,  look  how  safe 
we  are, — and  see  how  the  dear  old 
ship  rises  np  from  the  billows,  with 
all  her  sidls  so  deligfatfollf  myste- 
rioQS  one  orer  another!''  '^ Bless 
yonr  heart,  ma'rm,  yes,"  respond- 
ed Old  Jack,  chuckling ;  ^^  you  talks 
just  like  a  seaman,  beggin'  your 
pardon.  As  consams  the  tea,  sir,  I 
make  bould  to  expect  the'll  be  a  shift 
o'  wind  directly,  and  a  sltnt  deck,  as 
soon  as  we  get  fair  into  the  stream, 
rid  o'  this  iHt  of  a  bubble  the  tail  of 
it  kicks  up  hereabouts."  *^Bear  a 
hand,  then,  Jacobs,'*  said  the  captahi, 
^^and  see  all  right  below  for  the 
party  in  the  ciS>in, — ^we  shall  be 
down  in  a  few  minutes."  The  cap- 
tain stood  up  on  the  quarter-gallery,  to 
peer  round  into  the  dusk  and  watch 
the  lifting  of  the  main-royal ;  but  the 
next  minute  he  called  to  the  ladies, 
and  their  next  neighbours,  to  look 
towards  the  larb^urd  bow,  and 
see  the'  moon  rise.  A  long  edge 
of  ^y  haze  lay  around  the  eastern 
honzon,  on  which  the  dark  rim  of  the 
sea  was  defined  beyond  the  roll  of  the 
waves,  as  with  the  sweep  of  a  soft 
brush  dipped  in  indigo ;  while  to  west- 
ward it  heayed  up,  weltering  in  its 
own  watery  light  against  the  gloom. 
From  behind  this  low  fringe  of  yapour 
was  silently  difiusing,  as  it  were,  a 
pool  of  faint  radiance,  like  a  brook 
bubbling  from  under  ice ;  a  thread  of 
silver  ran  along  the  line  of  haze, 
growing  keener  at  one  point,  until  the 
arch  of  the  moon  shot  slowly  up, 
broad  and  fair ;  the  wave-heads  rising 
between  were  crested  here  and  there 
with  light ;  the  bow  of  the  ship,  the 
bellies  of  her  fore-canvass,  her  bow- 
sprit with  the  jibs  hanging  idly  over 
it,  and  the  figure-head  beneath,  were 
tineed  by  a  gentle  lustre,  while  the 
hollow  shadows  stole  out  behind. 
The  distant  horizon,  meanwhile,  still 
lay  in  an  obscure  streak,  which  blended 
into  the  dark  side  of  the  low  fog-bank, 
so  as  to  give  sea  and  doud  umted  the 
momentary  appearance  of  one  of  those 
louff  rollers  that  turn  over  on  a  beach, 
wiw  their  glittering  crest:  you  would 
expect  to  see  next  instant  what  actu- 
ally seemed  to  take  place«-the  whole 


outline  plashing  over  in  foam,  and 
spreading  itself  clearly  fbrward,  as 
soon  as  the  moon  was  free.  With 
the  airy  space  that  flowed  from  her 
came  out  the  whole  eastern  sea-board, 
liquid  and  distinct,  as  if  beyond  eiUier 
bow  <^  the  lifting  IndiMnan  one  sharp 
finger  of  a  pair  of  compasses  had 
flashed  rouna,  drawing  a  semicircle 
upon  the  dull  badcground,  still  cloudy, 
glimmering,  and  obscure.  From  the 
waves  that  undulated  towards  her 
stem,  the  ship  was  apparently  enter- 
ing upon  a  smoother  zone,  where  the 
small  surges  leapt  up  and  danced  in 
moonshine,  resembling  more  the  cur- 
rent of  some  estuary  in  a  frill  tide. 
To  north-westward,  just  on  the 
skirts  of  the  dark,  one  wing  of  a  large, 
soft-gray  vi^ur  was  newly  smitten 
by  the  moon-gleam;  and  over  against 
it  on  the  south-east,  where  the  lon^ 
fog-bank  sank  away,  there  stretched 
an  expanse  of  ocean  which,  on  its  far- 
thest verge,  gave  out  a  tint  of  the 
most  delicate  opal  blue.  The  ship,  to 
the  south-westward  of  the  Azores, 
and  going  large  before  the  trade-wind, 
was  now  passing  into  the  great  Gulf 
Stream  which  there  runs  to  the  south- 
east; even  the  passengers  on  deck 
were  sensible  of  the  rapid  transition 
with  which  the  lately  cold  breeze  be- 
came warmer  and  fitful,  and  the  mo- 
tion of  the  vessel  easier.  They  were 
surprised,  on  looking  into  the  waves 
alongside,  to  perceive  them  struggling, 
as  it  were,  under  a  trailing  net- work 
of  sea-weed ;  which,  as  nr  as  one 
could  distinctly  see,  appeared  to  keep 
down  the  masses  of  water  like  so 
much  oil—flattening  their  crests,  neu- 
tralising the  force  of  the  wind,  and 
communicating  a  strangely  sombre 
green  to  the  heaving  cdement.  In  the 
winding  track  of  the  ship's  wake  the 
eddies  now  absolutely  blazed:  the 
weeds  she  had  crushed  down  rose  to 
the  surface  again  in  gurgling  circles 
of  flame,  and  the  showers  of  sparks 
came  up  seething  on  either  side 
amongst  the  stalks  and  leaves:  but  as 
the  moonlight  grew  more  equally  dif- 
fused it  was  evident  she  was  only 
piercing  an  arm  of  that  local  weed- 
bed  here  formed,  like  an  island,  in  the 
bight  of  the  stream.  Farther  ahead 
were  scattered  patches  and  bunches 
of  the  true  Florida  Gulf-weed,  white 
and  moss-like;  which,  shining  crisp  in 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Cfreen  H(md.^A  "  Skori''  yam.— Part  II. 


tiie  level  HKKmUgbi^  and  tqyping  the 
surges  as  it  floated  past^  gave  them 
the  aspect  of  hoary-bearded  waves, 
or  the  garianded  horses  of  Neptime. 
The  sight  still  detained  the  captain's 
party  on  dedc,  and  some  of  the  ladies 
innocentlj  thought  these  phmomena 
indicatiye  of  the  proximity  of  land. 

*'*'  I  have  seldom  seen  the  Stream  so 
distinct  hereabonts,"  said  Ciq>tain 
Ck>lilns  to  his  first  officer,  who  stood 
near,  hanng  diarge  of  the  watdu 
^*  Nor  I,  sir,"  replied  the  chief  mate ; 
'^  bat  it  no  doubt  narrows  with  differ- 
ent seasons.  There  goes  a  flap  of  the 
fore-topsaU,  though  1  The  wind  fails, 
sir."  ^^Tls  only  drawing  ahead,  I 
think,"  said  the  captain ;  "  the  stream 
sucks  the  wmd  with  its  heat,  and  we 
shall  have  it  pretty  near  from  due 
nor'-west  immediately."  '^  Shall  we 
round  in  on  the  starboard  hand,  then, 
sir,  and  keep  both  wind  and  current 
a/>r  "I  think  not,  Mr  Wood,"  said 
the  captain.  ^^Twould  give  us  a 
good  three  knots  moreeroy  hour  of  the 
next  twenty-four,  sir,"  persisted  the 
first  officer  eagerly— and  chief  mates 
generally  coiufine  their  theories  to 
mere  immediate  progress.  "  Tes," 
rejoined  the  captain,  ^^  but  we  should 
lose  hold  of  the  *  trade '  on  getting  out 
d  the  stream  again.  I  intend  driving 
her  across,  with  the  nor'wester  on  her 
irtarboard  beam,  so  as  to  lie  well  up 
afterwards.  Get  the  yards  braced  to 
larboard  as  you  catch  the  breese,  Mr 
Wood,  and  make  her  course  south- 
west by  west."  "  Veiy  well,  sir." 
^^  Ladies,"  said  the  captain,  ^^  will  you 
allow  me  to  hand  you  below,  where  I 
fear  Jacobs  will  be  impatient  with  the 
tea?"  "Whatapity,CaptainCollms," 
remarked  the  romantic  Miss  Alicia, 
looking  upas  they  descended  the  com- 
panion— *^  what  a  pity  thatyou  cannot 
have  that  delicious  moonlight  to  shine 
in  at  your  cabin  windows  just  now ; 
the  sidlors  yiNider  have  it  all  to  them- 
selves." *^  There  is  no  favour  in 
these  thmgs  at  sea,  Miss  Alicia,"  said 
the  detain,  smiling.  ^^  Jack  shares 
the  chance  there,  at  least,  with  his 
betters ;  but  lean  promise  those  who 
honour  my  poor  suite  this  evening 
both  fine  moonshine  and  a  steadier 
floor."  On  reaching  the  snug  little 
after-cabin,  with  its  swinging  lamp 
and  barometer,  its  side  *^  state-room," 
seven  feet  long,  and  its  two  stem- 


Si? 


windows  showing  a  dark  j^pse  of 
tiM  rolling  waters,  they  found  the  tea- 
thiogs  set,  nautical  style,  on  the  hard- 
a-weather,  boxed-up  table — the  sur- 
geon and  one  or  two  elderly  gentle- 
men waiting,  and  old  Jacobs  still 
trimming  up  the  sperm-oil  light.  Mrs 
St  Clair,  presiding  in  virtue  of  rela- 
tionship to  their  host,  was  still  cau- 
tiously pouring  out  the  requisite  half- 
cups,  when,  above  all  the  bustle  and 
cliUter  in  the  cuddy,  could  be  heard 
the  sounds  of  ropes  thrown  down  oo 
deck,  of  the  trampling  watch,  and  the 
stentorian  voice  of  the  first  officer. 
^^  Jacobs ! "  said  the  captain,  a  minute 
or  two  afterwards ;  and  that  worthy 
f^totum  instantly  appeared  from  his 
pantry  alcmgside  of  the  door— from 
whence,  by  the  way,  the  old  seaman 
might  be  privy  to  the  whole  conversa- 
tion—** stand  by  to  dowse  the  lamp 
when  she  heeto,"  an  order  purposely 
mysterious  to  all  else  but  the  doctor. 
Every  one  soon  felt  a  change  in  the 
movement  of  their  wave-borne  habi- 
tation ;  the  roHmg  lift  of  her  stem 
ceMed ;  those  who  were  looking  into 
their  cups  saw  the  tea  apparently 
take  a  decided  inclination  to  larboard 
— as  1^  facetious  doctor  observed,  a 
*'  tendency  to  oort."  The  floor  gra- 
dually sloped  clown  to  the  same  hand, 
and  a  long,  wild,  gurgling  wash  was 
suddenly  heard  to  run  careering  past 
the  timbers  of  the  starboard  side. 
**Dear  me  I"  fervently  exclaimed 
every  lady  at  once ;  when  the  very 
next  moment  the  lamp  wrat  out,  and 
all  was  dartsiess.  Captain  Collins 
felt  a  little  hand  clutch  his  arm  in 
nervous  terror,  but  the  fair  owner  of 
it  said  nothing ;  until,  with  still  more 
startling  eff*ect  than  before,  in  a  few 
seconds  there  shot  through  both  stem- 
windows  the  full  rays  of  the  moon, 
pouring  their  radiance  into  the  cabin, 
shining  on  the  backs  of  the  books  in 
the  hanging  shelves  by  the  bulkhead, 
on  the  faces  of  the  party,  and  the  bald 
forehead  of  old  Jacobs  **  standing  by" 
the  lamp,— lastly,  too,  revealing  the 
pretty  little  Alicia  with  her  hand  on 
the  captain^s  arm,  and  her  pale  terri- 
fied face.  **  Don't  be  alarmed, 
ladies  I"  said  the  surgeon,  **  she's  only 
hauled  on  the  starboard  tack  V  **  And 
her  counter  to  the  east,"  said  the 
captain. 
*'  But  who  the  dev— old  gentleman. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


818 


Tht  Green  Hand.— A  "  Skort "  Yam.— Pari  II. 


[March, 


I  mean — pat  out  the  lamp  ?''  rejoiuod 
the  doctor.  "  Ah,— I  see  sir  I — *  But 
when  the  moon,  refulgent  lamp  of 
night/  "  ^^  Such  a  surprise  V^  exclamied 
the  ladies,  laughing,  although  as  much 
frightened  for  a  moment  by  the  magi- 
cal iilumination  as  bj  the  previous 
circumstances.  ^^  Ton  see,"  said  the 
captain,  "  we  are  not  like  a  house, — 
we  can  bring  round  our  scenery  to 
any  window  we  choose.**  "Very 
prettily  imagined  it  was,  too,  I  de- 
dure  I"  observed  a  stout  old  Bombay 
officer,  **  and  a  fine  compliment  to  the 
ladies,  by  Jove,  sir!"  "  If  we  had 
any  of  your  pompous  Bengal  ^  Qjuy 
hies'  here  though,  colonel,"  said  the 
doctor,  ^^they  wouldn^t  stand  being 
choused  so  unceremoniously  out  of  the 
weather-side,  I  suspect."  ^*As  to 
the  agreeable  little  surprise  I  meant 
for  the  ladies,"  said  Captain  Collins, 
"  I  fear  it  was  done  awkwardly,  never 
having  commanded  an  Indiaman  be* 
fore,  and  laid  up  ashore  this  half-a- 
dozen  years.  But  one*s  old  feelings 
get  freshened  up,  and  without  know- 
ing the  old  Gloucester's  points,  I  can*t 
help  reckoning  her  as  a  lady  too, — a 
very  particular  old  *  Begum,'  that 
won't  let  any  one  else  be  humoured 
before  herself,— especially  as  I  took 
charge  of  her  to  oblige  a  friend." 
"How  easily  she  goes  now!"  said  the 
doctor,  "  and  a  gallant  sight  at  this 
moment,  I  assure  you,  to  any  one  who 
chooses  to  put  his  head  up  the  com- 
panion." "Ah,  mammal"  said  one 
of  the  ^rls,  "couldn't  you  almost 
think  this  was  our  own  little  parlour 
at  home,  with  the  moonlight  coming 
through  the  window  on  both  sides  of 
the  old  elm,  where  we  were  sitting  a 
month  ago  hearing  about  India  and 
papa?" 

"Ahl"  responded  her  cousin,  stand- 
ing up,  "  but  there  was  no  track  of 
moonshine  dancing  beyond  the  tra<± 
of  the  ship  yonder  I  How  blue  the 
water  is,  and  how  much  warmer  it  has 
grown  of  a  sudden  1" 

"We  are  crossing  the  great  Gulf 
Stream  I"  said  the  captain, — "  Jacobs  I 
open  one  of  the  stem-ports."  "  "Tis  the 
very  place  and  time,  this  is,"  remarked 
a  good- humoured  cotton-grower  from 
the  Deckan,  "  for  one  of  the  colonel's 
tiger-hunts,  now  I"    "Sir  1"  answered 


the  old  officer,  rather  testily,  "  I  am 
not  accustomed  to  thrust  my  tiffer- 
huntt^  as  you  choose  to  call  my  humble 
experiences,  under  people's  noses  I'* 
"  Certainly  not,  my  dear  sir,"  said 
the  planter,  —  "but  what  do  yoo 
say,  ladies,  to  one  of  the  captain's 
sea-yams,  then?  Nothing  better, 
I'm  sure,  here  and  now,  sir— eh?** 
Captain  Collins  smiled,  and  said 
be  had  never  spun  a  yam  in  his 
life,  except  when  a  boy,  out  of  matter- 
of-fact  old  junk  and  tar.  "Here  is 
my  steward,  however,"  continued  he, 
"  who  is  the  best  hand  at  it  I  know, — 
and  I  daresay  he'll  give  you  one." 
"  Charming ! "  exclaimed  the  young 
ladies ;  and  "  What  was  that  adven- 
ture, Mr  Jacobs,"  said  Miss  Alicia, 
"  with  a  beauty  and  a  Nabob  in  it, 
that  you  alluded  to  a  short  time  ago?'* 
"  I  didn't  to  say  disactly  include  upon 
it,  your  ladyship,"  replied  old  Jacobs, 
with  a  tug  of  Ms  hair,  and  a  bow  not 
just^  la  maUre; "  but  the  captain  can 
give  you  it  better  nor  I  can,  seeing  as 
his  honur  were  the  Nero  on  it,  as  one 
may  say."  "  Oh  I "  said  the  surgeon, 
robbing  his  hands  "  a  lady  andarapee- 
eater  in  the  case  I"  "  Curious  stories, 
there  are^  too,"  remarked  the  colonel, 
"of  those  serpents  of  nautch-girls,  and 
rich  fools  they've  managed  to  entangle. 
As  for  beauty,  sir,  they  have  the  devil's, 
and  they'd  melt  the  ^  Honourable 
John's'  own  revenue !  I  know  a  very 
sensible  man,  —  shan't  mention  his 
name, — but  made  of  rapees,  and  a  tq- 
gnlarfree6ee-Aa/er,-sawoneof  these — " 
"  Hush,  hush,  my  dear  sir!  "interrapted 
the  planter,  winking  and  gesticulatmg ; 
"  very  good  for  the  weather  poop,  — 
but  presence  of  ladies ! " — "  For  which 
I'm  not  fit,  you'd  say,  sir?"  inquired 
the  colonel,  firing  up  again.  "  Oh  I 
oh  I  yon  know,  colonel  I"  said  the  un- 
lucky planter,  deprecatingly.  "  But 
a  godown*  of  best  *Banda'  to  a  cowrie 
now,  the  sailor  makes  his  beauty  a 
complete  Nourmahal,  with  rose-lips 
and  moon-eyes, — ^and  his  Nabob  a 
jehan  punneh^\  with  a  crore^  besides 
diamonds.  'Twould  bo  worth  heaiing, 
especially  from  a  lascar.  For,  'twixt 
^ou  and  I,  colonel,  we  know  how  rare 
it  is  to  hear  of  a  man  who  saves  his 
/be,  now-a-days,  with  Yankees  in  the 
market,  no  Nawaubs  to  fight,   and 


'  Cdlar  for  goods. 


t  Asylum  of  the  world. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Id49.] 


t^  Green  Hand.^A  "  Short'^  Yam.^PM  II. 


di9 


nioTminetticherieai^V^  "There seems 
something  cmioiis  about  this  said  ad- 
venture of  yonrs,  my  dear  captain," 
«aid  Mrs  St  Clair,  archly,^'*  and  a 
Bean^  too  t  It  makes  me  positively 
inqaisitive,  bat  I  hope  yoar  fair  lady 
has  heiard  the  story?"  "Why,  not 
exactly,  ma*am,"  replied  Captain 
CoUins,  langhing  as  he  canght  the 
doctor  looking  pretematiirally  solemn, 
after  a  sly  lee- wink  to  the  colonel ; 
who,  having  his  back  to  the  moonlight, 
stretched  oat  his  legs  and  indalged  in 
a  grim,  silent  chadde,  antii  his  rojid- 
tiger  ooantenance  was  anhappily 
brought  so  far^tM^f  in  the  rays  as  to 
betray  a  singular  dagaerreotype,  re- 
sembling one  of  those  cat- paper  phan- 
tasmagoria thrown  on  a  drawing-room 
wall,  uimistakably  black  and  white, 
and  in  the  character  of  Malicious 
Watchftdness.  The  rnbicund,  fidgety 
little  cotton-grower  twiddled  his 
thumbs,  and  looked  modestly  down  on 
the  de6k,  with  half-shut  eyes,  as  if 
expecting  some  bold  revelation  of  nau- 
tical depravity;  while  the  romantic 
AOss  Ahcia  coloured  and  was  silent. 
*'  However,"  said  the  captain,  coolly, 
**  it  is  no  matrimonial  secret,  at  any 
rate !  We  both  think  of  it  when  we 
read  the  Church  Service  of  a  Sunday 
night  at  home,  with  Jacobs  for  the 
derk."  "  Do,  Mr  Jacobs,  oblige  us ! " 
requested  the  younger  of  the  girls. 
"Well,  Miss,"  said  he,  smoothing 
down  his  hair  in  the  door-way,  and 
hemming, "  *Tan't  neither  for  the  likes 
o*  me  to  refuse  a  lady,  nor  accordin* 
to  rules  for  to  give  sach  a  yam  in 
pesence  of  a  supperior  officer,  much 
less  the  captain,  —  with  a  midship 
hehoa,  ye  know  marm,  ye  cam*t  haid 
upon  one  tack  nor  the  other.    Not 

to  say  but  next  forenoon  watch " 

"  I  see,  Jacobs,  my  man,"  interrupt- 
ed Captain  Collins,  "  there^s  noth&ig 
for  it  but  to  fore-reach  upon  you, 
or  else  you*ll  be  *  Green-Handing' 
me  aft  as  well  as  forward ;  «o  I  must 
just  make  the  best  of  it,  and  take  the 
tpnidk  in  my  own  fashion  at  once  I " 
"Ay,  ay,  sir — ay,  ay,  your  honour!" 
said  Old  Jack  demurely,  and  con- 
cealing his  gratification  as  he  turned 
off  into  the  pantir,  with  the  idea  of 
for  the  first  time  hearing  the  captain 


relate  the  incidents  in  question.  "  My 
old  shipmate,"  siud  the  latter,  "is  so 
fond  of  having  trained  his  future 
captain,  that  it  is  his  utmost  delight 
to  spin  out  everything  we  ever  met 
with  together  into  one  endless  yam, 
which  would  go  on  firom  our  first  ac- 
quaintance to  the  present  day,  al- 
though no  ship^s  company  ever  heard 
the  last  of  it.  Without  fiftlling  know- 
ingly to  leeward  of  the  tmth,  he 
makes  out  every  lucky  coincidence, 
almost,  to  have  been  a  feat  of  mine« 
and  puts  in  little  fancies  of  his  own, 
so  as  to  give  the  whole  thing  more 
and  more  of  a  marvellous  ur,  the 
farther  it  goes.  The  most  amusing 
thing  is,  that  he  almost  always  begins 
each  time,  I  believe,  at  the  very  begin- 
ning, like  a  capstan  without  a  paal — 
sti(»dng  in  one  thing  he  had  forgot  be- 
fore, and  forgetting  another;  some- 
times dwelling  lon^r  on  one  part — a 
good  deal  like  a  ship  making  the  same 
voyages  over  again.  I  knew,  now, 
this  evening,  when  I  heard  the  men 
laughing,  and  saw  Old  Jack  on  the 
forecastle,  what  must  be  in  the  wind. 
However,  we  have  shared  so  many 
chances,  and  I  respect  the  old  man  so 
much,  not  to  speak  of  his  having 
dandled  my  Uttle  girls  on  his  knect 
and  being  butler,  steward,  and  flower- 
gardener  at  home,  that  I  can^t 
really  be  angry  at  him,  in  spite  of  the 
sort  of  every  man's  rope  he  makes  of 
me !"  "  How  veir  amusmg  a  cha- 
racter he  is !  **  said  one  young  lady. 
"A  thoaght  too  tarry,  perhaps?" 
suggested  the  surgeon.  "So  very 
origmal  and  like  a— seaman!"  re- 
marked Miss  Alicia,  quietly,  but  as  if 
some  other  word  that  crossed  her 
mind  had  been  rejected,  as  descrip- 
tive of  a  different  variety,  probably 
higher.  "  Original^  by  Jove  I "  ex- 
claimed the  colonel ;  '^  if  my  Khanea- 
man^  or  my  Abdar^t  were  to  make 
such  a  dandng  dervish  and  tumasha  § 
of  me  behmd  back,  by  the  holy  Vishnu, 
shr,  IM  rattan  him  myself  within  an 
inch  of  his  life  t "  "  Not  an  unlikely 
thing,  colonel,"  put  in  the  planter; 
"  I  Ve  caught  the  scoundrels  at  that 
trick  before  now."  "What  did  you 
do?"  inquired  the  colonel,  specula- 
tively.   "  Couldn't  help  laughing,  for 


"  District  judicial  courts,    f  f?«M*i  0.,  level    t  Steward  and  Butler.    tS^rt. 
VOL.  LXV.— KG.  CCOCI. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TheGfUAB<md.'^A'^ShoH''^Jfm.-'-jPmrtlJt. 


[Mttd^ 


Biy  sool)  sir ;  tlie/MMiArM  frimci'^  raacalfl 
did  it  80  well,  and  so  fanuily  I ''  The 
Irasoible  East^Indian  almost  8tarte4 
up  in  his  ima^^atiye  fury,  to  call  fot 
)ala  palkoe,  aad  chastise  liis  whole 
veraadah,  when  the  doctor  reminded 
him  It  was  a  long  way  there.  ^  ^  Glori* 
008  East  I"  exclaimed  the  medico, 
looking  out  astern,  ^^  where  we  may 
cane  oar  footmen,  and  whence,  mean- 
while, we  oai  derive  snch  Sanscrit- 
9oandlng  adjorations,  with  snch  fine 
moonUght!'* 

The  preeence  of  the  first  offioer  was 
now  added  to  the  party,  who  came 
down  for  a  cap  of  tea,  fresh  from  daty, 
and  flavoaring  strongly  of  a  pilot 
cheroot  ^^  How  does  she  head,  Mr 
Wood?"  asked  the  captain.  **Soa'- 
west  by  west,  sir,— a  splendid  night, 
under  everything  that  will  draw, — 
spray  ap  to  the  starboard  cat-head  I  ^ 

'*  Bat  as  to  this  story,  again,  Cap- 
tain Collins  ?  "  said  Mrs  St  Clair,  as 
soon  as  she  had  poored  out  the  chief 
mate's  cup.  *^  Well,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, ^^  if  yon  choose  to  listen  till  bed- 
time to  a  plain  draught  of  the  affair, 
why  I  suppose  I  must  tell  it  you: 
and  what  remains  then  may  stand 
over  till  next  fine  night.  It  may  look 
a  little  romantic,  being  in  tiie  days 
wh^  most  people  are  such  them- 
selv^ ;  but  at  aoy  rate,  we  sailors — 
or  else  we  should  never  have  been  at 
sea,  you  know :  and  so  you  '11  allow 
for  that,  and  a  apiee  to  boot  of  what 
we  used  to  call  at  sea  ^  love-making;' 
happily  there  were  no  soft  speeches 
in  it,  like  those  in  books,  for  th^  J 
shouldn't  t^  it  at  alL 

By  the  time  I  waa  twenty-four,  I 
had  been  nine  years  at  sea,  and,  at 
the  end  of  the  war,  was  third  lieu- 
tenant of  a  crack  twenty-eight,  th^ 
saucy  Iris— as  perfect  a  sleop-niodel, 
though  over-sparred  certainty,  as  ever 
was  eased  off  the  wi^s  at  Chatham, 
or  careened  to  a  north-easter.  The 
Admiralty  had  learnt  to  build  by  that 
day,  and  a  glorious  ship  she  was, 
wiode  for  going  after  the  small  fry  of 
privateers,  pirates,  and  slavers,  that 
swarmed  about  the  time.  Though  I 
had  roughed  it  in  all  sorts  of  onSt^ 
fr^Mo  a  first-rate  to  a  dirty  Prench 
lugger  priae,  and  had  been  eastward, 
so  as  to  see  the  sea  in  its  pride  at  the 


Pacific^  yet  the  fMlng  you  have  de* 

fnds  on  the  kind  of  ship  you  are  in. 
never  knew  so  well  what  it  was  to 
be  fond  of  a  ship  and  the  sea ;  and 
when  I  heard  of  the  poor  Iris,  that 
had  never  been  used  to  anything  but 
blue  water  on  three  parts  of  the 
horiaon  at  leasts  laying  her  bones  not 
long  after  near  Wicklow  Head,  I 
couldn't  help  a  gulp  in  the  throat.  I 
once  dreamt  I  had  gone  down  in  ho:, 
and  risen  again  to  the  surfAce  with 
the  has  cf  something  in  my  brain ; 
while,  at  the  same  moment,  tiiere  j 
was,  still  sitting  below  on  a  locker  in 
the  wardroom,  with  the  arms  of  her 
beautiful  figure-head  round  me,  and 
her  mermaid's  tail  like  the  best-bower 
eable,  with  an  anchor  at  the  end  of  it 
far  away  out  of  soundings,  over  which 
I  bobbed  aod  dipped  for  yean  and 
years,  in  all  weathers,  like  a  buoor. 
We  had  no  Mediterranean  time  of  it, 
though,  in  the  Iris,  off  the  Guinea 
coast,  from  Cape  Falmas  to  Capo 
Ne^ :  looking  out  to  windward  foit 
white  squalls,  and  to  leeward  for  black 
ones,  and  inshore  for  Danish  cattle- 
dealers,  9A  we  called  them,  had  made 
us  all  as  sharp  as  so  numy  iparlin* 
spikes;  and  our  captaiirwas  a  man 
that  taught  us  seamanship,  with  a 
trick  or  two  beycmd.  The  havers  had 
not  got  to  be  so  clever  then,  either, 
with  their  schooners  and  clippers; 
they  built  for  stowage,  and  took  the 
chance,  so  that  we  sent  in  baie  after 
bale  to  the  West  India  Admiral,  naade 
money,  and  enjoyed  ounelves  now 
and  then  at  the  Cape  de  Verds. 
However,  this  kind  of  thmg  was  so 
popular  at  home,  as  pickings  after 
the  great  haul  was  over,  Uiat  the 
Iria  had  to  give  up  her  station  to  a 
post«frigate,  and  be  paid  offl  The 
war  was  over,  and  nobody  could  ex- 
pect to  be  promoted  without  a  friend 
near  the  blue  table-doth,  although  a 
quiet  hint  to  a  secretary's  palm  would 
wori^  wonders,  if  strong  enough.  But 
most  of  such  luol^  fellows  as  our- 
selves dissipated  their  funds  in  biasing 
away  at  balls  and  partiea,  where  the 
gold  band  was  everything,  and  the 
ladies  wore  blue  ribbons  and  anchor 
brooches  hi  hoDour  of  the  navy.  The 
men  spent  everything  in  a  fbrtnight, 
even  to  their  clothes,  and  had  little 


*  TwHu^imaSmg, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18490 


^IhM  Qremmmd.^A^J^ort'*  Yam^--ParUL 


ddi 


more  ehance  of  eatiog  the  kiag's  Ima- 
cah  with  hopes  of  prize-money;  I 
used  to  see  knots  of  them,  in  red 
shirts  and  dirty  slops,  amongst  the 
ibremast  Jacks  ia  oatwardboimd 
ships,  dropping  past  Greenwich,  and 
waving  their  hats  to  the  Hospital 
Yoa  knew  them  at  onee  by  one  of 
them  giving  the  s<Hig  fbr  the  topsail 
halliards,  instead  of  the  merchant- 
men's ball's  ohoms:  indeed,  I  could 
always  pick  off  the  dashing  man-o'- 
war's  men,  by  face  and  eye  alone,  ont 
fixNn  among  the  others,  who  looked 
as  sober  and  solitary,  with  their  seri- 
Qos  faces  and  way  of  going  about  a 
thing,  as  if  every  one  of  them  was 
the  whole  crew.  I  once  read  a  bit  of 
poetry  called  the  ^^  Ancient  Mariner,'' 
to  old  Jacobs,  who  by  the  bye  is 
something  oi  a  breed  betwixt  the  two 
kinds,  and  his  remark  was — ^^That 
old  chap  wam't  used  to  hoisting  all 
togetho-  with  a  run,  your  honour! 
By  his  looks,  I'd  say  he  was  bred 
where  there  was  few  m  a  watch,  and 
the  watch-tackle  laid  out  pretty  often 
for  an  eke  to  drag  down  the  fore* 
tack." 

Ajs  I  was  riding  down  to  Croydon 
in  Surrey,  where  my  mother  and  sister 
had  gone  to  live,  I  fell  in  with  asam* 
pie  of  the  hard  shifts  the  men-o-war's* 
men  were  put  to  in  getting  across  fipom 
harbour  to  some  merchant  port,  when 
all  their  earnings  were  ehucked  away. 
It  was  at  a  little  town  eaUed  Bromley, 
where  I  brought  to  by  the  door  ai  a 
tavern  and  had  a  drink  for  the  horse, 
with  a  bottle  of  cider  for  n^yself  at 
the  open  window,  the  afternoon  being 
hot.  There  waa  a  crowd  of  towna- 
peopie  at  the  ether  end  <tf  the  street, 
eonntry  bumpkins  and  boys — ^wonen 
looking  out  at  the  windows,  dogs 
barking,  and  children  shouting— the 
whole  concern  bearing  down  upon  us. 

''  What's  aa  this  ?^'  said  I  to  the 
ostler. 

^'  Doat  know,  sir,"  said  he,  Bcrat<&« 
ing  his  head;  ^* 'tis  very  hodd,  sirt 
That  comer  is  rather  a  shaip  turn  for 
the  eoach,  sir,  and  she  do  sometimes 
nm  over  a  child  there,  or  som^hink. 
Birt 'taint  her  time  yet  1  Nothiakelse 
hevor  'Ripens  'ere,  sir." 

Ab  soon  as  I  could  hear  er  see  dis* 
tinctly  for  the  conAiaioB,  I  observed 
the  magnet  of  it  to  be  a  party  of  five 
or  six  regular  blue-jaiikeli^  a  9(xid  dea^ 


batteredm  their  rig,  who  were  roaring 
out  sea-songs  in  grand  sMe  as  they 
came  along,  leading  what  I  thought  at 
first  was  a  bear.  The  chief  words  I 
heard  were  what  IknewwelL  ^^  We'll 
disregard  their  tommy-hawks,  likewise 
their  scalping-knifes — and  fight  along- 
side of  our  mates  to  save  our  precious 
lives — like  British  tars  and  souldiers 
in  the  North  Americayl" 

On  getting  abreast  of  the  inn-door, 
and  finding  an  offing  with  good  hold- 
ing-ground, I  suppose,  they  hove  to 
and  steuck  up  the  ''Bu&lo,"  that 
finest  of  chaunts  for  the  weather  fore- 
castle with  a  spanking  Inreese,  outwitfd 
bound,  and  the  pilot'  lately  dropped — 

*  Come  all  toa  yoiag  maiMid  maidens,  that 

wiakes  for  to  mil^ 
And  I  will  lot  70a  hoar  o£  where  jaa  mutt 

ft-roam ! 
We*U  embark  into  a  Aip  which  her  taaps*Is 

is  let  faB, 
And  all  onto  an  Qeyaad  whw  we  nerer  will 

gohomot 
EipMiaUyo  joa  UuUu  that^  inclined  for  to 

rove — 
Thert^/UkM  in  the  sea,  my  love — ^likewise  the 

back  an*  doe, 
Well  lie  down— on  tho  btiml»    ot  jim  ploa> 

saat  shadjo  po-ove, 
Throng  tho  wiU  woods  we*U  wander  and 

well  chase  the  Bofialo— ho—ho— we^U 
Chase  the  BaffidO  1 

I  really  couldn't  help  lansfaing  to  see 
the  sla^yptng  big-bearded  ^owa,  like 
so  many  foretopmen,  showiog  off  in 
this  manners-one  mahogany-faced 
thorough-bred  leading,  the  rest  thun- 
dering in  at  the  chorus,  with  tremen- 
dous stress  on  the '  Lo— ho— ho,'  that 
made  the  good  Bromley  folks  gi^e. 
As  to  singing  f<^  money,  however,  I 
knew  no  true  tar  with  his  members 
whole  woidd  do  it^  and  I  si^posed  it 
to  be  merelv  some  ^spiee  ashore,* 
until  the  eunous-lookfaig  ol^ect  from 
behind  was  lugged  forwud  by  a  couple 
of  nqpes,  proving  to  be  a  human 
figure  about  six  Mk  high,  with  a  rough 
canvass  cover  sb  for  as  the  knees. 
What  with  three  holes  at  the&ce,  and 
the  strange  eokrar  ol  the  legs,  which 
were  bare— with  the  pur  <tf  tnrned-up 
Ii^ia  shoes,  and  the  whdie  shape  like 
a  walking  snok^fonnel  over  a  ship's 
caboose— I  was  puaaled  what  thW 
wouldbeat.  The  leading  tar  immedi- 
ately to<dc  off  his  hat,  waved  it  round 
for  a  dear  q>9ee,  and  gave  a  hem 
while  he  pointed  to  the  mysterious 
qinsatuiOb    ^^J^omt  my  lads  K'  said  he, 


Digitized  by  VljOOQIC 


8S2 


ne  Green  H<md,^A  ^Shart'^  ram^Part  11. 


*^  this  hero  wonderful  bein*  is  a  savitch 
we  brought  aboard  of  vis  from  the 
Andyman  Isles,  where  he  was  caught 
one  momin'  paddling  ronnd  the  ship 
in  a  canoe  made  ont  of  the  bark  of  a 
sartain  tree.  Bein*  the  ownly  spice  of 
the  sort  bronffht  to  this  conntiy  as 
yet  is,  and  we  navin*  ron  short  of  the 
needM  to  take  us  to  the  next  port, 
we  expects  every  lady  and  gemman 
as  has  the  wherewithal,  will  ^e  us  a 
lift,  by   consideration  of  this  same 

cnr*oas    sight,    and    doesn^t   ^" 

"  Heave  ahead,  Tom,  lad  I"  said  an- 
other encouragingly,  as  the  sailor 
brought  up  fi^ly  out  of  breath.— 
"Doesn't  want  no  man's  money  for 
nou't,  d'ye  see,  but  all  fair  an*  above 
board.  We're  not  agoin'  to  show 
this  here  sip;ht  excep'  you  makes 
up  half-a-gmnea  amongst  ye — arter 
that,  all  hands  may  see  shot-free— 
them's  the  articles!"  "Ay,  ay,  Tom, 
well  said,  old  ship!"  observed  the 
rest ;  and,  after  a  considerable  clink- 
ing of  cohi  amongst  the  crowd,  the 
required  sum  was  poured,  in  pence 
and  sixpences,  into  Tom's  hat.  "All 
right!"  said  he,  as  soon  as  he  had 
counted  it,— "hoist  away  the  tar- 
paulin, mates  I"  For  my  part,  I  was 
rather  surprised  at  the  rare  appear- 
ance of  this  said  savage,  when  his 
cover  was  off— his  legs  and  arms 
naked,  his  face  streaked  with  yellow, 
and  both  parts  the  colour  of  red  boom- 
varnish;  his  red  hidr  done  up  in  a 
tuft,  with  feathers  all  round  it, 
and  a  bright  feather-tippet  over  his 
shoulders,  as  he  stood,  six  feet  in 
his  yellow  slippers,  and  looking  sulkily 
-enough  at  the  people.  "Bobbery 
puckalowl"  said  the  nautical  head- 
showman,  and  all  at  once  up  jumped 
-the  Andaman  islander,  dandng  furi- 
ously, holding  a  little  Indian  punkah 
over  his  head,  and  flourishing  with 
the  other  hand  what  reminded  me 
strongly  of  a  ship's  top-maul — shout- 
ing "  Goor— goor— gooree  1"  while 
two  of  the  sailors  held  on  by  the 
ropes.  The  crowd  made  plenty  of 
room,  and  Tom  proceeded  to  explain 
to  them  very  civilly,  that  "  in  them 
parts  'twas  so  hot  the  natives  wouldn't 
fight,  save  under  a  portable  awning." 
Having  exhibited  the  points  of  their 
extraordinary  savage,  he  was  calmed 
again  by  anothw  uncouth  word  of 
^onunand,  when  the  nan-o'-war'a- 


[March, 

man  attempted  a  further  iravene  on 
the  good  Bromley  fdks,  for  which  I 
gave  him  great  credit.  "  Now,  my 
lads  and  lasses,"  said  he,  taking  off 
his  hat  i^n,  "  I  s'poee  you're  all 
British  subjects  and  Englishmen!"  at 
which  there  was  a  murmur  of  ap- 
plause. "Very  good,  mates  all!" 
continued  the  foretopman  approvingly. 
— "  Then,  in  course,  ye  knows  as  how 
whatsomever  touches  British  ground 
isy^«e/"  "Britons  never,  never  shall 
be  slaves !"  sung  out  a  boy,  and  the 
screaming  and  hurrahing  was  univer- 
sal. Tom  stuck  his  tongue  in  his 
cheek  to  his  messmates,  and  went  on, 
— "Though  we  was  all  pressed  our- 
selves, and  has  knocked  about  in 
sarvice  of  our  king  and  country,  an' 
bein'  poor  men,  we  honours  the  flag, 
my  lads !"  "  Hoorah !  hoorah !  hoorr- 
ray!"  "So  you  see,  gemmen,  my 
shipmates  an'  me  has  come  to  the 
resolve  of  lettin'  this  here  wild  savidge 
go  free^into  the  woods, — ^though,  bein' 
poor  men,  d'ye  see,  we  hopes  ye'U 
make  it  up  to  us  a  bit  first  I  What 
d'ye  say,  all  hands  ? — slump  togeUier 
for  the  other  guinea,  will  ye,  and  off 

he  goes  this  minute, — and  d the 

odds!  Eh?  what  d'ye  say,  ship- 
mates?" "Ay,  ay,  Tom,  sink  the 
damage  too  !'^  siud  his  comrades ; 
"  we'll  always  get  a  berth  at  Black- 
wall,  again !" 

•  "  Stimd  by  to  ease  off  his  tow-lines, 
then,"  said  Tom,—"  now  look  sharp 
with  the  shiners  there,  my  lads — 
ownly  a  guinea !"  "  No!  no  T'  mur- 
mured the  townspeople, — "  send  for 
the  constable  !^we1l  all  be  scalped 
and  murdered  in  our  beds ! — ^no,  no, 
for  God's  sake,  mister  sailors !"  A 
grocer  ran  out  of  his  door  to  beg  the 
tars  wouldn't  think  of  such  a  thing, 
and  the  village  constable  came  shov- 
ing himself  in,  with  the  beadle. 
"  Come,  come,"  said  the  constable  in 
a  soothinff  s^le,  while  the  beadle 
tried  to  look  big  and  blustering, 
"  you  musn't  do  it,  my  good  men, — 
not  on  no  desideration,  A«re,— in  his 
majesty's  name !  Take  nn  on  to  the 
next  parish !— I  border  all  good  sub- 
jects to  resist  me!"  ''Whair  growled 
the  foretopman^  with  an  air  of  supreme 
disgust,  "han't  ye  no  feelings  for 
liberty  hereaway?  Parish  be  blowed! 
Bill,  my  lad,  let  go  his  moorings,  and 
give  the  poor  devil  his  nat'ral  f^- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


The  Often Hand.^A  ^^Shori^'  Yam.-^Part  11. 


dom  I"  ^*  rm  right  down  ashamed  on 
my  country,"  said  BilL  *^  Hollo,  ship- 
mates,  cast  off  at  once,  an^  never 
mind  the  loss, — I  hasn^t  slept  easy 
myself  sin^  he  wor  cotched  T  ^^  Nor 
me  either,"  said  another,  ^*bat  I'm 
feared  he'll  play  the  devil  when  he's 
loose,  mate." 

I  bad  been  watching  the  affair  all 
this  time  from  inside,  a  good  deal 
amnsed,  in  those  days,  at  the  trick—* 
eapedally  so  well  carried  out  as  it  was 
by  the  sulors.  *'Here,  my  fine 
fcSlows,"  said  I  at  last,  **  bring  him  in, 
if  yon  please,  and  let  me  have  a  look 
at  him."  Next  minnte  in  came  the 
whole  party,  and,  snpposlDg  from  my 
dress  that  I  was  merely  a  long- 
.  shore  traveller,  they  pat  their  savage 
through  his  dance  with  great  vigour. 
^^Wonderfol  tame  he's  got,  yonr 
hononrr  said  the  top-man;  ^^  it's 
nothing  to  what  he  does  if  yon  fresh* 
ens  his  nip."  *'  What  does  he  eat  ?" 
I  asked,  pretending  not  to  understand 
the  hint  **  Why,  nought  to  speak  on, 
sir,"  said  he;  ^^  but  we  wonst  lost  a 
boy  doorin'  the  cruise,  nobody  know'd 
how — ^though  'twas  thought  he  went 
o'board,  some  on  us  had  our  doubts." 
*^  Curiously  tatooed,  too,"  I  said ;  ^^  I 
should  like  to  examine  his  arm." 
*^A  bit  obstropolous  he  is,  your 
honour,  if  yon  handles  him !"  ^'  Never 
mind,"  said  I,  getting  up  and  seizmg 
the  wrist  of  the  Andaman  islander,  in 
spite  of  his  grins ;  and  my  suspicions 
were  immediately  fulfilled  by  seeing 
a  whole  range  of  familiar  devices 
marked  in  blue  on  the  fellow's  arm— > 
amongst  them  an  anchor  with  a  heart 
transfixed  by  a  harpoon,  on.  one 
side  the  word  ^^Sal,'^  and  on  the 
other "R. 0.1811."  "Wheredidyou 
steal  this  top-maul,  you  rascal  ?  '^  said 
I,  coolly  looking  in  his  face;  while 
I  noticed  one  of  the  men  overhaul* 
ing  me  suspiciously  out  of  his 
weather-eye,  and  sidling  to  the  door. 
""I  didn't  stale  it  at  alll"  ex- 
daimed  the  savage,  giving  his  red 
head  a  scratch,  **  'twas  Bill  Green 
there — by  japersi  whack,  pillalew, 
mates,  I'm  done!"  **Lordl  oh 
Lord  I "  said  Bill  himself,  quite  crest* 
fallen,  'Mf  I  didn't  think  'twas  him ! 
We're  all  pressed  again,  mates  1 
It's  the  leftenant ! "  "  Pressed,  bo'  ?  " 
said  Tom ;  **  more  luck,  I  wish  we 
wa»— but  they  wouldn't  take  ye  now 


828 

for  a  bounty,  ye  know."  Here  I  was 
fain  to  sUik  down  and  give  a  hearty 
laugh,  particularly  at  recognising 
Bill,  who  had  been  a  shipmate  of 
Jacobs  and  myself  in  the  old  Pandora, 
and  was  nicknamed  *^  Green" — I  be- 
lieve from  a  little  adventure  of  ours — 
so  I  gave  the  men  a  guinea  a -piece  to 
carry  them  on.  "  Long  life  to  your 
honour  1 "  said  they ;  and  said  Tom, 
^^  If  I  might  make  so  bould,  sir,  if 
your  honour  has  got  a  ship  yet,  we 
all  knows  ye,  sir,  and  we'd  enter, 
if  'twas  for  the  North  Pole  itself  I  " 
**No,  my  lad,"  said  I,  "I'm  sorry 
to  say  I  have  not  got  so  for  yet. 
Dvkes,  my  man,  can  you  tell  me 
where  your  old  messmate  Jacobs  has 
got  to  ?  "  "  Why,  sii-,"  replied  Bill, 
"  I  did  hear  he  was  livin'  at  Wapping 
with  his  wife,  where  we  means  to 
give  him  a  call,  too,  sir."  "  Good 
day,  your  honour  1 "  said  all  of  them, 
as  they  put  on  their  hats  to  go,  and 
covered  their  curiosity  again  with  his 
tarpaulin.  "  I'm  blessed.  Bill,"  said 
Tom,  "  but  we'll  knock  off  this  here 
carrivanning  now,  and  put  before  the 
wind  for  Blackwall."     "  Won't  you 

f've  your  savage  his  freedom,  then," 
asked.  "  Sartinly,  your  honour," 
replied  the  rognish  foretopman,  his 
eye  twinkling  as  he  saw  tnat  I  en- 
joyed the  joke.  *'  Now,  Mick,  my 
lad,  ye  must  run  like  the  devil  so 
soon  as  we  casts  ye  off!  '*  "  Oh,  by 
the  powers,  thry  me  I "  said  the  Irish- 
man ;  "  I'm  tired  o'  this  cannible 
minnatchery!  By  the  holy  mouse, 
though,  I  must  have  a  dhrop  o'  dew 
in  me,  or  I'll  fall!"  Mick  accord* 
ingly  swigffed  off  a  noggin  of  gin,  and 
declared  himself  ready  to  start. 
"  Head  due  nor'- east  from  the  sun, 
Mick,  and  we'll  pick  you  up  in  the 
woods,  and  rig  you  out  all  square 
again,"  said  the  captain  of  the  gang, 
before  presenting  himself  to  the  mob 

outside.      '*  Now,    ««»"»«*«  onil  IoiIiaq 

all,"  said  the  sal 
we're  bent  on  g 
unfort'nate  his  lib 
we've  got  the  lai 
we  means  to  do 
there's  a  leftenani 
aboard  there,  as 
little  salvage-moi 
orderin'  us  for  to 
If  ye  only  givea 
he'll  not  do  no  ha 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


824 


The  Grem  Hand.--^  "5»<W"  Twm.^^.P(itt  IT. 


[Mftrdi^ 


Black  off  Ihe  starboard  sheet,  Jaek— 
let  go— aU ! »»  "  Oh !  oh !— no !  no  !— 
for  God's  sakel"  screamed  the  by- 
standers, as  thej  scuttled  off  to  both 
liands — *^ shame!  shame! — knock nn 
down !  catch  nn  I— tipstaff !  beadle ! " 
"  Hnrrah ! "  roared  me  boys,  and  off 
went  Mick  0*Hooney  in  fine  ai^le, 
:floarishing  his  top-maul,  with  a  wild 
*^  hullaloo,''  right  away  over  a  fence, 
Into  a  garden,  and  across  a  field  to- 
wards the  nearest  wood.  £yery- 
body  fell  ont  of  his  way  as  he  dashed 
on;  then  some  rnnning  after  him, 
dogs  barking,  and  the  whole  of  the 
seamen  giving  chase  with  their  tar- 
paulins in  then*  hands,  as  if  to  drive 
him  far  enough  into  the  country. 
The  whole  scene  was  extremely  rich, 
seen  through  the  open  air  from  the 
tavern  window,  where  I  sat  laughing, 
till  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes,  at 
Jack-tars*  roguishness  and  the  stupe- 
fied Kent  rustics,  as  they  looked  to 
each  other;  then  at  the  sailors  reeling 
away  full  speed  along  the  edge  of  the 
plantation  where  the  outiandish 
creature  had  disappeared;  and,  lastly, 
at  the  canvass  covw  which  lay  on 
the  spot  where  he  had  stood.  They 
were  actually  consulting  how  to  guard 
against  possible  inroads  from  tiie 
savage  at  night,  since  he  might  be 
lurking  near,  when  I  mounted  and 
rode  off ;  I  daresay  even  their  hearing 
that  I  was  a  live  and  real  lieutenant 
would  cap  the  whole  story. 

Croydon  is  a  pretty,  retired  little 
town,  so  quiet  and  old-fashioned  that 
I  enjoyed  the  unusual  rest  in  it,  and 
the  very  look  of  the  canal,  the  market- 
place, the  old  En^ish  trees  and  people 
— by  comparison  with  even  the  Iris's 
white  dedcs,  and  her  drcumtoence 
of  a  prospect,  different  as  it  was  every 
morning  or  hour  of  the  day.  My 
mother  and  my  sister  Jane  were  so 
kind — they  petted  me  so,  and  were  so 
hi4)py  to  have  me  down  to  breakfast 
and  out  walking,  even  to  feel  the 
smell  of  my  cigar,^that  I  hardly 
knew  where  I  waa.  I  rave  them 
an  account  of  the  places  I  had  seen, 
with  a  few  tranendons  storms  and  a 
frigate-fight  or  two,  instead  of  the 
horse-marine  stories  about  mermaids 
and  flying  Dutchmmi  I  used  to  pass 
upon  mem  when  a  conceited  yooag- 
ster.  littieJanewould  listen  witii  her 
ear  to  a  laife  shell,  when  we  were  upon 


sea  matters,  and  dint  her  eyes,  saying 
she  could  frmcy  tiie  thing  so  perfectly 
in  tiiat  way.  Or  was  it  about  India, 
there  was  a  painted  saadal-wood  fan 
icarved  in  open-work  like  the  finest 
lace,  which  ahe  would  spread  over  her 
face^  because  the  seeing  t&rough  it, 
and  its  scent,  made  her  feel  as  if  she 
were  in  the  tropics.  As  for  my 
mother,  good  simple  woman,  she  waa 
always  between  ast<»ishment  and 
horror,  never  having  beHeved  that 
lieutenants  would  be  so  heartless  as 
to  mastiiead  a  midshipman  for  the 
drunkenness  of  a  boat's  crew,  nor 
being  able  to  understand  why,  with  a 
gale  brewing  to  seaward,  a  captain 
tried  to  get  his  ship  as  far  as  he  could 
from  land.  The  idea  of  my  going 
to  sea  again  never  entered  her  head, 
the  terrible  war  bdng  over,  and  the 
rank  I  had  gained  being  invariably 
explained  to  visiters  as  at  least  equal 
to  that  of  a  captain  amongst  soldiers. 
To  the  present  day,  this  is  the  point 
with  respect  to  seafiEuing  matters  on 
which  my  venerated  and  worthy 
parent  is  clearest :  she  will  take  ck 
her  gold  spectacles,  smoothing  dowii 
her  silver  hsir  with  tiie  other  hand, 
and  lay  down  the  law  as  to  reform  hi 
naval  titles,  showing  that  my  captain's 
commission  puts  me  on  a  level  with  a 
military  colond.  However,  as  usual, 
I  got  tired  by  little  and  littie  of  this 
sort  of  thing ;  I  fancy  there's  some 
peculiar  disease  gets  into  a  sailor's 
brain  that  makes  him  uneasy  with  a 
firm  fioor  and  no  offing  beyond ;  cer- 
tainly the  country  about  Croydcn 
was  to  my  mind,  at  that  time,  the 
worsit  possible, — all  shut  in,  narrow 
lanes,  high  hedses  and  orchards,  no 
sky  except  oveinead,  and  no  horixon. 
If  I  could  only  have  got  a  hill,  there 
would  have  been  some  reli^  hi  having 
a  k>ok-ovt  firom  it.  Money  I  didn't 
need;  and  as  for  fame  or  rank,  I 
ndther  had  the  amlution,  nor  did  I 
ever  fancy  myself  intended  for  an 
admural  or  a  Nelson :  all  my  wirii  waa 
to  be  up  and  driving  about,  on  acoonst 
of  something  tiiat  was  wiMi  me.  I 
enjoyed  a  good  breese  as  some  do 
champagne;  and  the  very  perfection 
of  glorv,  to  my  thinking,  was  to  be 
the  sou  of  a  ^lant  ship  in  a  regular 
Atlantic  howler ;  or  to  play  at  long 
bowls  with  one^  match  to  leeward, 
off  the  rklgee  of  a  sea,  ifith  both  wea- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S49.7 


The  Qrun  SoMl-^A  ^Shfni'r  Ymk.^PartTt 


825 


tlier  and  the  endm j  to  think  of.  Ac- 
cordingly, I  wasn't  at  all  inclined  to 
go  jogging  along  in  one  of  yonr  easy 
merchantmen,  where  yon  have  no- 
thing new  to  find  out;  and  I  <mly 
waited  to  hear  from  some  friends  who 
were  bestirring  themselves  with  the 
Board,  of  a  ship  where  there  might  be 
fsomething  to  do.  These  were  my 
notions  in  those  days,  before  getting 
sobered  down,  which  I  tell  yon  for 
the  sake  of  not  seeming  snch  a  fool  in 
this  said  adventure. 

Well,  one  evening  my  sister  Jane 
and  I  went  to  a  race-bidl  at  Epsom, 
where,  of  course,  we  saw  all  the 
*'  beauty  and  fashion,"  as  thev  say,  of 
the  country  round,  with  plenty  of 
the  army  men,  who  were  in  all  their 
glory,  with  Waterloo  and  all  that; 
we  two  or  three  poor  nauticals  being 
quite  looked  down  upon  in  compari- 
son, since  Nelson  was  dead,  and  we 
had  left  nothing  at  the  end  to  fight 
with.  I  even  heard  one  belle  ask  a 
dragoon  *^what  uniform  that  was— 
was  it  tl*  horse- artillery  corps?** 
^*  Haw !"  said  the  dragoon,  squinting 
at  me  through  an  eyeglass,  and  then 
looking  with  one  eye  at  his  spurs  and 
with  the  other  at  his  partner,  *^  Not 
at  all  surel   I  do  think,  after  all, 

Miss ,  'tis  the— the  marhie  body, 

—  a  sort  of  amphibious  animidsl 
They  weren't  with  fi»,  though,  you 
know, — couXdnH  be,  indeed,  though 
it     wa8    Water Aoo\      Haw  I    haw! 

youll  excuse  the  joke.  Miss ?" 

*'Ha!    ha  I    how   extremely   witty, 

Captam 1"  said  the  young  lady, 

and  they  whirled  away  towards  the 
other  end  of  the  hail.  But,  had  there 
been  an  opportunity,  by  the  honour 
af  the  flag,  and  nothing  personal,  I 
declare  I  should  have  done — ^what 
the  fool  deserved,— had  it  been  be- 
fore all  his  brethren  and  the  Duke 
hims^t  It  was  not  ten  minutes 
after,  that  I  saw  what  I  thought  the 
loveliest  young  creature  ever  crossed 
my  eyes,  coming  out  of  the  refr^esh- 
ment-room  with  two  ladies,  an  old 
and  an  elderly  one.  The  first  was 
Hdily  dressed,  and  I  set  her  down  for 
an  aunt,  she  was  so  unlike ;  the  other 
for  a  governess.  The  young  lady  was 
near  sixteen  to  appearance,  dressed 
in  white.  There  were  many  beauties 
in  the  ball-room  you  would  have 
called  handsome;   but  there   was 


somelihing  aboii(  her  altogether  I 
could  compare  to  nothing  dse  but  the 
white  figure-head  of  the  Iris,  sliding 
gently  along  m  the  first  curl  of  a 
breeze,  with  the  morning -sky  far  out 
on  the  bow,— curious  as  you  may 
think  it,  ladies  I  Her  hair  was  brown, 
and  her  complexion  remarkably  pale 
notwithstanding ;  while  her  eyes  were 
as  dark-blue,  too,  as — as  the  ocean 
near  the  line,  that  sometimes,  in  a 
dear  calm,  gets  to  melt  till  yov 
scarcely  know  it  firom  the  sky. 
**  Look,  Edward  !**  whispered  my 
Bister,  *^  what  a  pretty  creature  I  She 
can't  be  English,  she  looks  so  differ- 
ent from  eveirbody  in  the  room  1  And 
such  diamonds  in  her  hair!  sudi  a 
beautifully  large  pearl  in  her  brooch ! 
Who  can  she  be,  I  wonder?"  I  was 
so  taken  up,  however,  that  I  never 
recollected  at  all  what  Jane  said  tiU 
at  night,  in  thinking  the  matter  over; 
and  then  a  whole  breeze  of  whisper- 
ings seemingly  came  ftom  every 
comer  of  the  bedroom,  of  "  Who  is 
she!"  "Who  can  she  be?"  "Who's 
her  fath^?"  and  so  on,  which  I  re- 
membered to  have  heard.  I  only 
noticed  at  the  time  that  somebody 
said  she  was  the  daughter  of  some 
rich  East  India  Nabob  or  other,  just 
come  home.  I  had  actually  forgot 
about  the  young  dragoon  I  meant  to 
find  out  again,  untfl  a  post-captdn 
who  was  present— one  of  Colling- 
wood's  flag-lieutenants— went  up  to 
the  old  chaperane,  whom  he  seemed 
to  know,  and  got  mto  talk  with  her : 
I  found  afterwards  she  was  an  ad- 
miral's widow.  In  a  little  I  saw  him 
introduced  to  the  young  lady,  and  ask 
her  to  dance ;  I  fancied  she  hung  bludc 
for  a  moment,  but  the  next  she  bowed, 
gave  a  slight  smile  to  the  captain's 
gallant  sea-fashion  of  deep  respect  to 
the  sex,  and  they  were  soon  gliding 
away  in  the  first  set  Her  dSmcing 
was  more  like  walking  with  spread 
wings  upon  air,  than  upon  planks  with 
one's  arms  out,  as  the  captain  did.  I'd 
have  given  my  eyes,  not  to  speak  of 
myoommis^on  and  chances  to  come, 
to  have  gone  through  that  figure  with 
her.  When  the  captain  had  handed 
her  to  her  seat  again,  two  or  three  of 
the  dragoons  sauntered  up  to  Lady 
Somers's  sofa :  it  was  plain  they  werd 
taken :  and  after  conversing  with  ttk^ 
M  laay,  one  of  them,  Lord  somebody 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


826 


ne  Green  Hand.-^A  <'  Short''  Yam Bart  IL 


\JAudt^ 


I  onderstood,  got  iiitrodaced,  in  hi« 
turn,  to  the  jonng  beauty.  As  may 
be  supposed,  I  kept  a  look-out  for  his 
asking  lier  to  dance,  seeing  that,  if  she 
haddone  so  with  one  of  the  embroidered 
crev.  and  their  clattering  gear,  Td 
have  gone  out  that  instant,  found  out 
the  Waterloo  fellow  next  day,  and, 
if  not  shot  myself,  shot  him  with  an 
anchor  button  for  a  bullet,  and  run  off 
in  the  first  craft  I  could  get.  The 
cool,  easy,  cursed  impertinent  way 
this  second  man  made  his  request, 
though— just  as  if  he  couldn't  be  re- 
fused, and  didn't  care  about  it— it  was 
as  different  from  the  captain  of  the 
Diomede's  as  red  from  blue!  My 
heart  went  like  the  main- tack  blocks, 
thrashing  when  you  luff  too  much; 
so  you  may  guess  what  I  felt  to  see 
the  young  lady,  who  was  leaning  back 
on  the  sora,  give  her  head  a  pettish 
sort  of  turn  to  the  old  one,  without  a 
word, — as  much  as  to  say  she  didn't 
want  to,  "  My  love!"  I  heard  the 
old  lady  say,  ^^  I  fear  you  are  tired ! 
M^  lord,  your  lordship  must  excuse 
Miss  Hyde  on  this  occasion,  as  she  is 
delicate  !**  The  dragoon  was  a  polite 
nobleman,  according  to  his  doth ;  so 
he  kept  on  talking  and  smiling,  till 
he  could  walk  off  without  seemmg  as 
if  he'd  got  his  sabre  betwixt  his  feet ; 
but  I  fancied  him  a  little  down  by  the 
head  when  he  did  go.  All  the  time, 
the  young  beauty  was  sitting  with 
her  face  as  quiet  and  indifferent  as 
may  be,  only  there  was  a  sparkle  in 
her  blue  eyes,  and  in  nothing  else  but 
the  diamonds  in  her  hair,  as  she  look- 
ed on  at  the  dancing ;  and,  to  my  eye, 
there  was  a  touch  of  the  rose  came 
out  on  her  cheek,  clear  pale  though  it 
was  before  the  dragoon  spoke  to  her. 
Not  long  after,  an  oldish  gentleman 
came  out  with  a  gray-haired  old 
general  from  the  refreshment-room: 
a  thin,  yellow*  complexloned  man  he 
was,  with  no  whiskers  and  a  bald 
forehead,  and  a  bilious  eye,  but  hand- 
some, and  his  face  as  grand  and 
solemn  looking  as  if  he'd  been  First 
Ix>rd,  or  had  got  a  whole  court-mar- 
tial on  his  shoulders  for  next  day. 
I  should  have  known  him  from  a 
thousand  for  a  man  that  had  lived  in 
the  East,  were  it  nothing  but  the 
quick  way  he  looked  over  )&  shoulder 
for  a  servant  or  two,  when  he  wanted 
his  carriage  called— no  doubt  Just  as 


one  feels  when  he  forgets  he's  asbore« 
like  I  did  every  now  and  then,  look^ 
ing  up  out  to  windward,  and  getting 
a  garden-wall  or  a  wood  slap  into 
one's  eyedght,  as  'twere.  %  i  laid 
down  the  old  gentleman  at  once  for 
this  said  Nabob ;  in  fact,  as  soon  as 
a  footman  told  him  his  carriage  waa 
waitmg,  he  walked  up  to  the  young 
lady  and  her  companions,  and  went 
off  with  them,  a  steward  and  a  lady 

Eatroness  convoying  them  to  the 
reak  of  the  steps.  The  only  notion 
that  ran  m  my  head,  on  the  way  home 
that  night  with  my  sister,  was,  ^^  By 
heavens  1  I  might  just  as  well  be  in 
love  with  the  bit  of  sky  at  the  end  of 
the  flying-jib-boom!"  and  all  the 
while  the  confounded  wheels  kept 
droning  it  into  me,  till  I  was  as  dizzy 
as  the  first  time  I  looked  ovw  the 
fore-royal-yard.  The  whole  night 
long  I  dreamt  I  was  mad  after  the 
figurehead  of  the  Iris,  and  asked  her 
to  dance  with  me,  on  which  she  turned 
round  with  a  look  as  cold  as  water,  or 

Slain  *^  No."  At  last  I  caught  firm 
old  of  her  and  jumped  overboard ; 
and  next  moment  we  were  heaving 
on  the  blue  swell  in  sight  of  the  black 
old  Guinea  coast — ^when  round  turned 
the  figure,  and  changed  into  Miss 
Hyde ;  and  the  old  Nabob  hauled  us 
ashore  upon  a  beautiful  island,  where 
I  woke  and  thought  I  was  wanted  on 
deck,  although  it  was  only  my  mother 
calling  me. 

All  I  had  found  out  about  them 
was,  that  Sir  Charles  Hyde  was  the 
name  of  the  East  Indian,  and  how  he 
was  a  Bengal  judpe  newly  come 
home ;  where  they  lived,  nobody  at 
the  bajl  seemed  to  know.  At  home» 
of  course,  it  was  so  absurd  to  think 
of  getting  acquaintance  with  a  rich 
Indian  judge  and  his  daughter,  that  I 
said  no  more  of  the  matter ;  although 
I  looked  so  foolish  and  care^bout- 
nothing,  I  suppose,  that  my  mother 
said  to  Jane  she  was  sure  I  wanted 
to  go  to  sea  again,  and  even  urged 
me  to  *'  take  a  trip  to  the  Downs, 
perhaps."  As  for  gomg  to  sea,  how- 
ever, I  felt  I  could  no  more  stir  Men^ 
from  where  I  was,  than  with  a  best- 
bower  down,  and  all  hands  drunk 
but  the  captain.  There  was  a  fa- 
vourite lazy  spot  of  mine  near  the 
house,  where  I  used  to  lie  after  din- 
ner, and  smoke  amongst  the  grass. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


ne  Often  Uand,-^A  "  Shari"*  Yam^^Part  11. 


327 


at  Uie  back  of  a  high  garden-wall 
with  two  doors  in  it,  and  a  plank 
across  a  IHtle  brook  nmning  dose 
nnder  them.  All  round  was  a  green 
paddock  for  cows;  there  was  a  tall 
tree  at  hand,  which  I  climbed  now 
and  then  haif-mast  high,  to  get  a 
look  down  a  long  lane  that  ran  level 
to  the  sky,  and  gave  yon  a  sharp 
gnsh  of  bine  from  ue  far  end.  Being 
a  luxurious  dog  in  those  days,  like 
the  cloth  in  general  when  hung  up 
ashore,  I  used  to  call  it  **  The  Idler's 
Walk,"  and  "The  Laay  Watch," 
where  I  did  duty  somewhat  like  the 
famous  bo'sun  that  told  his  boy  to 
call  him  vftti  night  and  say  the 
captain  wantea  him,  when  he  turned 
over  with  a  polite  message,  and  no 
good  to  the  old  tyrant^s  eyes. 

Wdl,  one  aftomoon  I  was  stretch- 
ed on  the  softest  bit  of  this  retreat, 
feeling  unhappy  all  over,  and  trying 
to  thmk  of  nothing  partScokur,  as  I 
locked  at  the  wall  and  smoked  my 
cheroot.  Excuse  me  if  I  think  that, 
so  far  as  I  remember,  there  is  nothing 
so  consolatory,  though  it  can't  of 
course  cure  one,  as  a  fine  Manilla  for 
the  "  green  sickness,"  as  our  fore-mast 
fellows  would  say.  My  main  idea 
was,  that  nothing  on  earth  could  turn 
up  to  get  me  out  of  this  scrape,  but  I 
should  stick  eternally,  with  my  head- 
stils  shiyering  aback,  or  flappmg  in  a 
sickening  deiul  calm.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful hot  summer  afternoon,  as  quiet 
as  possible,  and  I  was  weary  to  death 
of  seeing  that  shadow  of  the  branch 
lying  agafaist  the  white  wall,  down  to 
the  key-hole  of  the  nearest  door.  All 
of  a  sudden  I  heard  the  sweetest 
voice  imaginable,  coming  down  Uie 
l^rden  as  it  were,  singing  a  verse  of 
a  Hindostanee  song  I  had  heard  the 
Bengal  girls  chant  with  thehr  pitchers 
on  their  heads  at  the  well,  of  an 
evening, — 

*LAliteU,Uperii], 
La  naeomalaj  ah  ■ahm-r^. 


Ram  li  ta,  eo-ca-lalir  jhi ! 

Ia  li  ta  1a,  yaaga-la  ta  periii.*  ** 

*' Ck>c-coka-cokatooI"  screamed  a 
harsh  voice,  which  I  certainly  could 
distinguish  from  the  first.  "Pretty 
cockatoo !"  said  the  other  coaxlngly ; 


and  next  minute  the  large  pmk-flushed 
bird  itself  popped  his  head  over  the 
top-stones  above  the  door,  floundering 
alK)ut  with  his  throat  foul  of  the  silver 
chain  fast  to  his  leg,  till  he  huog  bv 
his  beak  on  my  side  of  the  wall,  hdf 
choked,  and  trying  to  croak  out 
" Pretty— pretty  cocky!"  Before  I 
had  thne  to  think,  the  door  opened, 
and,  by  heavens  1  there  was  my  very 
charmer  herself,  with  the  shade  of  the 
green  leaves  showered  over  her  alarm- 
ed face.  She  had  scarcely  seen  me 
before  I  sprang  up  and  caught  the 
cockatoo,  which  bit  me  like  an  imp 
incarnate,  till  the  blood  ran  down  my 
fingers  as  I  handed  it  to  its  nustress, 
my  heart  in  my  month,  and  more  than 
a  quarter-deck  bow  in  my  cap.  The 
young  lady  looked  at  me  first  in  sur- 
prise, as  may  be  supposed,  and  then, 
witii  a  smile  of  thanks  that  set  my 
brain  all  afloat,  "  Oh,  dear  me!"  ex- 
claimed she,  "you  are  hurt  I"  ''Hurtr 
I  said,  looking  so  bewildered,  I  sup- 
pose, that  she  couldn't  help  laughing. 
"Tippoo  is  very  stupid,"  continued 
she,  smiling,  "  because  he  is  out  of  his 
own  country,  I  think.  Ton  shall 
have  no  sugar  to-night,  cockatoo,  for 
bitingyour  friends." 

"Were  you— ever  in  India— ma- 
dam?" I  stammered  out.  "Not 
since  I  was  a  chUd,"  she  answered ; 
but  just  then  I  saw  the  figure  of  tho 
Nabob  sauntering  down  the  garden, 
and  said  I  had  particular  business,* 
and  must  be  oft,  "Ton  are  very 
busy  here,  shr?"  said  the  charming 
young  creature  archly.  "Tou  are 
longing  till  you  go  to  sea,  I  daresay 
—like  Tippoo  and  me."  "  You  I" 
said  I,  stanng  at  the  keyhole,  whilst 
she  caught  my  eye,  and  blushed  a  little, 
as  I  thought.  "  Tes,  we  are  going — 
I  louff  to  see  India  again,  and  I  remem- 
ber the  sea  too,  like  a  dream." 

Oh  heavens!  thought  I,  when  I 
heard  the  old  gentleman  call  out, 
'' Loiail  LoitL  beebee-Ue!  KabuUah^ 
meetoawahr^  and  away  she  vanished 
behind  the  door,  with  a  smile  to  my- 
self. The  tone  of  the  Judge's  voice^ 
and  his  speaking  Hindoo,  luiowed  he 
was  fond  of  his  daughter  at  any  rate* 
Off  I  went,  too,  as  much  confused  aa 
before,  only  for  the  new  thought  in  my 


*  Little  girl  f    Do  you  hear,  sweet  one  f 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


82d 


Vhe  iiftm  ffand.-^A  "  S/«wt'*  Fom.— IWf  //. 


[Buuxniy 


head.  *^  The  sea,  fhe  sea  I**  I  shouted, 
as  soon  as  out  of  hearing,  and  felt  the 
wind,  as  'twere,  coming  from  aft  at 
last,  like  the  first  ripple.  "  Yes,  by 
Oeorge  I"  said  I,  "  outward  bound  for 
a  thousand.  TU  go,  if  it  was  before 
the  mast.*'  All  at  once  I  remembered 
I  didn't  know  the  ship's  name,  or 
when.  Next  day,  and  the  next  again, 
I  was  skulMng  about  my  old  place, 
but  nobody  appeared — not  so  much  as 
a  shadow  inside  the  keyhole.  At  last 
one  evening,  just  as  I  was  going  away, 
the  door  opened ;  I  sauntered  slowly 
along,  when,  instead  of  the  charming 
Lota,  out  came  the  flat  brown  turban 
of  an  ugly  kitmoffor,  with  a  mustacdie, 
looking  round  to  see  who  was  there. 
**  Salaam,  sah  'b,"  said  the  brown  fal- 
low, holding  the  door  behind  him  with 
one  paw.  '*  Burra  judge  sahib  bhott 
hhote  salaam  send  uppiser*  sah  'b— 
'ope  not  tiekhef  after  sahib  cook-maid." 
^' Joot  baht,  hurhut'jee;' X  said  I, 
laughing.  **  Sah 'b  been  my  coontree?" 
inquired  the  Bengalee  more  politely. 
**  Jee,  yes,"  I  said,  wishing  to  draw  him 
out.  "  I  Inglitch  can  is-peek,"  con- 
tinued the  dark  footman,  conceitedly ; 
•*  ver  well  sah'b,  but  one  damned  mis- 
fortune us  for  come  i-here.  Baud 
4iarry  make—plentv  too  much  poork-- 
too  much  graug  drink.  Turmeric— 
ohili — ^banana  not  got — ^not  coco-tree 
got — ^pah  I  Baud  coontree,  too  much 
i-cold,  sab  'b  ?"  "  Curse  the  rascal's 
Impudence,"  1  thoujght,  but  I  asked 
hhn  if  he  wasnt  gemg  back.  ♦'  Yis, 
dah'b,  such  baht%  Al-il-alkh!  Mo- 
bummud  burra  Meer-kea,  Bote  too 
much  i-smell  my  coontree."  "  When 
are  you  going?"  I  asked  carelessly. 
"  Two  day  thw  time,  sah  n)."  "  Can 
you  tell  me  the  name  of  the  ship?" 
I  went  on.  The  Kitmagar  looked  at 
me  slyly,  stroked  his  mustache,  and 
meditated;  after  which  he  squinted  at 
jne  again,  and  his  lips  opened  so  as  to 
form  the  magic  word,  ^^  Buckshishf^ 
*♦  yiec,"  0aid  I,  holding  out  a  crown- 
piece,  **  the  ship's  name  and  the  har- 
bour?" "8e,"  began  he;  the  coin 
touched  his  palm,  —  "  ring ; "  his  fin- 
««rs  dosed  on  it,  and  "  Patahm," 
dropped  from  his  leathery  lips.  "The 
8eringapatam?"l8dd.  '♦ilAfi,st«i'b." 


"  London,  eh?"  I  added ;  to  which  h% 
returned  another  reluctant  assent,  aa 
if  it  wasn't  paid  for,  and  I  walked  off. 
Howeyer,  I  had  not  got  round  the 
comer  before  I  noticed  the  figure  of 
the  old  gendeman  himself  looking 
after  me  from  the  doorway ;  his 
worthy  Kitmagar  salaaming  to  the 
ground,  and  no  doubt  giving  informa- 
tion how  the  "cheep  uppiser"  bad 
tried  to  pump  him  to  no  purpose.  The 
Nabob  looked  plainly  as  suspicious 
as  if  I  had  wanted  to  break  into  bis 
bouse,  since  he  held  his  hand  over  his 
eyes  to  watch  me  out  of  sight. 

At  night,  I  told  my  mother  and 
Bister  I  should  be  off  to  London  next 
day,  for  sea.  What  betwixt  their  vexa*> 
tion  at  losing  me,  and  their  satisfac* 
tion  to  «ee  me  more  cheerful,  witk 
talking  over  matters,  we  sat  up  half 
the  night.  I  was  so  ashamed,  though^ 
to  tell  them  what  I  intended,  consi- 
dering what  a  fool's  chase  it  would 
seem  to  any  one  but  myself,  that  I 
kept  all  close;  and,  I  am  sorry  to  sayv 
I  was  so  full  of  my  love-affair,  with 
the  wild  adventure  of  it,  the  sea,  and 
eveiything  besides,  as  not  to  feel  their 
anxiety  enough.  How  it  was  to  turn 
out  I  didn*t  know ;  but  somehow  or 
other  I  was  resolved  Fd  contrive 
to  make  a  rope  if  I  couldn't  find 
one:  at  the  worst,  I  might  carry 
the  ship,  gain  over  the  men,  or  turn 
pirate  and  discover  an  island.  Early  in 
the  morning  I  packed  my  traps,  drew 
a  cheque  for  my  prise-money,  got  the 
coach,  and  bowled  off  for  London,  te 
knock  up  Bob  Jacobs,  my  seagodfather; 
this  being  the  very  first  step,  as  it 
seemed  to  mo,  in  making  the  plan 
feasible.  Rough'  sort  of  confidant  as 
he  may  look,  there  was  no  man  living 
I  would  have  trusted  before  him  for 
keeping  a  secret.  Bob  was  true  as 
the  topsail  sheets  |  and  if  you  onl^ 
gave  him  the  course  to  steer,  without 
any  of  the  *' puzzlements,"  as  he  called 
the  calculathig  part,  he  would  stick 
to  it,  blow  high,  blow  low.  He  was 
just  the  fellow  I  wanted,  for  the  lee 
brace  as  it  were,  to  give  my  weather 
one  a  purchase,  even  tt  1  had  altogether 
liked  the  notion  of  setting  off  all  alone 
en  what  I  couldn't  help  suspecting 


Officer.       t  Ltek.       $  Tit  a  U^  yen  ieenidfsl.       f  That  is  true. 


Digitize^ 


1M9.7 


TksOpeenSimd.^A  ^  Short »  r<m..-J=\r^  //. 


*fra8  &  gnflleiatily  hare-brained  floheme 
aa  it  stood ;  and,  to  tell  the  tntth,  it 
waeonly  to  a  straiglitforwaTd,  simple- 
hearted  tar4ike  Jacobs  that  I  could 
have  plneked  up  oourafe  to  make  it 
known.  I  knew  he  would  enter  into 
it  like  a  reefer  volonteering  fbr  a 
cntting  out,  and  make  nothing  of  the 
diffioolties — especially  when  a  love 
matter  was  at  the  bottom  of  it:  the 
chief  qnestion  was  how  to  discover 
his  whereabouts,  as  Wapping  is  rather 
ji  wide  word.  I  adopted  the  expedi- 
ent of  going  into  all  the  tobacco-shops 
to  Inquire  after  Jacobs,  knowing  him 
to  be  a  more  tiian  commonly  hard 
amoker,  and  no  great  drinker  ashore. 
I  was  beginning  to  be  tired  out,  how- 
ever, and  give  up  the  quest,  when, 
at  the  comer  of  a  lane  near  the  docks, 
I  caught  sight  of  a  little  door  adorned 
with  what  had  app«nently  been  part 
of  a  ship's  figure-head — the  face  of  a 
nymph  or  nereid,  four  times  as  large 
as  life,  with  tarnished  gilding,  and  a 
long  wooden  pipe  in  her  mouth  that 
had  all  the  effect  of  a  bowsprit,  being 
stayed  up  by  a  piece  of  mariine  to  a 
hook  in  the  wall,  probably  in  order  to 
keep  clear  of  people^s  heads.  The 
woi^ds  painted  on  its  two  head-boards, 
as  under  a  ship's  bow,  were  **  Betsy 
Jacobs,"  and  **iicensed"  on  the  top  of 
^e  door;  the  window  was  stowed 
full  of  cakes  of  cav^dish,  twists  of 
aegrohead,  and  coils  of  pigtail;  so 
that,  having  heard  my  old  shipmate 
apeak  of  a  certain  Betsey,  both  as 
aweetheart  and  partner,  I  made  at 
<mce  pretty  sure  of  having  lighted,  by 
chance,  on  his  veiy  dir-dock,  and 
went  in  without  more  mo.  I  found 
nobody  in  the  little  shop,  but  a  rough 
voice,  as  like  as  possible  to  Jacobs' 
«wn,  was  chanting  the  sea-song  of 
^  Coase,  cheer  up,  my  lads,  'tis  to  glory 
we  steer,**  in  the  back-room,  in  a 
curious  sleepy  kind  of  drone,  inter- 
rupted every  now  and  then  by  the 
suck  of  hfo  pipe,  and  a  mysterious 
thumping  sound,  which  I  oould  only 
account  for  by  the  supposition  that 
the  poor  fellow  was  mangling  clothes, 
or  gone  mad.  I  was  obliged  to  kick 
on  the  counter  with  all  my  might, 
in  competition,  before  an  eye  was 
applied  from  inside  to  the  little  window ; 
after  which,  aa  I  expected,  the  head 
of  Jacobs  was  thrust  out  of  the  door, 
his  hair  rough,  thi'ee  days'  beard  on 


his  chin,  and  he  in  his  shirt  and 
trouBers.  ''HMtr  said  he,  in  a 
low  voice,  not  seeing  me  disthictly 
for  the  light,  "you're  not  caBki'  the 
watch,  my  lad!  Hold  on  a  bit,  and 
ril  sarve  your  orders  directly."  After 
another  stave  of  "  Hearts  <^  oak  are 
our  ships,"  &c,  in  the  same  dra^, 
and  a  still  more  vigorous  thumping 
than  before,  next  minute  out  came 
Bob  again ;  with  a  wonderful  air  of 
hnportance,  though,  and  drawing  in 
one  hand,  to  my  greskt  surprise,  the 
slack  of  a  line  of  '*  half-inch,"  on 
which  he  gave  now  and  then  a  tug  and 
an  ease  off,  as  he  come  forward,  like  a 
fellow  humouring  a  newly-hooked  fish. 
"Now,  then,  my  hearty!"  said  he, 
shading  his  eyes  with  the  other  hand, 
"bear  a—"  "Why,  Jacobs,  old 
ship,"  I  said,  "what's  this  you're 
after?  Don't  you  know  your  old 
apprentice,  eh?" 

Jacobs  looked  at  my  cap  and 
epaulette,  and  gave  out  his  breath  in 
a  whistle,  the  only  other  sign  of 
astonishment  being,  tiiat  he  let  go 
his  unaccountable-looking  piece  of 
cord.  "Lordbless  me,  Master  Nedl" 
said  ho—-"  I  axes  pardon,  Lieutenant 
GoUins,  your  honour!"  "Glad  you 
know  me  tins  time.  Bob,  my  lad,'.' 
said  I,  looking  round, — "  and  a  com- 
fortable ber^  you've  got  of  it,  I 
daresay.  But  what  the  deuce  ar€ 
you  about  in  there?  You  havent  a 
savage  too,  like  some  friends  of  yours 
I  fell  in  with  a  short  time  mo  f  Or 
perhaps  a  lion  or  a  tiger,  eh,  Jacobs?'* 
"  No,  no,  your  honour — lions  be  Wow- 
ed r'  replied  he,  lauglnng,  but  fiddlins 
with  his  hands  all  the  while,  and 
standing  between  me  and  the  room, 
as  if  half  ashamed.  "  'Tis  ownly  the 
tiller-ropes  of  a  small  craft  I  am  left  in 
diarge  of,  sir.  But  won't  ye  sit  down, 
vour  honour,  till  audi  time  as  my  old 
'ooman  comes  aboard  to  rdieve  me^ 
shr?  Here's  a  cAmt,  and  maybe  you'd 
make  so  free  for  to  take  a  pipe  of 
prime  cavendirii,  your  honour?" 
"  Let's  have  a  look  into  your  cabin, 
though.  Bob  my  man^"  said  I,  curious 
to  know  what  was  the  secret ;  when 
aU  at  once  a  tremendous  squall  from 
within  let  me  sufficiently  into  it.  The 
sailor  had  been  roddng  the  cradle, 
with  a  fine  little  fellow  of  a  babv  in 
it,  and  a  Une  made  fast  to  keep  it  in 
play  when  he  served  the  shop.    "All 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


330 


Tke  Grtm  Hcmd.-^A  "  Short''  Yam.^I\xri  II. 


[UaKb, 


the  pitch  *8  in  the  fire  now,  yoor  hon- 
onv  ^d  bOy  looking  tembly  non« 
plossed ;  **  Tve  broached  him  to,  and 
he's  all  aback  till  his  mammy  gets  a 
hold  of  him."  '^A  good  pipe  the 
little  rogae's  got  thoagh,''  said  I, 
*'  and  a  fine  child  he  is,  Jacobs — do 
for  a  bo'snn  yet."  "  WTiy,  yes,  sir," 
said  he,  rubbing  his  chin  with  a 
gratified  smile,  as  the  nrchin  kicked, 
threw  ont  his  arms,  and  roared  like 
to  break  his  heart;  *^rm  thinking 
he's  a  sailor  all  over,  by  natnr',  as  one 
may  say.  He  don't  Uke  a  calm  no 
more  nor  myself;  bat  that's  the  odds 
of  bein'  ashore,  where  yon  needs  to 
keep  swinging  the  hammocks  by  hand, 
instead  of  havin'it  done  for  yon,  sir." 
In  the  midst  of  the  noise,  however, 
we  were  canght  by  the  sadden  ap« 
pearance  of  Sustress  Jacobs  herself— 
a  good-looking  yoang  woman,  with  a 
market- basket  fall  of  bacon  and 
greens,  and  a  chnbby  little  boy  hold- 
mg  by  her  apron,  who  came  throngh 
the  shop.  The  first  thing  she  did 
was  to  catch  up  the  baby  out  of  the 
cradle,  and  b^g;in  hashing  it,  after 
one  or  two  side-glances  of  reproach  at 
her  hnsband,  who  attempted  to  cover 
Im  disgrace  by  saying,  "  Betsy,  my 
drl,  Where's  your  manners?  why 
don't  yon  off  hats  to  the  leftenant  ? — 
it's  my  wife,  yonr  hononr."  Mrs 
Jacobs  carts^ed  twice  very  respect- 
fully, thoaeh  not  particolarly  fond  of 
the  profession,  as  I  found  afterwards ; 
and  I  soon  quite  gained  her  smiles 
and  good  graces  by  praising  her  child, 
with  the  remark  that  he  was  too 
pretty  ever  to  turn  out  a  sailor ;  for, 
sharp  as  mothers  are  to  detect  this  sort 
of  flattery  to  anybody  else's  bantling, 
you  always  find  it  take  wonderfully 
with  respect  to  their  own.  Whenevw 
Jacobs  and  I  were  left  to  ourselves,  I 
struck  at  once  into  my  scheme— 4he 
more  readily  for  feeling  I  had  the 
weather-hand  of  him  in  regard  of  tiis 
late  appearance.  It  was  too  ridicu- 
lous, the  notion  of  one  of  the  b^t 


foretopmentbateverpassedaweather* 
earing  staying  at  home  to  rock  his 
wifia's  cradle  and  attend  the  shop ;  and 
he  was  evidently  aware  of  it  as  I  went 
on.  It  was  a  little  sdfish,  I  daresay, 
and  Mrs  Jacobs  would  perhaps  have 
liked  me  none  the  better  for  it ;  but  I 
proposed  to  him  to  get  a  berth  in  the 
Indiaman,  sail  with  me  for  Bombay, 
and  stand  by  for  a  foul  hkch  in  some- 
thing or  other.  "  Why,  sir,"  said  he, 
'*  it  shan't  be  said  of  Bob  Jacobs  he 
were  ever  the  man  to  hang  back 
where  a  matter  was  to  be  done  that 
must  be  done.  I  doesn't  see  the 
whole  bearings  of  it  as  yet,  but  onnly 
you  give  the  orders,  sir,  and  I'll  BddL 
to  'em."  '^Tis  a  long  stretch  be- 
tween this  and  Bombay,  Jacobs," 
said  I,  *'and  plenty  of  room  for 
chances."  *^  Ay,  ay,  sir,  no  doubt,'* 
said  he,  ^^  ye  can  talk  the  length  of 
the  best  bower  cable."  "  More  than 
that,  Bob  my  lad,"  said  I,  ''  I  know 
these  Company  men ;  if  they  once 
get  ont  of  their  regular  jog,  they're  as 
helpless  as  a  pig  adrift  on  a  grating ; 
and  before  they  grow  used  to  sailing 
out  of  convoy,  with  no  frigates  to 
whip  them  in,  depend  npon  it  Mother 
Carey*  will  have  to  teach  them  a  new 
trick  or  two."  "Mayhap,  sir,"  put 
in  Jacobs,  doubtfully,  *'*'  the  best  thing 
'ud  be  if  they  cast  the  ship  away 
altogether,  as  Fve  seen  done  mjam 
for  the  matter  of  an  insurance.  Ye 
Imow,  sir,  they  lets  it  pass  at  Lloyd's 
now  the  war's  over,  seein'  it  Inrings 
custom  to  the  underwriters,  if  so  be 
ounly  it  don't  come  over  often  for  the 
profits.  Hows'ever  it  needs  a  good 
seaman  to  choose  his  lee-shore  well, 
no  doubt."  ''Ohl"  answered  I, 
laughing,  "but  the  chanoes  are,  all 
hands  would  want  to  be  Robinson 
Crusoe  at  <mce !  No,  no,— only  let's 
get  aboard,  and  take  thin^  as  they 
come."  "What's  the  ship's  name, 
sir?"  inquh^  Jacobs,  sinking  his 
voice,  and  looking  cautiously  over  his 
shoulder  toward  the   door.      "The 


♦  •*  Mother  CSar*^,"— an  obscore  sea-diTinity  chiefly  celebrated  for  her  "  ehickent,** 
M  Jano  ashore  for  her  peacocks.  Qnerey — a  personification  of  the  proTidential  Care  of 
Nature  for  her  weaker  children,  amongst  whom  the  little  stormy  petrele  are  oonspica- 
oas;  while,  at  the  same  time,  tonehingly  assoeiating  the  Pagan  to  the  Christian  sea  my- 
thology by  their  doable  name— the  latter,  a  dimUiatiTe  of  Peter  waUdng  by  fkith  upon 
the  waters.  In  the  nantioal  creed, "  Dary  Jones  "  represents  the  abstract  power,  and 
"  Mother  Carey  "  the  practically  developed  experience,  which  together  make  np  the 
life  Oeeanic. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1W9.3 


The  Orem  Hand.^A  **  Short''  Tam.-^Port  IT. 


331 


Seriogapatom,— do  you  know  her?'* 
I  said.  "  Ay,  ay,  sir,  well  enough," 
said  he,  readily, — ^*  a  lump  of  a  ship 
idle  is,  down  off  Blackwall  in  the 
stream  with  two  more  —  countiy- 
tmilt,  and  tumbles  home  rather  much 
from  below  the  plank-sheer  for  a 
fligfaUy  craft,  besides  being  flat  in  the 
eyes  of  her,  and  round  in  the  conn* 
ter,  just  where  she  shouldn%  sir. 
Them  Ftarchee  Bombay  ship-wrights 
does  dap  on  a  lot  of  onchristien 
flummeries  and  gilt  mouldings,  let 
alone  quarter -gfUleries  flt  for  the 
king's  castle  t  '^  ^*  In  short,  she's  tea- 
waggon  all  over,"  said  I,  ^^  and  just 
as  Glow  and  as  leewardly,  to  boot,  as 
teak  can  make  her?"  ^*  Her  lines  is 
not  that  bad,  though,  your  honour," 
continued  Jacobs,  ^^  if  you  just  knock- 
ed  off  her  poop, — and  she'd  bear  a 
deal  o*beathig  for  a  sea-boat.  They're 
got  a  smart  young  mate,  too ;  for  I 
seed  him  t'other  day  a-sendhng  up 
the  yards,  and  now  she's  as  square  as 
a  Mgate,  all  ready  to  drop  down 
river."  The  short  and  lone  of  it  was, 
that  I  arranged  with  my  old  shipmate, 
who  was  fully  bent  on  the  cruise, 
whether  Mrs  Jacobs  should  approve 
or  not,  that,  somehow  or  other,  we 
should  both  ship  our  hammocks  on 
board  of  the  Serin|;apatam— he  before 
the  mast,  and  I  wherever  I  could  get. 
On  going  to  tiie  agent's,  however^ 
which  I  did  as  soon  as  I  could  change 
my  uniform  for  plain  clothes — ^I  found, 
to  my  great  disappointment,  from  a 
plan  of  the  accommodations,  that  not 
only  were  the  whole  of  the  poop- 
cabins  taken,  but  those  on  the  lower- 
deck  also.  Most  of  the  passengers,  I 
ascertained,  were  ladles,  with  thehr 
children  and  nurses,  gohig  back  to  In- 
dia, and  raw  young  <»dets,  with  a  few 
commercial  and  civilian  nondescripts; 
there  were  no  troops  or  ofllcers,  and 
room  enough,  except  for  one  gentle- 
man having  engaged  the  entire  poop, 
at  an  immense  expense,  for  his  own 
use.  This  I,  of  course,  supposed  was 
the  Nabob,  but  the  derk  was  too  close 
to  inform  me.  ^  You  must  try  an- 
other ship,  sh*,"  said  he,  coolly,  as  he 
ahut  the  book.  ♦*  Sony  for  it,  but  we 
have  anotherto sail  in  arortnight.  A.  1, 
sir ;  far  finer  vessel — couple  of  hundred 
tons  larger— and  sails  ikster."  ^*  You 
be  hauMdl"  muttered  I,  walking  out; 
ahda  ftiorttime  after  Iwas  on  board. 


The  stewards  told  me  as  mudi  agdn ; 
but  on  my  slipping  a  guinea  into  the 
fingers  of  one,  he  suddenly  recollected 
there  was  a  gentleman  in  state-room 
No.  14,  starboard  side  of  the  main 
skylight,  who,  being   alone,    might 

rsrhaps  be  inclined  to  take  a  chum,  if 
dealt  with  him  privately.  ^^  Yankee, 
sir,  he  is,"  said  the  steward,  by  way 
d  a  usefhl  hint.  However,  I  didn't 
need  the  warning :  at  sight  of  the  in- 
dividual's long  nose,  thin  lips,  and 
sallow  jaw-bones,  without  a  whisker 
on  his  face,  and  his  shirt-collar  turned 
down,  as  he  sat  overhauling  his  traps 
beside  the  cannonade,  which  was 
tethered  in  the  state-room,  with  its 
muzzle  through  the  port.  He  looked 
a  good  deal  Uke  a  jockey  beside  his 
horse ;  -or,  as  a  wit  of  a  schoolboy 
cadet  said  afterwards,  the  Boston 
gentleman  calling  himself  Daniel 
Snout,  Esquke — ^iflce  Danid  praying 
in  the  lion's  den,  and  afraid  it  might 
turn  round  or  roar.  I  must  say  the 
idea  didn't  quite  delight  me,  nor  the 
sight  of  a  fearftd  quantity  of  luggage 
which  was  stowed  up  against  the  bulk- 
head; but  after  intrc^udng  mysdf, 
and  objectinff  to  the  first  few  ofiers,  I 
at  last  conduded  a  bargain  with  the 
American  for  a  hundred  and  twenty 
guineas,  which,  he  remarked,  was 
**  considerable  low,  I  prognosticate, 
mister  I"  "  However,"  sdd  he,  "  I 
expect  you're  a  conversationable  in- 
dividual a  little:  I  allowed  for  that, 
you  know,  mister.  One  can't  do 
much  of  a  trade  at  sea— that's  a  fact; 
and  I  calculate  we'll  swap  information 
by  the  way.  I'm  water-pruff,  I  tell 
you,  as  all  our  nation  is.  You'll  not 
settle  at  Bnmbay,  I  reckon,  mister?" 
But  though  I  meant  to  pay  mv  new 
messmate  in  my  own  coin  at  leisure 
afterwards,  and  be  as  frank  and  open 
as  day  with  hun— the  only  way  to 
meet  a  Yankee— I  made  off  at  present 
as  ftist  as  possible  to  bring  my  things 
aboard,  resolving  to  deep  at  Black- 
wall,  and  then  to  stow  myself  out  of 
dght  for  sick,  until  there  was  some- 
body  to  take  off  the  edge  of  his  con- 
founded talk. 

Next  afternoon,  accordingly,  Ifound 
myself  once  more  afloat,  the  India- 
man  dropphig  down  with  the  first 
breeze.  The  &y  after,  she  was  running 
through  the  Downs  with  it  pretty 
strong  from  north-east,  a  fair  wind— 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


382 


Tht  QftM,  AadL— iL ' 


the  pilot-boat  siumog  off  doM-hiMled 
to  windward,  with  a  white  spray  over 
her  nose ;  and  the  three  cbmgaree  iop^ 
sails  of  the  Seringapatam  lifting  and 
swelling,  as  yellow  as  gM^  orer  her 
white  conrseB.in  the  UueChannel  haae. 
The  breeae  fi:esheiied,  till  she  rolled 
before  It,  and  everything  being  topsy- 
turvy on  deck,  the  lomber  in  the  way, 
the  men  as  busy  as  bees  setting  her 
ship-shape — ^it  woald  have  been  as 
mach  afl  a  passenger^s  toes  were  wofih 
to  show  them  from  below ;  so  that  I 
was  able  to  keep  by  myself  just 
troubling  my  seamanship  so  mnoh  as 
to  stand  dear  of  the  work.  Enj^  it 
I  did,  too ;  by  Jove,  the  first  smfF  of 
the  weather  waa  enongh  to  make  me 
forget  what  I  was  there  for.  I  was 
evory  now  and  then  on  the  point  of 
fisting  a  rope,  and  singing  oat  with 
the  men ;  till  at  length  I  thought  it 
more  comfortable,  even  fbr  me>  to  nm 
np  the  mizen  shrouds  when  everybody 
was  forward,  where  I  stowed  mysdf 
out  of  sight  in  the  cross-trees. 

About  dusky  while  I  was  waiting  to 
slip  down,  a  stronger  puff  than  ordi- 
nary made  them  due  np  the  mizen- 
royal  from  deck,  which  I  took  upon 
mysdf  to  furl  off-hand — quick  enough 
to  puzzle  a  couple  of  boys  that  came 
aloft  for  the  purpose,  especially  as>  in 
the  mean  time,  I  had  got  down  upon 
the  topsail-y ardarm  out  of  their  notice. 
Wh^  they  got  atk  dedc  again,  Iheard 
the  little  fellows  telling  some  of  the 
men,  in  a  terrified  sort  of  way,  how  the 
miaen-royal  had  either  stowed  itself; 
or  else  it  was  Dick  Wilson's  ghost, 
that  fell  off  the  same  yard  last  voyage, 
— ^more  by  token,  he  used  always  to 
make  fiist  the  gaskets  iust  that  &shion. 
At  night,  however,  the  wind  having 
got  lighter,  with  half  moonlight,  there 
was  a  muster  of  some  passengers  on 
deck,  all  sick  and  miserable,  as  they 
tried  to  keep  their  feet,  and  have  the 
benefit  of  air,— the  Yankee  bdng  as 
bad  as  the  woEBt*  I  thought  it 
wouldn't  do  for  me  to  be  altogether 
free,  and  accordingly  stuck  fast  by  Mr 
Snout,  with  my  hcMd  over  the  quarter- 
dedc  bulwarks,  looking  Into  his  faoe^ 
Bad  talking  away  to  him,  asking  all 
sorts  of  questions  about  what  was 
good  HUT  aeasuokness,  then  giving  a 
groan  to  prevent  mysdf  langhmg^ 
when  the  spny  qdaahed  vp  upon  ms 
'^  water-prnff '^  friee^  he  reflp«n4ing  to 


it  as  Sandio  Paoaa  4id  to  Don 
Quixote,  whan  the  one  examined  the 
other's  mouth  aftaf  a  poti<m«  All  ho 
could  falter  out  was,  how  he  wondered 
I  could  speak  at  all  when  sick.  **  Oh  I 
oh  dear  1"  said  I,  with  another  howL 
'^  Yea, — ^tis  merdy  because  I  can't 
thinkt  And  I  daresay  you  are 
thinking  so  much  you  can't  iaik — the 
sea  is  so  full  of  meditation,  as  Liord 
Byron— Oh — oh — this  water  will 
be  the  death  of  me  1"  ''  Ifed  as  if— 
the  whole— tarnation  Atlantic  was — 
inside  of  my  bowls !"  ga^[)ed  he 
through  his  nostrils.  *^Ohl"  I  could 
not  hdp  putting  in,  as  the  ship  and 
Mr  Snout  both  gave  a  heave  up,  ^^  and 
coming  out  of  you ! " 

During  all  this  time  I  had  felt  so 
sure  of  my  ground  as  scarody  to 
trouble  mysdf  about  the  Bengal  judge 
and  his  fairy  treasure  of  a  £ughter ; 
only  in  the  midst  of  the  high  spirita 
brought  up  by  the  breeze,  I  hugged 
mysdf  now  and  then  at  the  thought 
of  their  turning  out  by  degreesas  things 
got  settled,  and  my  having  such  open- 
ings the  whole  voyage  through  as  one 
couldn't  miss  in  four  or  ^yq  months^ 
Nobody  would  suspect  the  raw  chap 
I  looked,  with  smooth  hair  and  a  high 
collar,  ol  any  particular  cue :  I  nrast 
say  there  was  a  little  vanity  at  the 
bottom  (A  it,  but  I  kept  thinking  more 
and  more  how  snug  and  qnieSly  I'd 
enjoy  all  that  went  on,  sailing  on  one 
tack  with  the  paas^ers  and  the  dd 
Nabob  himsdf^  and  sUppiBg  off  upon 
the  other  when  I  could  come  near  the 
diarming  young  liOta.  The  notion 
looks  more  like  what  some  scamp  of 
a  reefer,  cruising  ash<Mre,  would  have 
hit  upon,  than  suits  my  taste  now-a- 
days ;  but  the  cockpit  had  put  aspke 
of  the  imp  in  me,  which  I  never  got 
dear  of  till  this  very  voyage,  aa  yon 
shall  see,  if  we  get  through  with  the 
log  of  it.  Twas  no  use,  as  I  founds 
saying  what  one  should  have  to  do, 
except  put  h^art  into  it, — with  wind, 
sea,  ana  a  love  affurto  manage  aU  at 
once,  after  making  a  tangled  ooB  in- 
st^ftd  of  one  all  dear  and  above-board. 

The  first  time  I  went  down  into  the 
cuddy  was  that  evening  to  tea,  where 
dl  was  at  dxea  and  sevens  like  the 
decks ;  the  lamps  ill  trimmed,  stew- 
ards out  (^  the  way,  and  a  few  lads 
trying  to  bear  up  aeainst  their  stom- 
achs by  the  hdp  of  brandy  and  bis- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


The  Qran  Hmd.^A  ^'Shwri  "Yam.^Part  JL 


«iHits.  The  main  fignro  waa  a  jolly- 
looking  East  Indian,  an  indigo-planter 
as  he  tamed  ont,  with  a  bald  forehead, 
a  hook  nose,  and  his  gills  covered  with 
white  whiskers  that  gave  him  all  the 
qui  of  a  cockatoo.  He  had  his  brown 
servant  running  about  on  every  hand, 
and,  belDg  an  old  stager,  did  his  best 
U>  cheer  np  the  rest ;  bat  nothing  I 
saw  showed  the  least  sign  of  the  party 
I  looked  aflter.  I  was  snre  I  oaght  to 
have  made  oat  something  of  them  by 
this  timoi  considering  the  stir  such  a 
grandee  as  Sir  Charles  Hydewoold 
caase  aboard:  in  fact,  there  didn^t 
seem  to  be  many  passengers  in  her, 
and  I  began  to  curse  the  lying  scoon- 
drel  of  a  Kitmagar  for  working  *^Tom 
Cox's  traverse'^  on  me,  and  myself  for 
being  a  greater  ass  than  Td. fancied. 
Indeed  I  heard  the  {danter  mention 
by  chance  that  Sir  Charies  Hyde,  the 
district  judge,  had  come  home  last 
voyage  from  India  in  tills  very  Seringa- 
patam,  which  no  doabt,  I  thought,  put 
the  AUhommedan  rascal  up  to  his 
trick. 

I  was  making  up  my  mind  to  an 
Indian  trip,  and  the  pure  pleasure  of 
Paniel  Catoson  Snout,  Esquire's  com- 
pany for  two  blessed  months,  when  all 
of  a  sudden  I  felt  the  ship  bring  her 
wind  a-quarter,  with  a  furious  plunge 
of  the  Channel  water  along  her  ben£, 
that  made  eveiy  landsman's  bowels 
yearn  as  if  he  felt  it  gurgle  through 
him.  One  young  fellow,  more  drunk 
than  sick,  gave  a  wild  bolt  right  over 
the  cuddy  taUe,  striking  out  with  both 
arms  and  legs  as  if  i&oat,  so  as  to 
swe€|>  half  of  the  glasses  down  on  the 
floor.  The  planter,  who  was  three 
cloths  in  the  wind  himself,  looked 
down  upon  him  with  a  comical  air  of 
pity  as  soon  as  he  had  got  cushioned 
upon  the  wreck.  "  My  dear  fellow," 
said  lie»  ^'what  do  you  feel— eh?" 
*^  Fed,  you-— old  blaokgnardi"  stam- 
mered thegrlffin,  ^*de— dam— dammit, 
I  feel  mettfihmgl  Goes  through — 
through  my  vitals  as  if— I  was  a  con—* 
founded  wkak  I  C — can't  stand  it  1" 
(*  You've  drunk  yourself  aground,  my 
boyl"  sung  out  the  indigo  man*, 
**  stuck  fast  on  the  ooral— eh  ?  Never 
mind,  well  float  you  ofl,  only  don't 
flounder  that  way  with  your  tail  !— 
by  Jova»  you  scamp,  you've  ruined 
my  to^---otidearI"  I  lefit  the  plants 
boppiag  round  on  one  pin^  and  iiolding 


33a 


tiie  g^uty  one  in  his  hand,  JMtwixt 
laughing  and  crying :  on  deck  I  found 
the  floating  Nab  Light  bearing  broad 
on  our  lee-bow,  with  Cumberland 
Fort  glimmering  to  windward,  and 
the  half  moon  setting  over  the  Isle 
of  Wight,  while  we  stood  m)  for 
Portsmouth  harbour.  The  old  cap- 
tain, and  most  of  the  officers,  were 
on  the  poop  for  the  first  time,  lliough 
as  stiff  and  uncomfortable  frx)m  the 
sort  of  land-sickness  and  lumber- 
qualms  that  sailors  feel  till  things  are 
in  their  places,  as  the  landsmen  did 
until  things  were  out  of  them.  The 
skipper  walked  the  weather  side  by 
himself  and  said  nothing :  the  smart 
chief  officer  sent  two  men,  one  after 
another,  from  the  wheel  for  *^  cows  " 
that  didn't  know  wh^re  then'  tails 
were ;  and  as  for  the  middies,  they 
seemed  to  know  wh^n  to  keep  out  of 
the  way.  In  a  little,  the  spars  of  the 
men-of-war  at  Spithead  were  to  be 
seen  as  we  rose ;  before  the  end  of  the 
first  watch,  we  were  ranning  outside 
the  Spit  Buoy,  which  was  nodding 
and  plashing  with  the  tide  in  the  last 
slant  of  moonshine,  till  at  last  we 
rounded  to,  and  down  went  the  anchor 
in  five  fathoms,  off  the  Motherbank. 
What  the  Indiaman  wanted  at  Ports- 
mouth I  didn't  know ;  but,  meantime, 
I  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  the  Nabob 
being  in  her,  and  the  only  question 
with  me  waS)  whether  I  should  take 
the  opportunity  of  giving  all  hands  the 
slip  here,  even  though  I  lett  my  Yankee 
friend  disconsolate,  and  a  clear  gainer 
by  dolliurs  beyond  count. 

Early  next  morning  there  were 
plenty  of  wherries  looking  out  for 
fieures ;  so,  as  the  Indiaman  was  not  to 
sail  before  the  night-ebb,  when  the 
breeze  would  prob2i)ly  spring  up  fedr 
again,  I  hailed  one  of  them  to  go 
a^ore  at  the  Point,  for  a  quiet  stroll 
over  Southsea  Common,  where  I 
meant  to  overhaul  the  whole  bearings 
of  the  case,  and  think  if  it  weren't 
better  to  go  home,  and  wait  the  Ad- 
miralty's pleasure  for  a  ship.  I  hadn't 
even  seen  anything  of  Jacobs,  and 
the  whole  hotel-keeping  ways  of  the 
Indiaman  b^^  to  disgust  me,  or  else 
I  should  have  at  once  decided  to  take 
the  chance  of  seeing  Lota  Hyde  some- 
how or  other  in  India ;  but,  again,  one 
could  scarcely  endure  the  notion  of 
^ning  on  m  a  frigate  witbout  so 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


S34 


Tht  Oreen  Hand.-^A  ''  Short''  Yam.-^Part  II. 


[Marcbi 


mach  as  a  Brest  logger  to  let  drive  at. 
It  was  about  six  o'clock ;  the  morning 
gun  from  the  guard-ship  off  the  Dock- 
yard came  booming  down  through  the 
harbour,  the  blue  ofl3ng  shone  like 
silver,  and  the  green  tideway  sparkled 
on  every  surge,  up  to  where  they  were 
flashing  and  poppling  on  the  copper  of 
the  frigates  at  Spithead.  I  noticed 
them  crossing  yards  and  squaring; 
the  farthest  out  hove  up  anchor,  loosed 
foretopsail,  cast  her  h^  to  starboard, 
and  fired  a  gun  as  she  stood  slowly  out 
to  sea  under  all  sail,  with  a  light  air 
freshening  abeam.  The  noble  look  of 
her  almost  reconciled  me  of  itself  to  the 
service,  were  it  for  the  mere  sake  of 
having  a  share  in  driving  such  a  craft 
between  wind  and  water.  Just  then, 
however,  an  incident  turned  up  in 
spite  of  me,  which  I  certainly  didn't 
expect,  and  which  had  more,  even  than 
I  reckoned  at  the  time,  to  do  with  my 
other  adventure ;  seeing  that  it  made 
me,  both  then  and  afterirards,  do  the 
direct  opposite  of  what  I  meant  to  do, 
and  both  times  put  a  new  spoke  in  my 
wheel,  as  we  say  at  sea  here. 

I  had  observed  a  seventy-fbur,  the 
Stratton,  lying  opposite  the  Spit  Buoy; 
on  board  of  which,  as  the  waterman 
told  me,  a  court-martial  had  been  held 
the  day  before,  where  they  broke  a 
first  lieutenant  for  insulting  his  cap- 
tain. Both  belonged  to  one  of  the 
frigates :  the  captain  I  had  seen,  and 
heard  of  as  the  worst  tyrant  in  the 
navy ;  his  ship  was  called  ^^  a  perfect 
hell  afloat ;"  that  same  week  one  of 
the  boys  had  tried  to  drown  himself 
alongside,  and  a  corporal  of  marines, 
after  coming  ashore  and  drinking  a 
glass  with  his  sweetheart,  had.  coolly 
walked  down  to  the  Point,  jumped  in 
between  two  boats  at  the  jetty,  and 
kept  himself  under  water  tul  he  was 
dead.  The  lieutenant  had  been  dis- 
missed the  service,  and  as  I  recognised 
the  name,  I  wondered  whether  it  could 
actually  be  my  schoolfellow,  Tom 
Westwood,  as  gallant  a  fellow  and  as 
merry  as  ever  broke  biscuit.  Two 
sail-boats,  one  from  around  the  Strat- 
ton's  quarter,  and  the  other  from  over 
by  Gosport,  steering  on  the  same  tadc 
for  Southsea,  diverted  my  attention 
as  I  sauntered  down  to  the  beach. 
The  bow  of  the  nearest  wherry 
grounded  on  the  stones  as  I  began  to 
walk  quicker  towards  the  town-gates, 


chiefly  because  I  was  pretty  ready  for 
an  eariy  breakfast  at  the  old  Blue 
Posts,  and  also  because  I  had  a  slight 
notion  of  what  these  gentlemen  wanted 
on  Southsea  Beach  at  odd  hours.  Out 
they  jumped,  however— one  man  in 
naval  undress,  another^  a  captain,  in 
fhll  fig,  the  third,  a  surgeon— coming 
right  aUiwart  my  oouise  to  bring  me 
to.  The  first  I  ahnost  at  once  remem- 
bered for  the  notorious  captain  of  the 
Orestes,  or  N'Oreste,  as  the  midship- 
men called  her,  from  her  French  boUd 
and  her  character  together.    '^  Hallo, 
you  sir  r  said  the  other  captain  de- 
ddedly,  ^' you  must  stand  stilL"  ^^  In- 
deed I"  said  I ;  *^  and  why  so,  if  yon 
S lease?"    "Since  you  are  here,  we 
on*t  intend  allowing  you  to  pass  for 
some  few  minutes.**    "  And  what  if  I 
should  do  as  I  choose,  sir?"  I  asked. 
"  If  you  stir  two  steps,  sir,  I  shall  shoot 
you  !**  replied  the  captain,  who  was 
one  of  the  bullying  school.     "Oh, 
yeiy  well,"  I  said,  rather  confounded 
by  his  impertinence,    "then  I  shall 
stay;"  and  I  accordingly  stood  stock- 
still,  with  my  arms  folded,  until  the 
other  boat  landed  its  party  of  two. 
They  were  in  plain  clothes ;  nor  did  I 
give  them  any  particular  attention  till 
the  seconds  had  stationed  their  men, 
when  the  captahi  of  the  Orestes  had 
his  back  to  me,  and  his  antagonist 
stood  directiy  facing.     As  his  pale 
resolved  faatures  came  out  befbre  me 
with  the  mominff  sun  on  them,  his 
lips  together,  and  his  nostrils  large, 
I  recognised  my  old  friend  Westwood. 
The  captain  had  broke  him  the  day 
before,  and  now  he  had  accepted 
his  challenge,  being  a  known  dead 
shot,  while  the  lieutenant  had  never 
fired  a  bullet  in  cold  blood:  there 
was,  no  doubt,  a  settled  purpose  in 
the  tyrant  to  crush  the  first  man 
that  had  dared  to  thwart  bis  will. 
Westwood*s    second   came  forward 
and  mentioned  to  the  other  that  his 
friend  was  still  wOlinff  to  withdraw 
the  words  spoken  in  first  heat,  and 
would  accordingly  fire  in   the  ahr. 
"  Ck>ward  t "   shouted   the   captain 
of  the  Orestes  immediately;  "  I  shall 
shoot    you    through    the    heart  1 " 
"  Sir!"  said  I  to  Sis  second,  "  I  wiU 
not  look  on;  and  if  that  gentieman  is 
shot,  I  will  be  witness  against  you 
both  as  murderers!"  I  dropped  down 
behind  a  stone  ont  of  the  line  of  fire, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


The  Oreen  Hand.-^A  "  Short "  Yam.'-Pan  IL 


335 


and  to  keep  my  eyes  off  the  devilish 
piece  of  work,  thoagb  my  blood  boiled 
to  knock  the  fellow  down  that  I  was 
making  to.  Another  minute,  and 
the  suspense  was  too  great  for  me  to 
help  looking  np :  just  at  that  moment 
I  saw  how  set  Westwood's  face  was : 
he  was  watchfaig  his  enemy  with  an 
eye  that  showed  to  me  what  the 
other's  mnst  be— seeking  for  his  life. 
The  seconds  gave  the  word  to  each 
other  in  the  middle,  and  dropped  two 
white  handkerchielB  at  once  with 
their  hands  together;  Icanght  the  flash 
of  Westwood's  pistol,  when,  to  my 
astonishment,  I  saw  the  captain  of 
the  Orestes  next  moment  jerk  np  his 
arm  betwixt  me  and  the  sky,  fire  in 
the  air,  and  slowly  flail  back — ^ho  was 
dead  I — shot  throngh  the  heart.  One 
glance  at  his  face  gave  yon  a  notion 
of  the  devilish  meaning  he  had  had ; 
bnt  what  was  my  surprise  when  his 
second  walked  up  to  Westwood,  and 
said  to  him,  *^  Sir,  yon  are  the  mur- 
derer of  Captain  Duncombe  ;•— my 
friend  fired  in  the  air  as  yon  pro- 
posed." **  You  are  mistaken,  sir," 
answered  Westwood,  coldly ;  "  Cap- 
tarn  Duncombe  sought  my  life,  and  I 
have  used  the  privilege  of  self-de- 
fence." "  The  surgeon  is  of  my  opi- 
nion," said  the  other;  '*  and  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  we  cannot  allow  you 
to  depart."  ^^  I  shall  give  myself  up 
to  the  authorities  at  once,"  said 
Westwood.  "  We  have  only  your 
word  for  that,  which  I  must  be  per- 
mitted, in  such  a  case,  to  doubt,"  re- 
plied the  captain,  whose  evident  wish 
was  to  detain  Westwood  by  force  or 
threats  while  he  sent  off  his  surgeon. 
The  worst  of  it  was,  as  I  now  found, 
that  since  the  court-martial  and  the 
challenge,  an  admiralty  order  had 
arrived,  in  consideration  of  several 
gallant  acts  during  the  war,  as  well 
as  private  representation,  restoring 
him  to  the  service :  so  that  he  had  in 
fact  called  out  and  shot  his  superior 
oflScer.  As  for  the  diarge  now  brought 
forward,  it  was  too  absurd  for  any  to 
believe  it,  unless  from  rage  or  preju- 
dice ;  the  case  was  bad  enough,  at 
any  rate,  without  it. 

In  the  mean  time  I  had  exchanged  a 
word  or  two  with  Westwood's  friend; 
after  which,  lifting  np  a  second  pistol 
which  lay  on  the  sand,  I  went  up  to 
the  c^>tain.     *^  Sir,"  said  I,  *^  yon 

VOL.  LXV.— NO.  CCCCI. 


used  the  freedom,  a  little  ago,  of 
forcing  me  into  your  concerns,  and  I 
have  seen  the  end  of  it.  I  have  now 
got  to  tell  you,  having  watched  your 
conduct,  that  either  you  must  submit 
to  be  made  fast  here  for  a  bit,  else, 
by  the  God  that  made  me,  Til 
shoot  you  through  the  head!"  The 
captain  looked  at  me,  his  surgeon 
sidled  up  to  him,  and,  being  a  man 
near  my  own  siae,  he  suddenly  tried  to 
wrench  the  pistol  out  of  my  hands : 
however,  I  had  him  the  next  moment 
under  my  knee,  while  Westwood's 
second  secured  the  little  surgeon,  and 
took  a  few  round  sea-turns  about  his 
wrists  and  ancles  with  a  neckerchief. 
My  companion  then  gave  me  a  hand 
to  do  the  same  with  his  superior 
officer — the  medico  all  the  time  sing- 
ing out  like  a  buU,  and  the  captain 
threatening— while  the  dead  body  lay 
stark  and  stiff  behind  us,  the  eyes 
wide,  the  head  down,  and  the  breast 
up,  the  hand  clenching  a  pistol,  just 
as  he  had  fallen.  Westwood  stood 
quite  unconscious  of  everything  we 
did,  only  he  seemed  to  be  watching 
the  knees  drawn  up  as  they  stiffened, 
and  the  sand-flies  hovering  about  the 
mouth.  ^^  Shall  we  clap  a  stopper 
hetween  their  teeth  ?"  said  the  second 
to  me — he  had  been  at  sea,  but  who 
he  was  I  never  knew — "  the  sur- 
geon will  be  heard  on  the  walls,  he 
bellows  so  !'*  **  Never  mind,"  said  I, 
"  we'll  just  drop  them  beyond  tide- 
mark— the  lee  of  the  stones  yonder." 
In  fact,  firom  the  noise  the  tide  was 
making,  I  question  if  the  shots  could 
have  l^en  heard  even  by  the  water- 
men, who  had  prudentlv  sheered  out 
ofsight  round  a  point.  I  couldn't  help 
looking,  when  we  had  done  this,  from 
the  captain's  body  to  his  own  frigate, 
as  she  was  sluing  round  head  on  to 
us,  at  single  anchor,  to  the  turn  of 
tide,  with  her  buoy  dancing  on  the 
brisk  blue  sweep  of  water,  and  her 
figure-head  shimng  in  the  sunlight. 
As  soon  as  we  covered  over  the  corpse 
with  dulse-weed,  Westwood  started 
as  if  we  had  taken  something  away 
from  him,  or  freed  him  of  a  spell. 
"Westwood  I"  said  I,  laying  my  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  "  you  must  come 
along  with  me."  He  said  nothing, 
but  followed  us  quietly  round  to  the 
wherries,  where  I  told  the  watermen 
that  the  other  party  had  gone  a  dif- 

y 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


836 


ng GrmiiHaMtL'^A'' Short'' TmtL.'^PmrtlL 


[JiSMtdk^ 


fttrent  waj  to  keej^  (dear,  aad  we 
waaUdthMAtopsUforGoBport  At 
Gosport  we  had  Weatwood  rigged  eat 
in  Uack  ciotliea,  hie  hair  cropped,  aad 
whiskers  shaved  off-^as  I  thovgbt  it 
the  fittest  tbiag  for  his  ease,  and  what 
he  could  best  cany  oat,  to  go  aboard 
of  the  Indiaman  with  lae  as  if  he  were 
amieaionaiy.  Poor  fellow!  he  didn't 
know  what  he  was.  So,  having 
waited  tOl  dosk,  to  let  the  watermen 
lose  oar  track,  and  his  friend  having 
posted  off  f<Hr  Dover,  be  andl  both  got 
safe  over  to  the  SeriDgapatam,  where 
I  had  him  stowed  in  the  first  empty 
Btate-room  I  found*  I  had  actually 
forgot,  throam^  the  excitement,  all 
aA>oat  my  missing  my  first  chase :  from 
one  hour  to  another  I  kept  watching 
the  tide-marks  ashore,  and  the  dog- 
vane  on  the  ship's  qoarter,  all  impa- 
tience to  hear  the  word  given  for  ^  all 
hands  up  anchor,"  and  hoping  onr 
worthy  friends  on  Sonthsea  Beach 
were  stiU  within  hearing  of  the  Chan- 
nel flood.  At  laat  the  order  did  come; 
roimd  went  the  capstan  merrily 
enongh,  tiU  she  had  hove  short  and 
lip ;  the  anchor  was  catted,  and  off 
went  the  Inmbering  old  craft  through 
the  Solent  about  midnight,  before  a 
fine  rattling  breeze,  in  company  with 
six  or  seven  others,  all  running  for 
the  Needles.  They  were  loosing  the 
Indiaman's  royals  when  I  heard  a  gun 
from  the  guardship  in  harbour ;  and  a 
little  after  up  went  a  rocket,  signal- 
ling to  some  firigate  or  other  at  Spit- 
head  ;  and  away  they  kept  at  it,  with 
lights  from  the  telegraph  to  her  mast- 
head, for  several  ndnutes.  ^^ All's 
up  I"  thought  I,  ''and  both  West- 
wood  and  myself  are  in  for  it !" 

Next  morning  at  daybreak,  accord- 
ingly, no  sooner  did  the  dawn  serve  to 
show  us  the  Portland  Light  going  out 
on  the  weather  quarter,  with  a  whole 
fleet  of  Channel  oraft  and  Mediter- 
ranean brigs  about  ns,  we  surging 


thveagkit  astet  as  theladiaMaiieDvId 
gV-^^  ^here  was  a  fine  tety-tar 
standing  off  aad  OB  riclil  in  our  eovae, 
im  fact  the  very  identieal  Oreslea  her- 
self 1  She  picked  us  out  in  nmoment— 
bor*  mp,  stood  acrass  oar  weather- 
bow,  and  hailed.  ''What  ship's 
that  ?"  said  the  first  Luff  iA  bsr  miien 
rigging. 

''The  Seringiyatam,  HoMvaUe 
Company's  ship,  Captein  WitiiaB- 
som  I"  Bimff  o«t  our  first  ottoer,  wHh 
his  cap  off.  "  Heave  to,  tiU  I  sead 
a  boat  wbotad  of  yo«  1"  hailed  the 
naval  man,  and  there  webolri^ed  to 
each  other  with  mainyards  backed. 
In  a  few  mhrates  a  nuttter's  mate 
with  gig's  erew  was  vnder  oar  lee- 
quarter,  and  the  mate  came  en  deck. 
''Sir,"  said  he,  "the  Port  Admina 
will  thank  you  to  dtXkfer  these  des- 
patches for  Sir  Charles  Hyde,  who 
I  believe  is  aboard."  "Certainly, 
sir,"  said  the  first  officer,  "  tiwy  shall 
be  given  to  him  in  an  hour's  time." 

"  Good  moramg,  and  a  fine  voy- 
age," said  the  master's  mate  poUtdy; 
and  I  took  the  oocasiea  of  asking  if 
Captain  Duneombe  were  en  board  the 
Orestes.  "  No,  sir,"  answered  tiie 
midshipman, "  he  happens  to  be  ashore 
at  present."  I  have  seldom  felt  so 
relieved  as  when  I  saw  the  frigate  haal 
round  her  mainyard,  and  go  sweeping 
ofl  to  leeward,  while  we  resnmed  our 
course,  fiy  noon  we  had  sunk  the 
land  abovt  Start  Point,  with  a  breece 
which  it  was  no  nse  wasting  at  that 
season  to  take  "  departuiea ;"  and  as 
the  afternoon  set  in  haBy,'wie  were 
soon  out  of  sight  of  Old  Kngiand  for 
good.  Formypart,  Iwasboimdfiast^ 
ward  at  last  with  a  witness,  and,  like 
a  young  bear,  again  "  aU  my  troubles 
before  me."—"  There  is  two  bells 
though,"  interrupted  the  narrator, 
starting.  "  Let  ns  see  what  sort  of 
night  it  Is  before  the  ladifls  rethre.** 


Digitized  by 


Goosk 


IMft.] 


Mm-nM§  Himrf  ^Pitkr  tke  Chmi. 


3S7 


Tn  iiMuioire  of  ft  lUfiuteigii  wIm 
bftd  AUMirqoerqiie  for  a.  mtiiiater, 
Maria  PadiUa  for  a  mistress,  Heniy 
of  Trastanrare  for  a  rival,  and  Edward 
the  Black  Prinoe  for  an  ally  and  eam- 
pankm  in  arms^  Bust  be  wortbj  t^e 
ressareheserCTi  of  so  elegant  a  scbolar 
and  teamed  an  antiqaarian  as  Prosper 
MMn^  When  the  natioos  are  en- 
grossed by  tihelr  diflicidties  and  <isas- 
ters,  and  tiie  jarrinff  discord  of  re- 
vc^nlion  and  thandering  crash  of 
inonardues  on  every  side  resowid,  tha 
faistoiy  of  a  semi-barbaroQS  period, 
and  of  a  king  now  ftre  hundred  years 
in  his  gnrre,  should  be  set  forth  wil^ 
sorpasstag  talent  to  attract  and  sns- 
tam  attrition.  But  M.  M^rim^  is 
the  Hterary  Midas  of  his  day  and 
couitry:  the  snhfect  he  handles  be- 
comes bright  and  precioos  by  th« 
magie  of  his  tonch.  Though  its  in- 
terest be  remote,  he  can  invest  it  with 
all  the  charm  of  freshness.  Upon  a 
former  occasion*  we  noticed  his  ima- 
ginative prodactioiis  with  well-merit- 
od  praise;  to-day,  in  the  historian's 
graver  garb,  he  eqaally  commands  ad- 
miration and  applanse.  He  has  been 
happy  in  his  selection  of  a  period  rich 
in  dnimatic  incident  and  faschiating 
details;  and  of  tiiese  he  has  made  the 
utmost  profit  In  a  previoos  paper, 
we  qnoted  M.  M^rmi^'s  profession  *of 
faith  in  matters  of  ancient  and  medi- 
eval histofy.  In  his  pre£aoe  to  the 
CArsfiMiiie  de  Ckaries  IX.,  he  avowed 
his  predilection  for  anecdotes  and  per- 
sonal traits,  and  the  weight  he  is  dis- 
posed to  attach  to  them  as  psdnting 
the  manners  and  character  of  an 
epoch,  and  as  throwing  npon  the  mo- 
tives and  qualities  of  its  prominent 
parsonages  a  light  more  vivid  and 
tme,  than  that  obtained  from  the 
tedions  and  often  partial  narratives 
of  grave  contemporary  ^roniclers. 
In  the  present  hmtance,  he  has  libe- 
rally supplied  his  readers  with  the 
fore  he  himself  prefers.    His  History 


of  Pe*n>  &€  First  cf  OuAabonnds 
in  illostrations,  in  aneedetes  and  le- 
gends of  remarfcablo  novell^  and 
interest;  historical  flowerets,  mo^ 
agreeably  lightenittg  and  relieving  the 
solid  structure  of  a  work  fvi  whick 
Uie  archives  and  libraries  of  Madrid 
and  Barcelona,  the  maanscripts  of  the 
old  Spanish  and  Portaguese  chroni- 
ders,  and  the  writings  of  more  modem 
historians  of  various  nations,  have 
been  with  ccmscientiouB  diligence  ran- 
sacked and  compared.  The  result  has 
been  a  book  equal  in  all  respects  te 
Mr  Prescott*s  de%btful  Histoty  of 
Ftrdmamd  aiui  IsobeOa^  to  which  h 
forms  a  Antable  companioa.  As  n 
master  of  classic  and  autiquariaa  lore, 
the  Frenchman  is  superior  to  the 
AuMrican,  to  whom  he  yields  nothing 
in  the  vigour  of  his  diction  and  the 
grace  of  his  style. 

When  Alphonso  the  Eleventh,  kmg 
of  Castile,  died  of  the  plague,  in  his 
camp  before  Gibraltar,  upon  Grood 
Friday  oi  the  year  1350,  the  Iberian 
peninsula  consisted  of  five  distinct  and 
independent  monarchies — Castile,  Ar- 
ragon,  Navarre,  Portugal,  and  Gra- 
nada. The  first  of  the  five,  which 
extended  from  Biscay  and  Galicia  to 
Tarifa,  the  southernmost  town  in 
Europe,  was  by  far  the  most  exten- 
sive and  powerihl ;  the  second  com- 
pnstd  Arragon,  Catakmia,  and  Y a- 
knda;  Navarre,  poor  and  scantily 
peopled,  was  important  as  command- 
ing the  principal  passes  of  the  Py- 
renees, which  its  monarch  could  throw 
open  to  a  French  or  English  arm^; 
Portugal  had  nearly  the  same  limits 
as  at  the  present  day;  the  Moors,  the 
boundary  of  whose  European  empire 
had  long  been  narrowing,  still  main- 
tained a  precarious  footing  in  the 
kingdom  of  Granada.  Alphonso,  upon 
his  aceession  in  1806,  had  found  Cas- 
tile ft  prey  to  anarchy,  and  groaning 
nndar  fondal  oppressioB.  The  au- 
dacity of  the  rkos  hombres^  or  nobles,t 


Par 


MiaminyderAoa- 


de  Bom  Pidtm  I»,  JUi  tU  CastiHi. 
Pp.586.  Pnis,  1848. 
J3MhMMl*«  IfflyHMiM,  No.  OOCLXXX. 
f  Tbt  rismUmbtm,  UtsnUj  aoh  md,  did  not  yot  hMur  tMes,  whkli  wwt 
for  miMhsM  or  the  sofal  fmBf.   11iaf»  Henry  do  ~ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


888  MirM^i  Hiitory  of  Peter  the  Cruel.  [March, 

had  greatly  increased  daring  long  ingly.  Alphonso,  a  conrageons  and 
minorities,  and  nnder  the  reign  of  intelligent  prince,  saw  the  evil,  and 
feeble  princes.  Whilst  they  fonght  resolved  to  remedy  it.  Without  a 
amongst  themselves  for  privilege  of  party  of  his  own,  he  was  compelled  to 
pillage,  the  peasantry  and  inhabi-  throw  himself  into  the  arms  of  one  of 
tants  of  towns,  exasperated  by  the  the  great  factions  desolating  the  conn- 
evils  inflicted  on  them,  frequenUy  rose  try.  By  its  aid  he  destroyed  the 
in  arms,  and  exercised  bloody  re-  others,  and  then  found  himself  strong 
prisds.  A  contemporary  author,  enough  to  rule  in  his  own  realm, 
quoted  at  length  by  M.  Merim^e,  re-  Having  proved  his  power,  he  made  an 
presents  the  nobility  as  living'  by  plun-  example  of  the  most  unruly,  and  par- 
der,  and  abetted  by  the  king^s  guar-  doned  the  others.  Then,  to  give  oc- 
dians.  Certain  towns  refused  to  ac-  cupation  to  his  warlike  and  turbulent 
knowledge  these  guardians,  detained  nobility,  he  led  them  against  the 
the  king's  revenue,  and  kept  men-at-  Moors  of  Granada ;  thus  turning  to  his 
arms  to  oppress  and  rob  the  poor,  glory,  and  to  the  aggrandisement  of 
Justice  was  nowhere  in  the  kingdom ;  his  dominions,  the  arms  which  pre- 
and  the  roads  were  impassable  by  tra-  viously  had  been  brandished  but  in 
vellers,  except  in  strong  bodies,  and  civil  contest.  The  commons  of  Cas- 
well-armed.  None  dwdt  in  unwalled  tile,  grateful  for  theur  deliverance  from 
places;  and  so  great  was  the  evil  internal  war,  and  from  the  exactions 
throughout  the  land,  that  no  one  was  of  the  rich  men,  sent  him  soldiers,  and 
surprised  at  meeting  with  murdered  generously  supplied  him  with  money, 
men  upon  the  highways.  The  king's  He  compelled  the  clergy  to  make  sa- 
guardians  daily  imposed  new  and  ex-  orifices  which,  at  another  period, 
cessive  taxes;  towns  were  deserted,  would  have  compromised  the  tran- 
and  the  peasantry  suffered  exceed-  quillity  of  the  kingdom.*  But  he  was 

nated  as  ^  the  Count,"  he  being  the  only  one  in  Castile.  When  crowned  at  Burgos, 
in  1366,  he  lavished  the  titles  of  count  and  marqnis,  previously  so  charily  bestowed, 
not  only  upon  the  magnates  of  the  land,  but  upon  Bertrand  Dngnesclin,  Sir  Hugh 
Calveriey,  Denia  the  Arragonese,  and  other  foreign  adventurers  and  allies.  "  Such 
was  the  generosity,  or  rather  the  profusion  of  the  new  king,  that  it  ga^e  rise  to  a 
proverbial  expression  long  current  in  Spain  :  Henry's  fatourt  {Meree^  Enriquencui) 
was  thenceforward  the  term  applied  to  recompenses  obtained  before  they  were  de- 
eeryed."— MiniM^B,  p.  451-2.  A  rico  hombre  was  created  by  receiving  at  the  king's 
hand  a  banner  and  a  cauldron  [Pendon  y  Cald^ra)—i]ie  one  to  guide  hh  soldiers,  the 
other  to  feed  them.  The  fidalgos  or  hidalgos  (Arom  kUodalao,  the  son  of  somebody) 
were  dependants  of  the  rieot  l^nfbret,  as  these  were  of  the  king.  '*  Every  nobleman 
had  a  certain  number  of  gentlemen  who  did  him  homage,  and  held  their  lands  in  fee 
of  him.  In  their  turn,  these  gentlemen  had  vassals,  so  that  the  labourer  had  many 
masters,  whose  orders  were  often  contradictory.  These  mediseval  institutions  gave 
rise  to  strange  complications,  only  to  be  unravelled  by  violence.  Nevertheless,  the 
laws  and  national  usages  directed  the  vassal,  whatever  his  condition,  to  obey  his  im- 
mediate superior.  Thus,  a  mere  knight  did  not  incur  penalty  of  treason  by  taking 
arms  against  the  king  by  order  of  the  rich-man  to  whom  he  paid  homage." — MSSrim^b, 
p.  29.  Some  curious  illustrations  are  subjoined.  In  1334,  Alphonso  took  the  field 
against  an  insubordinate  vassal,  and  besieged  him  in  his  town  of  Lerma.  Oarcia  de 
Padilla,  a  knight  attached  to  the  rebel,  seeing  an  amicable  arrangement  impossible, 
boldly  demanded  of  Don  Alphonso  a  horse  and  armour,  to  go  and  fight  under  the 
banner  of  his  liege  lord.  The  king  instantly  complied  with  his  request,  warning  him, 
however,  that  if  taken,  he  should  pa^  with  his  head  for  his  fidelity  to  the  lord  of 
Lerma.  *'  I  distinguish,"  says  M.  Mbrim^  ''in  the  action  and  words  of  Don  Al- 
phonso, the  contrast  of  the  knight  and  the  king  united  in  the  same  man.  The  one 
yields  to  his  prejudices  of  cbiyalrous  honour,  the  other  will  have  the  rights  of  his 
crown  respected.  The  customs  of  the  age  and  the  dictates  of  policy  contend  in  the 
generous  monarch's  breast." — P.  30. 

*  "  It  were  a  great  error  to  attribute  to  Spain,  in  the  14th  eentnry,  the  religions 
passions  and  intolerant  spirit  that  animated  it  in  the  16th.  In  the  wars  between 
Moors  and  Christians,  politics  had  long  had  a  far  larger  share  than  fimaticism.  *  * 
Althon^^  the  Inquisition  had  been  estahlished  more  fiian  a  centnrv,  its  power  was  tkr 
from  being  what  it  afterwards  became.    As  to  Jews  and  Moors,  uey  were  subject  Uy 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


MMnde^$  History  of  Peter  the  Cruel. 


valiant  and  generons,  and  had  the 
love  of  the  people;  not  a  yoice  was 
raided  to  oppose  him.  On  the  29th 
October  1340,  the  anny  of  Castile 
encountered,  near  Tanfa,  that  of 
Granada,  whose  ranks  were  swelled 
by  prodigious  reinforcements  from  the 
4)ppo8ite  shores  of  Barbarj.  The 
battle  of  Rio  Salado  was  fought; 
victory  loudly  declared  herself  for 
the  Christians:  two  hundred  thou- 
sand Moors  (it  is  said)  remained 
upon  the  field,  and  the  power  of  the 
Mussulman  in  Spain  was  broken  for 
«yer.  Following  up  his  success,  Al- 
phonso  took  Algesiras  after  a  long 
siege,  and  was  besieging  Gibraltar 
when  he  was  carried  off  by  the  famous 
black  plague,  which  for  several  years 
had  ravaged  Europe.  His  death  was 
mourned  by  all  Spain ;  and  the  mere 
terror  of  his  name  would  seem  to  have 
dictated  the  advantageous  treaty  of 
peace  concluded  soon  afterwards  with 
the  Saracen. 

Alphonso,  a  better  king  than  hus- 
band, left  behind  him  one  legitimate 
son,  Don  Pedro — ^who  at  his  father's 
death  was  fifteen  years  old,  and  whose 
mother,  DoOa  Maria,  was  a  Portu- 
guese princess— and  ten  bastards,  a 
daughter  and  nine  sons,  children  of 


339 

his  mistress  Leonora  de  Guzman.  In 
1350,  the  first-born  of  this  illegitimate 
progeny,  Don  Henry,  was  eighteen 
years  of  age;  he  had  the  establish- 
ment of  a  prince  of  the  blood,  the 
magnificent  domain  of  Trastamare,  and 
the  title  of  count.  His  twin-brother, 
Don  Fadrique,was  grand-master  of  the 
Knights  of  Santiago.  The  two  young 
men  had  won  their  spurs  at  Gibraltar, 
whilst  the  Infante  Pedro,  rightful  heir 
to  the  crown,  had  been  kept  in  retire- 
ment at  Seville,  a  witness  of  his  mo- 
ther's daily  humiliations,  and  himself 
neglected  by  the  courtiers,  always 
prompt  to  follow  a  king's  example. 
Idle  in  a  deserted  court,  he  passed  his 
time  in  weeping  over  his  mother's  in- 
juries and  his  own.  Youthful  impres- 
sions are  ineffaceable.  Jealousy  and 
hatred  were  the  first  sentiments  expe- 
rienced by  Don  Pedro.  Brought  up 
by  a  feeble  and  offended  woman,  the 
first  lessons  he  imbibed  were  those  of 
dissimulation  and  revenge. 

The  premature  and  unexpected  death 
of  Don  Alphonso  was  the  alarum  of  a 
host  of  ambitions.  Amongst  the  great 
patricians  of  Spain,  two  in  particular 
were  designated,  by  public  opinion,  to 
take  the  chief  direction  of  affairs: 
these  were— Juan  Alonzo  de  Albur- 


the  jarisdiction  of  the  Holy  Office  only  when  they  sought,  by  word  or  writing,  to  turn 
Christians  from  the  faith  of  their  fathers ;  and  OTen  then,  royal  authorisation  was  ne- 
cessary before  they  could  be  prosecuted.  And  the  kings  showed  themselyes,  in  general, 
little  disposed  to  let  the  clergy  increase  their  influence.  In  1850,  Peter  IV.  of 
Arragon  rigoroosly  forbade  ecclesiastics  to  infringe  on  secular  jurisdiction.  •  *  » 
There  was  much  lukewarmness  in  matters  of  religion;  and  to  this,  perhaps,  is  to  be 
attributed  the  yery  secondary  part  played  by  the  clergy  in  all  the  politieal  debates  of 
the  Uth  century.  The  inferior  clergy,  liring  and  recruiting  its  ranks  amongst  the 
people,  shared  the  ignorance  and  rudeness  <?  the  latter.  Such  was  the  preyalent 
immorality,  that  a  great  number  of  priests  maintained  concubines,  who  were  yain  of 
the  holy  profession  of  their  loyers,  and  claimed  particular  distinctions.  The  conduct 
of  these  ecclesiastics  occasioned  no  scandal,  but  the  luxury  affected  by  their  mistresses 
often  excited  the  enyy  of  rich  citizens,  and  eyen  of  noble  ladies.  Repeatedly,  and  al- 
ways in  yain,  the  Cortes  launched  decrees  intended  to  repress  the  insolence  of  the 
tUtmoiulUi  de  pritrei,  {harraganoi  de.d^riffot,)  who  formed  a  distinct  class  or  caste, 
«igoying  special  pririleges.  and  sufficiently  numerous  to  require  the  inyention  of  laws 
for  them  alone."~MiaiMiB,  p.  84  to  38.  These  passages  tend  to  explain  what  might 
otherwise  seem  incomprehensible— the  passiye  submission  of  the  Spanish  priesthood  to 
encroachments  upon  their  temporal  goods.  Since  then  they  haye  rarely  shown  them- 
selyes so  enduring;  and  the  mere  hint  of  an  attack  upon  their  power  or  opulence  haa 
usually  been  the  signal  for  mischieyous  intrigue,  and  often  for  bloody  strife.  It  is  a 
question,  (settmg  aside  Uie  barraganas,  although  these,  up  to  no  remote  date,  may  be 
said  to  haye  been  rather  veiled  than  suppressed,)  whether  the  Spanish  priests  of  the 
Uth  century  were  not  nearly  as  enlightened  as  their  successors  of  the  19th.  They 
certainly  were  far  more  tolerant.  "Arab  language  and  literature,*'  M.  M€nm6t 
tells  us,  **  were  cultiyated  in  schools  founded  under  ecclesiastical  patronage." 

In  the  Cortes  held  at  Yalladolid,  in  1351,  we  find  Don  Pedro  rejecting  the  petitions 
of  the  clergy,  who  crayed  restitution  of  the  reyenues  appropriated  by  the  crown,  to 
iheir  prejudice,  under  his  father's  reign. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


MMaM9Bii^f96fPid»HmCmA 


S40 

qnenftt^  aai  Jnsn  Nnfies  de  Lara. 
The  temer,  a  Portogoefle  by  birth, 
bat  hoMing  Tast  aitatea  in  Spam,  bad 
itood  besidB  Don  Alphonso  dnriiif  bis 
atraggto  witb  his Dobiaa;  had  rendared 
him  great,  aad,  to  ail  appeanmoe,  dia- 
interested  aerYioes ;  and  had  been  re- 
wmrded  fof  ^le  kuig's  mtlre  caofidence. 
Grand  chancdlor  and  prime  mhuater, 
he  had  also  had  chaiige  of  Don  Pedro's 
ttdncataon.  He  had  great  iaflaaiee 
with  the  qneen-motber,  and  had  al- 
ways skilfully  avoided  collision  with 
Leonora  de  Gasman,  who  neverthe- 
less feared  and  disliked  him  as  aeeciet 
and  dkageroas  foe.  All  drcnmetaaoes 
oonsidei^d,  Jaan  de  Lara,  althoogfa 
<»naected  by  biood  with  the  royal 
£EUDily,  and  possessing,  as  Lord  of 
Biscay,  great  [>ower  in  the  north  of 
Spain,  thought  it  inadvisable  to  enter 
the  lists  with  Albarqaeniue,  who,  on 
the  other  haad,  openly  sought  his  al- 
liance, and  even  offered  to  Svide  with 
him  the  authority  dei^alved  b^ob  him 
hy  the  kfaig's  death.  With  aU  this 
apparent  frankness  there  was  Uttie 
real  friendship ;  and  it  was  well  aoder- 
atood  that  benccfnward  the  ieadiiig 
characters  on  the  politieal  stage 
divided  themselves  into  two  opponent 
parties.  On  the  one  hand  were  the 
do  wager-qneen  Maria,  Pedro  the  Fu^ 
and  the  astute  and  prudent  Albur- 
querque.  Opposed  to  these,  but  with 
little  anion,  amid  witb  varioos  views  and 
pretensions,  were  Juan  de  Lara,  his 
nephew,  (the  lordo^  Villena)— whose 
aister  waa  aoon  afterwards  secretly 
n  arried  toHen  ry  of  Traatam  are — Leo- 
nora de  Gasman,  and  her  three  eldest 
eons.  The  third  of  these,  Don  Telle, 
was  younger  than  Don  Pedro,  but  he 
was  crafty  and  selfish  beyond  his 
jears. 

Alphonso  had  hardly  given  up  the 
l^host,  when  the  reaction  commenced. 
Leonora  fled  before  the  angry  counte- 
nanee  of  the  injured  queen-mother. 
Befosed  protectien  by  Lara,  from 
whom  she  first  sought  it,  she  repaired 
to  hePiStroog  fortress  of  Medina-^do- 
nfa,  a  gift  from  her  royal  lover.  Its 
governor,  her  relative,  Don  AI0117.0 
Coronel,  although  reputed  a  valiant 
and  loyal  knight,  and,  moreover,  per- 
sonally attached  to  the  faction  of  the 
Laras,  resigned  his  command,  and 
would  not  be  prevailed  witb  to  re- 
sume it.    And  amongst  all  the  nobles 


,  pfarehf 


and  ehevalien,  who  dnring  AlpkoBso% 
life  pnofessed  themselves  devoted  to 
hen  she  now  cooid  not  find  one  to  d»^ 
fend  her  caatle.  She  aaw  that  her 
cause  was  desperate.  Yagoe  aoesaa- 
tions  were  brought  agatnat  her,  of  con- 
spiracy agafaist  the  new  king;  and  from 
all  sides  alarming  nmoors  reached 
her  of  her  aons*  arrest  and  probable 
execotion.  She  lost  courage,  and  gave 
up  her  caatle  to  Alburqnerqae,  in  ex- 
cbaa^  for  a  safe-condoct  to  Seville, 
which  was  not  respected ;  for,  on  her 
arrival  there,  she  was  ahut  np  in  the 
Alcaaar,  and  treated  aa  a  prisoner  of 
state.  Meanwhile  her  two  eldest  sons 
endeavoured  to  atir  up  civil  war. 
They  were  totally  nnsacoessfal,  and 
finally  esteemed  themselves  fiortnaate 
in  being  allowed  to  make  their  suboua- 
sion,  ud  do  homage  to  the  king. 
Aiburquerque  afiected  to  treat  tbeaa 
as  refractory  boys,  satd  reseired  his 
wrath  for  their  akother,  who,  even  m 
captivity,  proved  herself  foroidable. 
By  her  coatrivance,  the  marriage  of 
Don  Henry  and  of  tlM  aaece  of  Juan 
de  Lara  was  secretly  celebrated  and 
oonsaro  mated,  in  the  palace  that  served 
her  as  a  prison.  When  mformed,  a  few 
boons  subseqsentiy,  of  the  trick  thait 
had  been  played  them,  the  quee»- 
mother  and  Aiburquerque  were  furious. 
Doila  Leonora  was  sent  into  strict 
confinement,  in  the  castle  of  Carmona. 
^^  As  to  the  Count  Don  Henry,  he  waa 
on  his  guard,  and  did  not  wait  his 
enemies'  vengeance :  he  left  Seville  by 
atesHh,  taking  witii  liim  a  quantity  af 
jewels  receiv^  from  his  mother,  and 
accompanied  by  two  faithful  knights — 
all  three  having  their  faces  covered 
with  leathern  masks,  according  to  a 
custom  of  the  times.  By  forced 
marches,  and  with  great  fatigue,  tbey 
traversed  the  whole  of  Spain  unrecog- 
nised, and  reached  the  Asturias,  where 
they  trusted  to  find  safety  amongst 
devoted  vassals." 

The  sudden  and  severe  illneas  of 
Don  Pedro  gave  rise  to  fre^  intrignea, 
and  Juan  de  Lara  and  Don  Femando^ 
of  Armgon  stood  forth  as  pretenders 
to  the  crown  in  the  event  of  the  king^s 
death.  His  recovery  crushed  their 
ambitious  bope^,  but  might  not  have 
prevented  a  civn  war  between  the  fac- 
tions of  the  two  aspirants,  bad  not 
Don  Juan  de  Lara  and  his  nephew  been 
suddenly  carried  off  by  the  prevaSing 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  Mirm^t 

eptdemio.  ^AtMijothflri 
M.  M^ria^  vemwrki,  ^^  the  premm- 
tore  death  of  these  two  men  wo«Id 
donbtleM  have  thrown  odious  siispi- 
dons  on  thek  adTenaries.  But  in  no 
eontemponury  rathor  do  I  fiad  the 
letst  hisiaaatioa  against  Albarqoer- 
qae,  th«  rid  in  aae  day  of  the  chief 
obotades  to  his  ambition,  Thisgeaeral 
respect  for  a  num  who  was  the  oio^eet 
<tf  so  Many  jealoasies  aa4  hatreds,  fe 
an  heaoiind>le  testimonj,  wert^  of 
note,  as  a  rare  ese^tion  to  tike  usage 
of  the  times,  and  which  it  wonld  be 
snprenielj  afljost  now  to  atteaipt  So 
laTalidata."  AtbQrqoerqne  was  now 
the  yirtnal  mler  of  Castile :  the  yowiff 
king  passed  his  time  in  hnating,  and 
left  all  eares  of  state  to  his  sagadons 
minuter,  wlio  woriced  ban!  to  como- 
lidate  his  maeter^i  power.  The  Cortes 
were  eoofroked  at  YaUadoMd,  whither 
Pedro  proceeded  to  open  them  in  per- 
sen.  He  was  accompanied  by  the 
qveen-motiwr,  draggii^  in  her  train 
the  mafortnuite  Leonora  de  Gasman, 
▲t  Llereaa,  in  Estremadara,  one  of  the 
principid  commaaderys  of  the  KaaghAs 
of  Santiago,  Doa  Fadriqoe,  grnd- 
master  of  that  powerfol  order,  received 
his  half-brother  Pedro  with  great  re- 
spect, and  efcred  him  the  magnifieeat 
hospitality  of  his  hoose.  He  then 
asked  and  obtained  p^rmiy>ii>n  %q  gee 
his  mother. 

*  la  preteaeeof  the  JuIerB,  mother  and 
SOB,  both  00  ftiKoii  from  thoir  high  for- 
-tane,  threw  theimelyes  into  es^h  other's 
ame,  and  diiriiig  the  honr  to  wfateh  their 
interriew  wm  ihnited,  they  wept,  with- 
eot  exohangiiig  a  word.  Then  a  page  in- 
formed Don  Fadriqne  that  the  king  re- 
fnired  his  preeenee.  After  a  last  embrace 
he  left  hte  mother,  noTer  again  to  be- 
hold her.  Hw  unfortunate  woman's 
doom  was  sealed.  From  Llerena,  by  Al- 
bnr^erqne's  order,  she  was  oonduoted  to 
the  eastle  of  TalaTera,  belongrag  to  the 
queen-mother,  and  goTemed  by  Ontier 
Femaodea  of  Toledo,  one  of  her  liege 
men.  There  Leonora  did  not  long  lan- 
guish. A  few  days  after  her  arrival,  a 
aeeretary  of  the  queen  brought  the  gorer- 
Bor  an  order  for  her  death.  The  execu- 
tion was  secret  and  mysterious,  and  it  is 
eertain  Don  Pedro  had  no  oognisanee  of 
it.  Doubtless  tlie  queen  had  exacted 
from  Albnrquerque  the  sacrifice  of  her 
rital,  who  was  no  longer  protected  by  the 
pity  of  Juan  Nnfiea  de  Lara.  *  Many  per- 
sons,* says  Pero  Lopes  de  Ayala,  a  Span- 
ish chronicler  whom  M.M^riffl€e  has  taken 


nfFdmr  Us  Cmd.  941 

aa  one  of  his  prinalpal  aatlwri  ttes,  and 
whose  trustworthiness,  iwpngned  by  mo- 
dem authors,  ho  ably  TiadieateB  in  fais 
preiaoe, '  were  grioTod  at  this  deed,  fore- 
seeing that  from  it  wars  and  scandal 
would 'spring,  inasmuch  as  Leoncara  had 
sons  already  grown  up  and  weB-con- 
nected.' 

**  But  the  hour  of  rengeance  was  not 
yet  come,  and  the  sons  of  Leonora  bowed 
their  heads  before  her  asoasirinB.** 

One  of  them,  whose  youth  Bright 
hmwt  been  deemed  incapaMe  of  sach 
dissimaiaiion,  went  beyond  mere  sab- 
mission.  A  few  days  after  Leonora^ 
death,  Doa  Pedro,  daring  a  progress 
through  yarioas  proyiaceo  of  his  king- 
dom, reached  the  town  of  Palencia, 
in  whose  aeighboorhood  Tello,  then 
hardly  fifteen  years  oM,  and  who,  foA- 
k>wing  the  example  of  his  elder  bro- 
thers, kept  akwf  from  the  coart,  had 
shut  himself  np  in  the  caM^  of  Palea- 
saela. 

"As  there  was  some  fear  he  might 
proTe  refractory,  Juan  Manrique,  a  Cas- 
tilian  noble,  was  sent  to  assure  him  of  the 
king's  good  will  towards  him,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  gain  orer  the  knights,  his 
ooaaeellofs.  Manrique  snoeeeded  in  his 
mission,  and  brought  Don  Tello  to  Palen- 
cia. Instraetad  by  his  guide,  the  yoatfa 
hastened  to  kiss  his  brother's  hand.  <  Don 
Tello,'  said  the  king,  *  do  you  know  that 
your  mother,  Dofia  Leonora,  is  dead!' 
*  Sire,*  replied  the  boy-oourtier,  M  have 
no  other  mo^er  or  father  thaa  your  good 
ftiTour.'* 

The  royal  bastards  hnmbled  and 
snbdued  for  a  time,  Albnrqaerqne 
tamed  his  attention  to  more  powerful 
adversaries.  The  death  of  its  two 
chiefs  had  not  entirely  dissipated  the 
Lara  factum,  now  headed  by  Don 
Garci  Laso  de  la  Vega— a  paimaat 
Castiiaa  noMe,  and  an  iaTeterate 
eaemy  of  tiie  minister.  Garci  Laso 
was  in  the  rich  aad  disaffected  city  of 
Bnrgos;  and  on  the  king's  approach  he 
issued  some  leagues  forth  to  meet  him, 
escorted  by  a  little  army  of  vassals 
and  retaioers.  His  enemies  took  care 
to  call  Pedro's  attention  to  this  mar- 
tial retinae,  as  indicative  of  defiance 
rather  thaa  respect.  And  the  Man- 
riipm  above  meatioaed,  a  creatnre  of 
Albarqaerqns's,  aad  a  private  eaemy 
of  Garci  Laao's,  took  opportaaity  t- 
qaarrel  with  the  latter,  and  woul 
have  charged  hhn  with  his  trooo  bs 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Merimee'i  Hutory  ofPeUr  the  Cruel. 


342 

for  the  king's  interference.  The  com- 
mons of  Sorgos,  hearing  of  these 
qnarrels,  and  standing  in  mortal  fear 
of  Albnrqnenme,  sent  a  deputation  to 
represent  to  Don  Pedro  the  danger 
the  city  would  be  in  from  the  presence 
of  rival  factions  within  its  walls,  and 
begged  of  him  to  enter  with  only  a 
sxnm  escort.  They  added  an  expres- 
sion of  regret  at  the  arrival  of  Albnr- 
qnerque,  whom  they  knew  to  be  ill- 
disposed  towards  them.  Although 
the  formula  was  respectful  and  hum- 
ble, the  freedom  of  these  remonstrances 
incensed  the  king,  who  at  once  en- 
tered the  dty  with  his  whole  force, 
spears  raised  and  banners  display^ 
The  citizens  made  no  resistance;  a 
few  of  those  most  compromised  fled. 
Manrique,  who  commanded  the  ad- 
vanced guard,  established  himself  in 
the  Jews'  quarter,  which,  separated  by 
a  strong  wall,  according  to  the  custom 
of  the  time,  from  the  rest  of  the  town, 
formed  a  sort  of  internal  citadel. 
Garci  Laso,  confiding  in  his  great  po- 
pularity, and  in  the  fidelity  of  his 
vassals,  remained  in  Burgos,  taking  up 
his  lodging  in  one  of  the  archbishop's 

galaoes,  of  which  another  was  occupied 
y  the  king  and  his  mother.     Albur- 
^uerque  had  quarters  in  another  part 


[March, 


of  the  town.  Thus  Burgos  contained 
four  camps ;  and  it  seemed,  says  M. 
M^m^,  as  if  all  the  factions  in  the 
kingdom  had  taken  rendezvous  there, 
to  settle  their  difibrences. 

That  night  an  esquire  of  the  queen- 
mother  secretly  sought  Garci  Laso, 
bearing  him  a  strange  warning  frx>m 
that  princess.  ^^  Whatever  invitation 
he  received,  he  was  to  beware  of  ap- 
pearing before  the  king."  The  proud 
noble  despised  caution,  repaired  next 
morning  to  the  palace,  was  arrested 
by  the  king's  command,  and  in  his 
presence,  and  sufiered  death  the  same 
day.*  This  execution  fmurder  were 
perhaps  a  fitter  word)  was  followed 
by  others,  and  terror  reigned  in  Bur- 
gos. ^^  Whosoever  had  lifted  up  his 
voice  to  defend  the  privileges  of  the 
commons,  or  the  rights  of  Don  Juan 
de  Lara,  knew  no  retreat  safe  enough 
to  hide  his  head.  Don  Henry  himself 
feared  to  remain  in  the  Asturias,  and 
took  refuge  on  Portuguese  territory." 
The  implacable  Alburquerque  was  de- 
termined utterly  to  crush  and  exter- 
minate the  faction  of  the  Laras.  The 
possessions  of  that  princely  house  were 
confiscated  to  the  crown,  the  orphan 
son  of  Don  Juan  de  Lara  died  in  Bis- 
cay, and  his  two  daughters  fell  into 


*  In  various  details  of  Don  Pedro's  life  and  character  we  trace  resemblance  to 
the  eastern  despot,  although  there  seems  no  fonndation  for  the  charges  of  infidelity 
brought  against  him  towards  the  close  of  his  reign,  and  which  may  partly  hare 
originated,  perhaps,  in  his  close  alliance  with  the  Granadine  Moors,  a  body  of  whose 
light  cavalry  for  some  time  formed  his  escort.  G»ntiguity  of  territory,  commercial 
intercourse,  and  political  necessiti^  had  assimilated  to  a  certain  extent  the  manners 
and  usages  of  Spaniards  and  Saracens,  and  giren  the  former  an  oriental  tinge,  of 
which^  even  at  the  present  day,  faint  vestiges  are  here  and  there  perceptible.  Don 
Pedro's  orientalism  was  particularly  perceptible  in  the  mode  of  many  of  the  execu- 
tions that  ensanguined  his  reign.  He  had  constantly  about  him  a  band  of  cross-bow- 
men who  waited  on  his  nod,  and  recoiled  from  no  cruelty.  Oooasionally  we  find  him 
sending  one  of  them  to  some  distant  place  to  communicate  and  execute  the  doom  of 
an  offending  subject.  This  recalls  the  Turkish  mute  and  bowstring.  These  death- 
dealing  archers  seem  to  have  employed  mace  and  dagger  more  f^quently  than  axe  or 
-cord.  They  were  assassins  rather  than  executioners.  They  officiated  in  the  case  of 
Garci  Laso.  **  Alburquerque,  impatient  of  delay,  warned  the  king  that  it  was  time 
to  giTc  final  orders.  Don  Pedro,  accustomed  to  repeat  those  of  bis  minister,  bade 
two  of  AlSnrquerque's  gentlemen  go  tell  the  prisoners  guards  to  despatch  him. «  The 
arbalisters,  blind  instruments  of  the  king's  will,  mistrusted  an  order  transmitted  to 
them  by  AJburquerque's  people,  and  desired  to  receive  it  fh>m  their  master's  mouth. 
One  of  them  went  to  ask  him  what  was  to  be  done  with  Garci  Laso.  '  Let  him  be 
killed  !'  replied  the  king.  This  time  duly  authorised,  the  arbalister  ran  to  the  prisoner^ 
and  struck  him  down  with  a  blow  of  a  mace  upon  his  head.  His  comrades  finished 
him  with  their  daggers.  The  body  of  Garci  Laso  was  thrown  upon  the  public  square, 
where  the  king's  entrance  was  celebrated,  according  to  Castilian  custom,  by  a  bull- 
fight. The  bulls  trampled  the  corpse,  and  tossed  it  upon  their  horns.  It  was  taken 
f^om  them  for  exhibition  upon  a  scaffold,  where  it  remained  a  whole  day.  At  last  it 
was  placed  upon  a  bier,  which  was  fixed  upon  the  rampart  of  Camparanda.  It  was 
jthe  treatment  reserved  for  the  bodies  of  great  malefactors."~MiRiiil(B,  p.  73. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Menmee'i  Hutary  ofPHer  the  CmeL 


the  hands  of  the  minister,  who  de- 
tained them  as  hostages.  Bat  the 
purtj,  although  vanqaished,  was  not 
yet  annihilated.  Alonso  Coronel,  the 
same  who  had  abandoned  Leonora  de 
Guzman  in  her  misfortones,  and  who 
had  been  rewarded  with  the  banner 
and  cauldron  of  a  rico  hombre,  with 
the  yast  lordship  and  strong  castle  of 
Agnilar,  aspired  to  become  its  leader. 
He  op^ea  a  correspondence  with 
Count  Trastamare  and  Don  Fadrique, 
who,  as  enemies  of  Alburquerque, 
seemed  to  him  his  natural  allies.  He 
attempted  to  treat  with  the  Kiug  of 
Granada,  and  even  with  the  Moors  of 
Africa.  Alburquerque  decreed  bis 
ruin,  assembled  a  small  armj  round 
the  royal  standard,  and  marched  with 
Don  Pedro  to  besiege  Agullar.  Sum- 
moned to  surrender,  Coronel  replied 
by  a  volley  of  arrows,  and  was  forth- 
with declared  a  rebel  and  traitor. 
Leaving  a  body  of  troops  in  observa- 
tion before  Agnilar,  which  was  capable 
of  a  long  defence,  Alburquerque  and 
his  royal  pupil  set  out  for  the  Astu- 
rias,  seizing,  as  they  passed,  various 
casUes  and  fortified  places  belonging 
to  Coronel,  which  surrendered  without 
serious  resistance— excepting  that  of 
Burguillos,  whose  commander,  Juan 
de  Caiiedo,  a  liege  man  of  Coronel, 
made  an  obstiuate  defence.  Taken 
alive,  his  hands  were  cut  off  by  the 
cruel  victors.  Some  months  after- 
wards, when  the  king  and  his  vindic- 
tive minister,  with  a  powerful  army 
and  battering  train,  had  effected,  after 
a  long  siege,  a  breach  in  the  ramparts 
of  AguUar,  ^^the  mutilated  knight, 
his  wounds  hardly  healed,  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  camp,  and  with  incre- 
dible hardihood  demanded  of  Pedro 
permission  to  enter  the  fortress  and 
die  by  the  side  of  his  lord.  His  heroic 
fidelity  excited  the  admiration  of  his 
•enemies,  and  the  favour  was  ac- 
corded him.  Many  envied  Coronel  the 
glory  of  hn^iring  such  devoted  attach- 
ment, and  every  one  awaited  with 
thrilling  interest  the  last  moments  of 
a  man  whom  all  Castile  was  accus- 
tomed to  consider  as  the  model  of  an 
accomplished  and  valiant  knight.'* 
The  assault  was   given,  the  castle 


343 

taken,  and  Coronel  was  led  before 
Alburquerque.  "What!"  exclaimed 
the  minister,  on  beholding  his  foe, 
"  Coronel  traitor  in  a  kingdom  where 
so  much  honour  has  been  done  him !" 
"Don  Juan,"  replied  Coronel,  "we 
are  sons  of  this  Castile,  which  elevates 
men  and  casts  them  down.  *  It  is  in 
vain  to  strive  against  destiny.  The 
mercy  I  ask  of  you  is  to  put  me  to  a 
speedy  death,  even  as  I,  fourteen 
years  ago  to-day,  put  to  death  the 
Master  of  Alcantara."*  "  Hie  king, 
present  at  the  interview,  his  visor  low- 
ered, listened  incognito  to  this  dia- 
logue, doubtless  admiring  Coroners 
coolness,  but  giving  no  orders,  for  he 
was  unaccustomed  to  interfere  with 
his  minister."  Coronel  and  several 
distinguished  knights  and  gentlemen 
were  led  a  few  paces  o£f,  and  there  be- 
headed. 

The  Lara  faction  scattered  and 
weakened,  circumstances  seemed  to 
promise  Alburquerque  a  long  lease  of 
power,  when  a  fatal  mistake  prepared 
his  downfall.  Pedro  grew  restless — 
his  high  spirit  gave  forth  flashes ;  his 
minister  saw  that,  to  check  the  desire 
of  governing  for  himself,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  provide  him  with  pursuits  of 
more  engrossing  interest  than  the 
chase. 

''The  reign  of  Don  Alphonao  had 
shown  what  power  a  mistress  might  ac- 
quire, and  the  pradent  minister  would 
not  leave  to  chance  the  choice  of  the 
woman  destined  to  play  so  important  a 
part.  Fearing  a  riyal,  he  wished  an 
ally,  or  rather  a  slave.  He  chose  for 
the  king,  and  blundered  egregionsly.  He 
thought  to  have  found  the  person  best 
suited  to  his  designs,  in  Dona  Maria  de 
Padilla,  a  young  girl  of  noble  birth, 
brought  up  in  the  house  of  his  wife,  Doua 
Isabel  de  Meneses.  She  was  an  orphan, 
issue  of  a  noble  family,  formerly  attached 
to  the  Lara  faction,  and  ruined  by  the 
last  civil  wars.  Her  brother  and  uncle, 
poor  and  ambitions,  lent  themselves,  it 
was  said,  to  the  degrading  bargain.  Per- 
suaded that  Dofia  Maria,  brought  up  in 
his  family,  would  always  consider  him  ae 
a  master,  Alburquerque  directed  Don 
Pedro's  attention  to  her,  and  himself  faci- 
litated their  first  interview,  which  took 
place  during  the  expedition  to  the  Astu- 


*  "  In  1339,  Don  Gonzalo  Martinet,  Master  of  Alcantara,  having  rebelled  agahist 
the  king  Don  Alphonso,  was  besieged  and  taken  in  his  castle  of  Valencia,  and  Coronel 
presided  at  his  execution."— CAronica  de  Don  Afpk<m$o  XL,  p.  335. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


S44 


UmiKmmt  fftttory  0^I\ttKr  ikt  C^fwtL 


[Mm^ 


riM.  1>M»  Haria  ^  Pkdillft  wm  wtuXL 
in  staiare^  like  the  mmjortiy  oi  Sfenieb 
women,  pretty,  lively^  full  of  that  Toiup- 
taous  graoe  peculiar  to  the  women  ef 
Southem  Spain,  and  which  oar  langaa^ 
has  no  word  exactly  to  expiesa.*  As  yet 
the  only  indioation  of  talent  she  had  giren 
was  her  great  sprightliness,  which  amused 
the  noble  lady  with  whom  she  lired  in 
an  almost  serrile  capacity.  Older  than 
ihe  king,  she  had  orer  him  the  advantage 
of  having  already  miagled  with  the 
crowd,  atudied  men  and  obeenred  the 
court.  She  soon  proved  hecMlf  worthy  to 
reign." 

Maria  Padnia  made  fitde  oi>po- 
fiition  to  AU>arqiierqii«*8  project  Her 
uncle,  Jaan  de  Hinestrusa,  hhnself 
conducted  her  to  Don  Pedro,  aod 
placed  her,  it  may  almost  be  said,  in 
his  arms.  The  oomplatsaBoe  was 
Toyally  rewarded.  Hlnestrosa  and 
the  other  relations  of  the  favomite 
emerged  from  tbctr  obscnrity,  appear- 
ed at  oonrt,  and  soon  stood  high  in 
theur  sovereign's  faronr,  althon^  the 
X>li8nt  nnde  was  the  only  one  who 
retained  it  till  the  end  of  bis  career. 
Sabseqnently,  before  the  Cortes  of 
1362,  Don  Pedro  declared  that  be  bad 
been,  from  the  first,  privately  married 
to  Maria  Padilla— thos  in  validating 
his  public  anion  with  Blanche  of  Bonr- 
.  bon,  with  whom  he  had  never  lived, 
and  after  whose  death  the  declaration 
was  made.  He  prodnced  three  wit- 
nesses of  the  marriage — the  fourth, 
Jaan  de  Hinestrosa,  was  then  dead — 
who  positively  swore  it  had  taken 
place  in  their  presence.  M.  M6*im^, 
examines  the  question  minutely,  quot- 
ing various  writers  oo  the  subject,  and 
discussing  it  pro  and  com ;  one  of  his 
Atrongest  arguments  in  favour  of  the 
Buurriage,  being  tbe  improbability  that 
10  fythful,  loyal,  a»d  valiant  a  knight 
as  Hinestrosa  proved  himself,  would 
hare  consented,  under  any  tempta- 
tion, to  ptay  the  base  part  of  a  pander. 
It  would  not  be  difficult,  however,  to 
trace  contradictions  nearly  as  great 
in  the  code  of  honour  and  nK>ra!ity 


of  tiM  <^T«lien  of  tie  fenteeetli 
centvry ;  and,  ^ery  aiuch  searer  to 
our  own  times,  it  has  frequently  bses 
seen  how  large  an  amount  ef  iafany 
of  that  kind  the  royal  pnple  has  bee« 
held  to  cloak. 

In  a  very  ftw  nonHhs  after- Ihe 
equivocal  tmion  be  had  brought  abontf 
Alburquerque  began  to  experience  its 
bad  effects.  Maria  Padilla  leeretly 
incited  tbe  yonng  king  to  shake  M 
his  leadtag- strings,  and  grasp  tbe  retna 
of  government.  Afraid  to  do  this 
boldly  and  abnrptly,  Pedro  conspireA 
with  the  Padiliae,  and  planned  a  i%- 
oonciliation  with  Ms  brothers  Hemy 
and  Telto,  believing,  in  his  inexperi- 
ence, that  he  oould  nowhere  find 
better  friends,  or  more  disinterested 
advisers.  The  secret  of  tbe  plot  waa 
well  kept :  Alburquerque  unsuspici- 
ously accepted  a  frhrolous  mission  to 
the  King  of  Portugal ;  during  his  ab- 
sence, a  treaty  of  amity  was  concluded 
between  the  king  and  the  two  bastarii. 
Whilst  these  intrigues  went  on^ 
Blanche  of  Bourbon,  niece  of  the 
King  of  Franee,  watted  at  VaMadolidf 
in  company  with  the  dowager  qneena 
of  Castile  and  Arragon,  imtil  it  should 
please  Pedro  to  go  thither  and  marry 
her.  Pedro  had  estabiisbed  himseir 
at  Torrijos  near  Toledo,  boMtng  tour- 
naments and  festivals  in  honour  of 
his  mistress,  with  whom  he  was  more 
in  love  than  ever;  and  tbe  Frescb 
princess  waited  several  months,  to 
tbe  great  indignation  of  ber  suite  of 
knights  and  nobles.  Suddenly  a  severe 
countenance  troubled  the  joy  of  Maria 
Padilla's  lover.  It  was  that  of  Al- 
burquerque, who,  fai  grave  and  regret- 
ful words,  represented  to  the  king  the 
affront  be  put  upon  the  house  of 
France,  and  the  anxiety  of  his  sub- 
jects, who  awaited,  in  his  marriafSt 
a  guarantee  of  future  tranquillity.  It 
was  of  the  utmost  importance  to  gire 
a  legitimate  heir  to  the  crown  of  Cas- 
tile. Subjugated  by  the  voiea  ef 
reason,  and  by  the  old  ascendency  ef 


*  The  Castilian  tongue  is  rich  in  words  descriptive  of  grace  in  wemea.  Stpaia  ify. 
certainly,  the  country  where  that  quality  is  most  oomnon.  I  will  cite  only  a  few  of 
those  expressions,  indicative  of  shades  easier  to  appreciate  than  to  translate.  Garbo 
is  grace  combined  with  nobility  ;  <f onayr^,  elegance  of  bearing,  vivacity  of  wit;  taUro, 
voluptuous  and  provocstive  grace  ;  tand^ngay  the  kind  of  grace  peculiar  to  the  An- 
dalneiane — a  happy  mixture  of  readineee  and  nonebaWtnce.  People  appland  the  ^r6o 
or  ^foaoyre  of  a  daehessi  the  tolfro  of  aa  aetiwiy  the  aaadawja  of  a  fipay  of  ^erea. — 
MiKinaByp.  life 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


lMft.3 


MSnmii9  Bmtor^  tfPntar  iSe  QrmtL 


Ids  antape  trnKmaUm,  Pedro  abb 
OTit  for  VaUadclid,  mnd  was  joined  on 
bis  wajr  by  Goont  Bwrj  wad  Boa 
Tello,  wbo  came  to  meet  him  oa  Soot 
and  aaarmed;  kissed  Us  foot  and 
his  right  hand,  as  he  sat  on  honsebaek; 
•■d  were  reoeifed  by  Mm  wlA  aU 
honour  and  frronr,  to  the  morttiea- 
tioa  of  Alborqaerqne,  who  saw  in  this 
leconciUatioa  a  proof  of  the  credit  of 
the  PadtUas,  and  a  famniliating  blow 
to  his  aathority.  The  mortttcation 
was  all  the  greater  that  he,  a  ▼eteraa 
politiciao,  had  been  outwitted  by  mere 
children.  On  the  third  daj  ef  Jooe  the 
long's  maifjage  took  place,  the  royal 
pair  being  condacted  in  great  pomp 
to  the  chnreh,  mounted  opon  white 
patfireys,  and  attired  in  robes  of  gold 
brocade  trimmed  with  ermine--a  cos* 
tnme  then  reaerred  for  sorereigns. 
In  their  retinne,  Henry  of  Trastanare 
had  the  precedence  of  the  princes  of 
Arragon — aa  honour  hddexceasiye  by 
aome,  and  attribnted  by  others  to  the 
aiacerity  of  the  reeondJiation  between 
the  sons  of  Don  Aiphonso.  A  toor- 
Bament  aad  bnU-figfat  soceeeded  the 
ceremony,  and  were  renewed  the  sezt 
day.  ''But  m  the  midst  of  these 
festivities,  aH  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
tiie  newly- married  pair.  CoUsess, 
and  even  aversion  for  his  yoong  bride, 
were  visible  apon  the  king's  counte- 
nance; and  as  it  was  difficult  to  ander- 
ataod  how  a  man  of  his  age,  ardent 
and  volnptnons,  could  be  inseaaftie  to 
the  attractions  of  the  French  prmcess, 
many  whispered  that  he  waafiisdaated 
by  Maria  Padilla,  and  that  his  eyes, 
channed  by  auigic  art,  beheld  a  re- 
pulsive object  in  place  of  the  yeuag 
beauty  he  kd  to  the  altar.  Aversion, 
like  sympathy,  has  its  iaeiqpiieable 
mysteries."  ♦ 

Upon  the  second  day  after  his  bmt- 
riage,  Don  Pedro  being  akme  at  din- 
ner  in  his  palace,  (the  dinaer  hour  in 


845 

tiiose  days  was  at  nine  or  tenm  the 
soommg,)  his  mother  and  atmt  up- 
peared  hefan  him,  all  in  tears,  asd^ 
having  obtained  a  private  andlenee, 
taxed  him  witii  bemg  about  to  desert 
his  wife,  aad  return  to  Maria  PadilJa. 
The  king  expressed  his  astonishment 
that  they  should  credit  idle  notoaa. 
Mid  dismissed  them,  repeating  that  he 
tbenght  aot  of  qnttiag  Valiadotid. 
An  hourafterwards  he  caUed  for  mnleSt 
saying  he  would  go  visit  his  matherf 
but,  instead  of  doing  so,  he  left  the 
city,  accompanied  oa^  by  the  brother 
of  ha  mi^rees,  Dan  Diego  PadiUa, 
and  by  two  of  his  most  oonfidendal 
gentlemen.  Regular  relays  were  in 
waiting,  and  he  slept  that  night  at  six- 
teen long  leagues  from  Valladolid. 
The  next  day  Doia  Maria  met  him 
at  PueUa  de  Montalvan.  This  strange 
and  indecent  escapade  was  aimnlta- 
neouB  with  a  complete  transfer  of  the 
king's  oenfidenoe  from  Alburquerqne 
to  his  brothers  and  the  PadUlas.  The 
minister  preserved  his  dignity  to  the 
last,  and  sent  a  haaghty  but  respectM 
message  to  his  sovereign,  by  the  month 
of  bis  majordomo.  ^  You  know,  sire,*^ 
concluded  this  knight,  Rui  Diaz  Cabeaa 
de  Yaca,  ^'  all  that  Don  Juan  Akmao 
has  done  for  your  snrice,  and  for  that 
ofthe<;ueen  your  mother.  Hebasbeen 
your  chancellor  from  your  birth.  He 
has  always  h^idly  served  you,  as  he 
served  the  late  king  your  father.  For 
you  he  exposed  himself  to  great  per3s, 
when  DoAa  Leonora  de  Guzman,  aad 
her  foction,  had  aU  power  in  the  king- 
dom. My  master  is  stiU  ignorant  of 
the  crimes  imputed  to  him :  make  them 
known  to  him,  and  he  will  refute  them. 
Nevertheless,  if  any  knight  do  doubt 
hia  honour  and  his  loyalty,  I,  his  vassal,, 
am  here  ready  to  defend  him  with  my 
body,  and  with  arms  in  hand."  Thus 
did  the  arrogant  rieo$  hombra  of  the 
fourteenth  century  dare  address  timr 


*  Thi  enohaatweat  of  Don  FmIfo  hy  Maria  PadiUft  is  a  popolur  tradHioa  in  Aa- 
dal«sim,  when  Um  meiiory  of  hoth  ia  y'lJiHj  pwter^d.  It  u  fiurthOT  added,  that 
Maria  FadiUa  wa«  a  ^een  of  the  gifMB — their  bari  cro^tM— oonaeqiie^ly  oobmus- 
aaie  mistieae  of  the  art  of  eonooctijig  philters.  UaforiuBately,  the  gipsies  were 
•carcely  seen  ia  Europe  till  a  century  later.  The  author  of  the  Fremitr$  Viedu  Paf€ 
Immtcent  VI.  gravely  relates  that  Blanche,  having  made  her  husbaad  a  present  of  a 
golden  girdle,  Maria  Padilla,  assisted  by  a  Jew,  a  notorious  sorcerer,  changed  it  into  a 
serpent,  one  day  that  the  king  had  it  on.  The  surprise  of  the  king  and  his  court  may 
he  imagined,  when  the  girdle  began  to  writhe  and  hiss;  whereupon  the  Pfcdillaj^  * 
succeeded  in  persuading  her  lover  that  Blanche  was  a  magician  bent  upon  iT""^ 
him  by  her  aria. — M^ain^  p.  nOl 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


346 


Mermiie's  History  of  Peter  the  Cruel. 


[Marcbf 


sovereign,  by  the  moatii  of  their 
knightly  retainers.  What  a  contrast 
between  these  bold-spoken,  strong- 
armed  maffnates,  and  the  pnny  degene- 
rate grandees  of  the  present  day,  sank 
in  yice,  effeminacy,  and  sloth,  and  to 
whom  yalonr,  chivalry,  and  patriotism 
are  but  empty  sonnds!  Alborqner- 
qne  is  a  fine  type  of  the  feudal  lord — 
noble  as  a  crowned  king,  and  almost 
as  powerfoL  Beceiving  a  cold  and 
discouraging  reply  to  Cabeza  de 
Yaca's  lofty  harangue,  he  retired, 
followed  by  an  army  of  adherents  and 
vassals,  to  his  vast  domains  and  strong 
castle  in  Portugal.  On  their  passage, 
his  men-at-arms  pillaged  and  devas- 
tated the  country,  that  being  then  the 
most  approved  manner  for  a  feudal 
lord  to  testify  his  discontent.  Don 
Pedro  ill  concealed  his  joy  at  being 
thus  easily  rid  of  an  importunate 
mentor,  whose  faithful  services  to 
himself  and  his  father  rendered  a 
positive  dismissal  a  most  ungraceful 
act,  the  shame  of  which  was  saved 
the  king  by  Alburquerque's  voluntary 
retreat.  The  reaction  was  complete : 
all  the  ex-minister^s  friends  were  dis- 
missed, and  their  places  filled  by  par- 
tisans of  the  Padillas.  Many  of  his 
acts  were  annulled,  and  several  sen- 
tences he  had  given  were  reversed. 
Pedro  had  no  rest  till  he  had  effaced 
ever^  vesti^  of  his  wise  and  prudent 
admmistration.  Ingratitude  has  too 
often  been  the  vice  of  kings ;  in  this 
instance  it  brought  its  own  punish- 
ment. A  few  months  later  we  find 
Henry  of  Trastamare,  and  his  brother 
Tello,  leagued  with  Alburquerque 
against  the  sovereign  who  had  dis- 
graced him  in  great  measure  on  their 
account  This  perfidy  of  the  bastards 
was  perfectly  in  keeping  with  the  cha- 
racter of  the  age.  ^^  To  characterise 
the  fourteenth  century  in  Spam  by  its 
most  prevalent  vice,"8aysM.  M^rim^, 
"  one  should  cite,  in  my  opinion,  nei- 
ther brutality  of  manners,  nor  rapa- 
city, nor  violence.  The  most  promi- 
nent feature  of  that  sad  period  is  its 
falseness  and  deceit :  never  did  history 
register  so  many  acts  of  treason  and 
perfidy.  The  century,  rude  in  all 
other  things,  shows  itself  ingenious  in 
the  art  of  deception.  It  revels  in 
subtleties.  In  all  agreements,  and 
even  in  the  code  of  chivalrous  honour, 
it  conceals  ambiguities,  by  which  inte- 


rest knows  wen  how  to  profit.  The 
oaths  lavished  in  all  transactions, 
accompanied  by  the  most  solemn  cere- 
monies, are  but  vain  formalities  and 
matters  of  habit.  He  who  plights  his 
word,  his  hand  upon  the  holy  Scrip- 
tures, is  believed  by  none  unless  he 
deliver  up  his  wife  and  children,  or, 
better  still,  his  fortresses,  as  hostages 
for  lus  truth.  The  latter  pledge  is 
held  to  be  the  only  safe  guarantee. 
Distrust  is  general,  and  every  man 
sees  an  enemy  in  his  neighbour.'*  The 
fidelity  of  this  gloomy  picture  is  fuUy 
confirmed  by  the  events  of  Don  Pedro^a 
reign.  Alburquerque  set  the  ex- 
ample to  his  royal  pupil,  who  was  not 
slow  to  follow  it,  and  who  soon,  in  his 
turn,  suffered  from  the  dominant  vice 
of  the  time. 

The  necessity  of  pressing  forward 
through  a  book  whose  every  page 
offers  temptations  to  linger,  prevents 
our  tracmg,  in  detail,  the  subsequent 
events  of  Alburquerque*s  life.  He 
died  in  the  autumn  of  1354,  ahnost 
suddenly,  at  Medina  del  Campo,  which 
he  and  his  confederates  had  taken  by 
assault,  and  given  up  to  pillage.  His 
physician.  Master  Paul,  an  Italian 
attached  to  the  house  of  Prince  Fer- 
dinand of  Arragon,  was  suspected  of 
having  mixed  a  subtle  poison  in  the 
draught  he  administered  to  him  for  an 
apparently  trifiing  indisposition.  Don 
Pedro,  the  person  most  interested  in 
the  death  of  his  quondam  counsellor, 
and  now  bitter  enemy,  was  accused  of 
instigatmg  the  deed,  and  magnificent 
presents  subsequently  made  by  hun 
to  the  leech,  gave  an  ah*  of  probability 
to  the  suspicion.  **  In  his  last  mo- 
ments, Alburquerque  belied  not  the 
firmness  of  his  character.  Near  to 
death,  he  assembled  his  vassals,  and 
made  them  swear  to  accept  neither 
peace  nor  truce  with  the  king,  till  they 
had  obtained satisfactionfbr  his  wrongs. 
He  ordered  hte  body  to  be  carried  at  * 
the  head  of  their  battalion  so  long  as 
the  war  lasted,  as  if  resolved  to  ab- 
dicate his  hatred  and  authority  only 
after  triumph.  Enclosed  in  his  coflin, 
be  still  seemed  to  preside  over  the  coun- 
cils of  the  league ;  and,  when  delibe- 
rations were  hdd,  his  corpse  was  in- 
terrogated, and  his  majordomo,  Ca- 
beza deVaca,  replied  in  the  name  of  bis 
departed  master.**  There  is  some- 
thmg  solemn  and  affecting  in  this  post- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


M6rwM$  HtMtary  of  Peter  the  Cruel. 


347 


hmnous  deference,  this  homage  paid 
by  the  living  to  the  dead.  Albor- 
qnerqne  was  nnqnestionably  Ae  man 
of  hia  day  in  the  Peninsula:  his  grand 
and  haughty  figure  stands  ont  upon  the 
historicid  canvass,  in  imposing  contrast 
with  the  boy-brawlers  and  intriening 
women  by  whom  he  was  sorronnded. 

Deserted  by  all — ^betrayed  even  by 
his  own  mother,  who  gave  np  his  last 
stronghold  whilst  he  was  absent  on  a 
visit  to  his  mistress — ^the  king  had  no 
resource  but  to  throw  himself  into  the 
hands  of  the  rebels,  trusting  to  their 
magnanimity  and  loyalty  to  preserve 
him  his  crown.  With  Hinestrosa, 
Simuel  Levi  his  Jew  treasurer,  and 
Femand  Sanchez  his  private  chan- 
cellor, for  sole  companions — and  fol- 
lowed by  a  few  lackeys  and  inferior 
officers,  mounted  on  mules  and  un- 
armed— he  set  out  for  Toro,  then  the 
headquarters  of  the  insurgent  league. 
^*  Informed  of  the  approach  of  this 
melancholy  procession,  the  chiefs  of 
the  confederates  rode  out  to  meet  him, 
well  mounted  and  in  magnificent 
dresses,  beneath  which  their  armour 
was  visible,  as  if  to  contrast  then* 
warlike  equipage  with  the  humble 
retinue  ofthe  vanquished  king.  After 
kissing  his  hand,  they  escort^  him  to 
the  town  with  great  cries  of  joy,  cara- 
coling about  him,performingyanto5fa«, 
pursuing  each  other,  and  throwing 
reeds  in  the  Arab  manner.  It  is  said 
that  when  Don  Henry  approached  his 
brother  to  salute  him,  the  unfortunate 
monarch  could  not  restrain  his  tears. 
*  May  God  be  merciful  to  you ! '  he 
said ;  *  for  my  part,  I  pardon  you.' " 
There  was  no  sincerity  in  this  forgive- 
ness; already,  in  the  hour  of  his 
humiliation,  Pedro  had  vowed  hatred 
and  vengeance  against  its  authors. 
At  present,  however,  artifice  and  in- 
trigue were  the  only  weapons  at  his 
disposal.  By  the  assistance  of  Simuel 
the  Jew,  who  was  sincerely  attached 
to  him,  and  who  rendered  him  many 
and  great  services,  he  gained  over  a 
portion  of  the  revolted  nobility,  con- 
cluded an  alliance  with  the  royal 
family  of  Arragon,  and  finally  effected 
his  escape  from  the  sort  of  semi-cap- 
tivity in  which  he  was  held.  **  Profit- 
ing by  dense  fog,  Don  Pedro  rode 
ont  of  Toro  veiy  eariy  in  the  morning, 
a  falcon  on  his  wrist,  as  though  he  went 
a-hawking,  accompanied  by  Levi,  and 


by  his  usual  escort  of  some  two  hundred 
cavaliers.  Either  these  were  bribed, 
or  the  king  devised  means  of  detach- 
ing them  fi^>m  him,  for  he  soon  found 
himself  alone  with  the  Jew.  Then, 
following  the  rout  to  Segovia  at  fall 
speed,  in  a  few  hours  they  were  beyond 
pursuit''  During  the  short  period 
of  Pedro's  captivity,  a  great  change 
had  taken  place  in  public  feeling.  The 
king's  misfortunes,  his  youth  and  firm- 
ness, interested  many  in  hb  behalf.  The 
Cortes,  which  he  summoned  at  Burgos, 
a  few  days  after  his  escape,  granted 
all  his  demands  of  men  and  money. 
M.  M6rim^  thinks  it  probable  the 
commons  obtained  firom  him,  in  return, 
an  extension  of  their  privileges  and 
franchises;  but  this  is  mere  conjecture, 
no  records  existing  of  the  proceedings 
of  this  Cortes,  which  was,  in  fact, 
rendered  irregular  by  the  absence  of 
the  clerical  deputies,  the  Pope  hav- 
ing iust  excommunicated  Don  Pedro 
for  his  adulteries.  "  The  excommu- 
nication, fulminated  by  a  papal  legate 
at  Toledo,  the  19th  January  1355, 
does  not  appear  to  have  altered,  in 
any  degree,  the  disposition  of  the 
people  towards  the  king.  On  the 
contrary,  it  excited  indignation,  now 
that  he  was  reconciled  with  his  sub- 
jects ;  for  Spaniards  have  always  dis- 
liked foreign  interference  in  their 
affairs."  The  thunders  of  Avignon  lost 
not  Pedro  a  single  partisan.  He 
replied  to  them  by  seizing  the  pos- 
sessions of  Cardinal  Gilles  Albomoz, 
and  of  some  other  prelates ;  and,  return- 
ing threat  for  threat,  he  announced 
his  intention  of  confiscating  the  do- 
mains of  all  the  bishops  who  should 
waver  between  him  and  the  Pope. 
The  rebellion  of  his  nobles,  the  treason 
of  his  mother  and  friends,  the  humi- 
liation he  had  suffered,  had  wrought 
a  marked  change  in  the  still  plastic  cha- 
racter of  the  young  sovereign.  Hither- 
to we  have  seen  him  violent  and  impe- 
tuous ;  henceforward  we  shall  find  dis- 
simulation and  cruelty  his  most  pro- 
minent qualities.  He  had  prided  him- 
self on  chivalrous  loyalty  and  honour ; 
now  all  means  were  good  that  led  to  a 
triumph  over  his  enemies.  Full  of 
hatrea  and  contempt  fbr  the  great 
vassals  who,  after  having  insolently 
vanquished  him,  basely  sold  the  fruits 
of  their  victory  for  fair  promises  and 
for  Shnuel  Levi's  gold,  he  vowed  Xo 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


348 


MariaMM  Hktor^  ^  P^^  At  OmtL 


[March, 


destroy  tMr  power,  md  to  bnld  np 
his  Mtthorit^  vegicm.  the  rnims  of  UnAaX 

The  «Bgi7  idmg  lost  mo  Ua^  m 
comnenciiig  the  woriL  of  Teageaaoe. 
After  a  fierce  contest  in  and  aroud 
Toledo,  he  rotited  the  annj  of  Conat 
Henry  and  Dcm  Fadriqne,  slew  all 
the  woonded,  pat  to  death  one  of  the 
twenty  leagaers,  whom  he  cangkt  in 
the  town,  (two  had  afaready  been  mas- 
sacred hj  his  order  at  Medina  del 
Gampo,)  imprisoned  many  nobles,  as 
wdi  as  the  Bishop  of  SigUensa,  whose 
palace  was  given  np  to  pillage. 
"  Twenty  bnrgesses  of  Toledo  were 
pnblidy  decapitated  as  abettors  of  the 
rebelliott.  Amongst  the  nnfortnnate 
persons  condemned  to  death  was  a 
jewdler,  upwards  of  eighty  years  oid. 
His  Boa  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of 
Don  Pedro,  petitioning  to  die  in  place 
of  his  father.  If  we  may  credit  Ay^la, 
this  horrible  exchange  was  accepted 
botb  by  the  king  and  by  the  father 
himself."  From  Toledo,  Pedro  marched 
OB  Tore,  where  the  bastards,  the 
qneen-motfaer,  and  most  of  the  rieos 
J9ombre9  and  knights  who  adhered  to 
the  league,  had  concentrated  their 
forces,  and  prepared  an  obstinate  re- 
sistance. He  established  himself  in  a 
Tillage  near  the  town,  but  lacked  the 
engines,  instruments,  and  stores  ne- 
cessary to  invest  the  place  regularly. 
Money  was  scarce.  Fortunately, 
Simnel  Levi  was  at  hand,  the  pearl  of 
finance  ministers,  compared  to  whom 
the  Mods  and  M^xiizabals  of  the 
nineteenth  century  are  bunglers  of 
the  most  feeble  description. 

"  Don  Pedro,  in  iiis  quarters  at 
Morales,  was  amusing  himself  one  day 
by  playing  at  dice.  Before  him  stood 
open  his  mlliUry  chest,  which  was 
also  his  play-purse.  It  contained 
20,000  doubloons.  *  Gold  and  silver,' 
said  the  kinff,  in  a  melancholy  tone, 
— '  here  is  aU  I  possess.*  The  game 
over,  Simnel  took  his  master  a^de: 
^  Sire/  be  said,  «  you  have  affironted 
me  before  all  the  court  Since  I  am 
your  treasorer,  is  it  not  disgraeefid 
for  me  that  my  master  be  not  richer? 
Hitherto,  yonr  oollectoni  have  re- 
lied too  much  upon  3rour  easiness 
and  indalgenoe.  Now  that  you  are 
of  an  age  to  reign  Inr  yourself,  that  a& 
Castile  levee  and  feaia  you,  it  is  time 
to  wt  an  end  to  dieorder.    Only  be 


pleased  to  airthorfse  me  to  iveai  wMt 
3F0ur  (^ceia  ef  the  finanoes,  and  con- 
fide to  me  two  of  yoor  caalta,  and  I 
pledge  mysdf  Hm^  in  a  very  short 
time,  yen  shall  have  in  eadi  of  Aem 
a  treasure  of  greater  vahm  than  tiie 
oontente  of  this  casket*"  The  king 
gladly  gvre  what  was  reqniredof  him, 
and  tlM  Jew  kept  his  word.  His 
manner  of  doing  00  painto  the  strange 
immorality  of  the  times.  It  was  cus- 
tomary to  pay  aU  court  eakriee  and 
pensions  by  evden  on  the  royal  re- 
ceivers of  imposts.  These  usually 
paid  only  a  part  of  the  araonnt  of 
such  orders,  and  unless  tlie  demand 
for  the  balaiwe  were  bndced  by  force, 
it  was  never  henonred.  Sinuel  Levi, 
having  men-at-arms,  jailers,  and  exe- 
cutimiers  at  bis  orders,  compelled 
these  rductant  paymasters  to  disgorge 
all  arrears ;  thai  sending  for  the 
king*s  creditOTi,  he  offered  them  fifty 
per  cent  of  their  due  against  receipts 
for  the  whole.  Most  m  them,  never 
expecting  to  recover  a  real  of  the 
sums  kc^  ba^  by  the  didionest 
stewards,  caught  eageriy  at  the  offer. 
This  clumsy  fraud,  against  which 
none  found  anything  to  say,  brought 
considerable  weidth  into  the  king's 
coffers,  and  gave  him  the  highest  opi- 
nion ef  his  treasm-er,  by  whose  care- 
ful administration  he  soon  found  hhn* 
self  the  richest  monarch  in  Spain. 

Money  removed  the  obstacles  to 
the  siege  of  Tore.  Before  the  place 
was  invested,  however,  Henry  o€ 
Trastamare,  widi  his  nsual  precodoos 
selfishness  and  prudence,  fomid  a  pre- 
text to  leave  it.  A  breach  made,  and 
part  of  the  exterior  fortifications  in 
the  possession  of  the  royal  troops,  the 
Master  of  Santiago  passed  over  to  the 
king,  who,  fin)m  the  opposite  bank  of 
the  Domt),  had  given  him  verbal  pro* 
mise  of  pardon.  The  same  night  an 
officer  of  the  civic  guard  opei]^  the 
gates  <A  the  town  to  Pedro  and  his 
army.  At  daybreak  the  garrison  of 
the  castle  saw  themselves  surrounded 
by  overpowering  forces,  about  to 
mount  to  the  assault.  ^  None  s^oke 
of  resistance,  or  even  of  capitulation ; 
safety  of  life  was  almost  more  than 
they  dared  hope.  Fearing  the  king's 
fury,  all  refosed  to  go  out  and  implore 
his  demen^.  At  last  a  Navarrese 
knight,  naaMd  Martin  Abarea,  who 
in  the  last  treiAta  had  tatai  part 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Itt9w] 


MkwM€  Bkiorf9fP^iar  Om  Qmd. 


wUk  tha  bMterdtt,  Mk64  likoMif  al  a 
pwteni^  bold  tag  in  his  arais  a  cbild 
of  twelve  or  tUrteea  yeara,  natural 
son  <tf  KingAlpboDM  and  of  Dolla 
LeoBora.  BeeogDiaiag  the  king  bj 
hia  armow,  be  called  to  him  and  said 
— *Sbrel  giant  B6  pardoB,  aad  I  has- 
ten to  throw  nyself  at  joar  feet,  and 
Co  restore  to  yon  yonr  iMOtber  Don 
JoanT^'  Martin  Abarea,'  said  the 
king,  '  I  j^don  my  brother  Don 
Jaan;  but  for  yon,  no  mei^r — 
*  Well  I'  said  the  NaYanresOf  crosBiag 
the  ditch,  *  do  with  me  as  yon  list* 
Andf  still  carrying  the  child,  he  pro- 
strated himself  before  the  king.  Don 
Pedr<s  touched  by  this  hardihood  of 
despair,  gave  him  his  life  in  presence 
of  all  his  knights***  This  demeocy 
was  soon  •  obscmred  by  the  terrible 
scenes  that  followed  the  snnrender  oi 
the  castle,  when  the  robe  of  Pedro's 
own  mother  was  stained  with  the 
blood  of  the  nobles  struck  down  by 
h&t  side,  ^le  fainted  with  horror — 
perhi^  with  grief;  for  Martin  Telho, 
a  Portngnese,  and  her  repnted  lover, 
was  aaaongst  the  murdered ;  and,  on 
recovering  her  senses,  ^^  she  saw  her- 
sdf  sastiuAed  In  the  arms  of  mde 
soldiers,  her  feet  in  a  pool  of  blood, 
whilst  foar  mangled  bodies  lay  before 
ber,  already  stripped  of  their  armonr 
and  dotbea.  Then,  despaur  and  fdry 
restoring  her  strength,  she  cursed  her 
SOB,  in  a  Toice  broken  by  sobs,  and 
acGOsed  him  of  having  for  ever  dis- 
lumoiured  her.  She  wss  led  away  to 
her  palace,  and  there  treated  with  the 
mockery  of  respect  which  the  leaguers 
had  shown,  the  year  before,  to  their 
royal  captive." 

It  were  qaite  inc(Mnpatible  with  the 
necessary  limits  of  this  paper,  to  give 
even  the  most  meagre  outline  of  the 
numerons  vicissitudes  of  Don  Pedro's 
reign,  and  to  glance  at  a  tithe  of  the 
remarkaUe  events  and  striking  incl- 
d<uits  his  biographer  has  so  indus- 
triously and  tast^hlly  assembled. 
M.  Mi6rim^*s  work  does  not  bear 
condensing  in  a  review ;  indeed,  it  is 
itself  a  condmsation:  an  ordinary 
writer  would  ha^e  spread  the  same 
matter  over  twice  the  space,  and  still 
have  deemed  himself  concise.  The 
impression  left  on  the  reader's  mind 
by  this  spirited  and  admirably  written 
volume  IS,  that  not  one  page  could  be 
omitted  withoutbeinfmiased.  Sparing 


349 

as  we  have  been  ef  detail,  and  siihouij^ 
ooofiniag  enrsdves  to  a  glanee  at 
pramiaeut  dreamstaaces,  wa  are  still 
at  the  very  GomoBencement  of  Don 
Pedro's  reign — the  busiest  and  most 
stirring,  perhaps,  that  ever  was  com* 
prised  within  the  space  of  twenty 
years.  Not  a  few  of  this  warlike, 
crud,  and  amorous  monarch's  adven* 
tares  have  been  handed  down  in  the 
form  of  ballads  and  heroic  legends, 
still  enrreat  in  southern  Spain,  where 
msny  of  them  have  the  weight  of  his- 
tory— although  the  lieense  of  poetry, 
and  the  transmission  through  many 
generations,  have  irequently  greatly 
distorted  facts.  Amongst  the  nume- 
rous ol^ts  <tf  his  fiddle  passion  was 
Dofia  Aldonza  Corond,  who,  after 
some  diow  of  resistance,  and  taking 
refuge  for  a  while  in  a  convent  where 
her  sister  was  nun,  showed  herself 
seasible  to  the  solidtatioBS  of  royalty. 
Popular  tradition  has  substituted  for 
Aldonsa  her  sist^  Maria,  widow  of 
Juan  de  la  Cerda,  whom  Pedro  had 
pat  to  death.  The  people  of  Seville 
the  Beautiful  still  believe  and  tdl 
how  ^'  Do&a  Maria,  chaste  as  lovely, 
indignantly  r^ulsed  the  king's  ad- 
dreiees.  But  in  vain  did  she  oppose 
the  gratings  of  the  ccmvent  of  St 
Clara  as  a  bulwark  against  the  impe- 
tuous passion  of  the  tyrant.  Warned 
that  his  satellites  were  about  to  drag 
her  from  the  sanctuary,  she  ordered  a 
lai^  hole  to  be  dug  in  the  convent 
ga^en,  in  which  she  lay  down,  and 
had  herself  covered  with  branches  and 
earth.  The  fresh-turned  soil  would 
infallibly  hare  betrayed  her,  had  not 
a  mirade  supervened.  Scarcdy  had 
she  entered  this  manner  of  tomb, 
when  flowers  and  herbage  sprang  up 
over  it,  so  that  noUung  distinguished 
it  from  the  surrounding  grass.  The 
king,  discrediting  the  report  of  his 
emissaries,  went  in  person  to  the  con- 
vent to  carry  off  the  beautiful  widow ; 
this  time  it  was  not  a  mirade,  but  an 
heroic  stratagem,  that  saved  the  noble 
matron.  Abhorring  the  fatal  beauty 
that  thus  exposed  her  to  outrage,  she 
seized,  with  a  steady  hand,  a  vase  of 
boiling  oil,  and  poured  it  over  her 
face  and  bosom ;  then,  covered 
with  horrible  bums,  she  presented 
herself  to  the  king,  and  made 
him  fly  in  terror,  by  declaring 
handf  afflicted  with  l^urosy.    ^^^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


350 


MiarimW$  HiMlory  of  Peter  the  Cf%d. 


[Mardi, 


her  body,  which  has  been  miraca- 
lously  preserved,'  says  Zniiiga,  *  are 
still  visible  the  traces  of  the  bnniing 
liquid,  and  assuredly  it  may  with 
good  reason  be  deemed  the  body  of 
a  saint'*  I  have  dwelt  upon  this 
legend,  unknown  to  the  cotemporaiy 
authors,"  adds  M.  M^m^,  "  to  give 
an  idea  of  the  transformation  Don 
Pedro's  history  has  undergone  at  the 
hands  of  tradition,  and  of  the  poetical 
colours  imparted  to  it  by  the  lively 
imagination  of  the  people  of  Spain. 
After  the  marvellous  narrative,  comes 
the  simple  truth  of  history."  Ballads 
and  traditions  are  echoes  of  the  po- 
pular voice ;  and,  in  many  of  those 
relating  to  Don  Pedro,  we  may  trace 
a  disposition  to  extenuate  his  faults, 
extol  his  justice,  and  bring  into  relief 
his  occasional  acts  of  generosity. 
The  truth  is,  that,  although  harsh  and 
relentless  with  his  arrogant  nobles,  he 
was  afifablewith  the  people,  who  beheld 
•in  him  their  deliverer  from  oppression, 
and  the  unflinchmg  opponent  of  the 
iniquities  of  the  feudal  system.  Fa- 
cility of  access  is  a  great  source  of 
popularity  in  Spain,  where  the  inde- 
pendent tone  and  bearing  of  the 
lower  orders  often  surprise  foreigners. 
In  no  country  in  the  world  is  the 
character  of  the  people  more  free  from 
servility.  In  the  poorest  peasant 
there  is  an  air  of  native  dignity  and 
self-ren>ect,  which  he  loves  to  see 
responded  to  by  consideration  and 
affability  on  the  part  of  his  superiors. 
Don  Pedro  was  very  accessible  to  his 
subjects.  When  he  met  his  first 
Cortes  at  Valladolid,  in  1851,  he 
promised  the  deputies  of  the  commons 
that  every  Castilian  should  have  li- 
berty to  appeal  frx>m  the  decisions  of 
the  magistrates  to  the  king  in  person. 
This  promise  he  kept  better  than  was 
his  wont.  In  the  court  of  the  Alcazar 
at  Seville,  near  the  gate  known  as 
that  of  the  Banners,  are  shown  the 
remains  of  a  tribunal,  in  the  open  air, 
where  he  sat  to  give  his  judgments. 
He  had  another  habit  llkelyto  conciliate 
and  please  the  people.  In  imitation 
of  the  Eastern  caliphs,  whose  adven- 


tures had  doubtless  amused  his  child- 
hood, he  loved  to  disguise  himself, 
and  to  ramble  at  night  in  the  streets 
of  Seville — to  listen  to  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  populace,  to  seek  adven- 
tures, and  overlook  the  police.  Here 
was  a  suggestive  text  for  balUdists 
and  romance  writers,  who  have  largely 
availed  themselves  of  it.  The  story  of 
Don  Pedro's  duel  with  a  stranger,  with 
whom  he  quarrelled  on  one  of  these 
expeditions,  is  well  known.  An  old 
woman,  sole  witness  of  the  encounter, 
deposed  that  the  combatants  had 
their  faces  muffled  in  their  cloaks, 
but  that  the  knees  of  one  of  them 
made  a  cracking  noise  in  walking. 
This  was  known  to  be  a  peculiarity 
of  Don  Pedro's.  Justice  was  puzzled. 
The  king  had  killed  his  adversary, 
and  had  thereby  incurred  the  punish- 
ment of  decapitation.  Pedro  had  his 
head  carved  in  stone,  and  placed  in  a 
niche  in  the  street  where  the  duel 
had  taken  place.  The  bust,  which  was 
nnfortunately  renewed  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  is  still  to  be  seen  at 
Seville,  in  the  street  of  the  Candilejo, 
which  takes  its  name,  according  to 
ZuAiga,  from  the  lamp  by  whose  light 
the  duel  was  fought.  Condemned  at 
his  own  tribunal,  we  need  not  wonder 
at  the  lenity  of  his  sentence,  more 
creditable  to  the  royal  culprit's  in- 
vention than  to  his  justice.  He  ap- 
pears to  have  been  frequently  ingeni- 
ous in  his  judgments.  A  rich  priest 
had  seriously  injured  a  poor  shoe- 
maker, and,  for  sole  punishment,  was 
condemned  by  the  ecclesiastical  tri- 
bunal to  a  f^w  months'  suspension 
from  his  sacerdotal  frmctions.  The 
shoemaker,  deeming  the  chastisemrat 
inadequate,  waylaid  his  enemy,  and 
soundly  drubbed  him.  Arrested  im- 
mediately, he  was  condemned  to  death. 
He  appealed  to  the  king.  The  partiality 
of  the  ecclesiastical  judges  had  excited 
some  scandal ;  Don  Pedro  parodied 
their  sentence  by  condemning  the 
shoemaker  to  make  no  shoes  for  one 
year.  Whether  this  anecdote  be  tme, 
or  a  mere  invention,  it  is  certain  that 
a  remarkable  law  was  added,  about 


*  ZuNiGA,  AnaU$  de  S^tUla.^^'  The  people  Bay,  that  Maria  Coronel,  punned  by 
Don  Pedro,  in  the  subari)  of  Triana,  plunged  her  head  into  a  pan  in  which  a  gipsy 
was  cooking  fritters.  I  was  shown  the  house  in  fh)nt  of  which  the  incident  occurred, 
and  I  was  desired  to  remark,  as  an  incontrovertible  proof,  that  it  is  still  inhabited  by 
gipsies,  whose  kitdien  is  in  the  open  streef'^MtfaiMiht,  p.  247. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC^ 


1849.] 


Mirmk's  HUtary  of  Peter  the  Cruel. 


that  time,  to  the  code  of  the  city  of 
Seville,  to  the  effect  that  a  layman, 
iDJaiinganecclesiastio,  Bhoald  thence- 
forward be  liable  only  to  the  same 
Sunishment  that  the  priest  wonld 
aye  incurred  by  a  like  offence 
against  the  layman. 

The  mnrder  of  the  Grand-master  of 
Santiago,  slain  by  his  brother's  order, 
and  the  death  of  the  nnfortonate 
French  princess,  who  fonnd  a  tyrant 
where  she  expected  a  husband,  are 
recorded  in  the  Romances  of  the 
Master  Don  Fadriqae,  and  of  Blanche 
de  Bourbon.  The  fate  of  Blanche, 
attributed  by  contemporary  chroni- 
clers and  modem  historians  to  Don 
Pedro^s  orders,  is  one  of  the  blackest 
of  the  stains  upon  his  character.  The 
poor  queen  died  in  the  castle  of  Jerez 
— some  say  by  poison,  others  by  the 
mace  of  an  arbalister  of  the  guard. 
She  had  lived  but  twenty-five  years, 
ten  of  which  she  had  passed  in  prison. 
There  is  no  appearance  or  probability 
that  Maria  PadiUa  instigated  her 
assassination.  That  favourite  was 
kind-hearted  and  merciful,  and  on 
more  than  one  occasion  we  find  her 
interceding  with  the  king  for  the 
lives  of  his  enemies  and  prisoners, 
and  weeping  when  her  supplications 
proved  fruitless.  The  ballad  makes 
free  with  fact,  and  sacrifices  truth  to 
poetry.  It  was  dramatically  correct 
that  the  mistress  should  instigate  the 
wife's  death.  **  Be  not  so  sad,  Dofla 
Maria  de  Padilla,**  sa3rs  the  king; 
"  if  I  married  twice,  it  was  for  your 
advantage,  and  to  show  my  contempt 
for  this  Blanche  of  Bourbon.  I  send 
her  to  Medina  Sidonia,  to  work  me  a 
banner—the  sround,  colour  of  her 
blood,  the  embroidenr,  of  her  tears. 
This  banner,  DoBa  Maria,  I  will  have 
it  made  for  you:''  and  forthwith  the 
ruthless  arbalister  departs,  after  a 
knight  had  reused  to  do  the  felon  deed. 
•*0h  France,  my  noble  countiy!  oh  my 
Bourbon  blood  I"  cries  poor  Blanche ; 
"to-day  I  complete  my  seventeen 
years,  and  enter  my  eighteenth. 
What  have  I  done  to  you,  Castile  ? 
The  crowns  you  gave  me  were  crowns 
of  blood  and  sighs !"  And  thus  she 
laments  till  the  mace  falls,  "  and  the 
brains  of  her  head  are  strewed  about 
the  hall."  The  song-writer,  amongst 
other  liberties,  has  struck  eight  years 
off  the  victim's  age,  perhaps  with  the 

VOL.  LTV.— wo.  COCCI. 


861 

idea  of  rendering  her  more  interesting. 
The  exact  manner  of  her  death  seems 
uncertain,  although  AyaJa  agrees 
with  the  ballad,  and  most  subsequent 
historians  have  followed  his  version. 
M.  M^rim^  is  disposed  to  exculpate 
Pedro,  alleging  the  complete  inuti- 
lity  of  the  murder,  and  that  ten  years 
of  captivity  and  ill  treatment  were 
sufficient  to  account  for  the  queen's 
death.  Admitting  the  latter  plea,  we 
cannot  see  in  it  a  diminution  of  the 
crime.  In  either  case  Pedro  was  the 
murderer  of  his  hapless  wife,  who  waa 
innocent  of  all  offence  against  him;  and 
his  extraordinaiy  aversion  for  whom 
might  well  give  rise,  in  that  superstitious 
age,  to  the  tales  of  sorcery  and  magic 
charms  already  quoted.  The  details 
of  Don  Fadrique's  death  are  more 
precise  and  authentic,  as  it  was  also 
more  merited.  But,  although  the 
Master  of  Santiago  had  been  guilty 
of  manv  acts  of  treason,  and  at  the 
time  of  his  death  was  conspiring 
against  the  king,  his  execution  by  a 
brother's  order,  and  l^fore  a  brother's 
^ye&y  is  shocking  and  repugnant.  It 
was  Don  Fadrique's  policy,  at  that 
moment,  to  parade  the  utmost  devo- 
tion to  Pedro,  the  better  to  mask  his 
secret  plans.  Arriving  one  day  at 
Seville,  on  a  visit  to  the  king,  he 
found  the  latter  playing  at  draughts 
with  a  courtier.  True  to  his  habits  of 
dissimulation,  Pedro,  who  only  a  few 
hours  previously  had  decided  on  the 
Master's  death,  received  him  with  a 
frank  air  and  pleasant  smUe,  and  gave 
him  his  hand  to  kiss ;  and  then,  seeing 
that  he  was  well  attended,  bade  him 
take  up  bis  quarters,  and  then  re- 
turn. After  visiting  Maria  PadiUa, 
who  gazed  at  him  with  tears  in  her 
eyes, — knowing  his  doom,  but  not 
daring  to  warn  him, — Fadrique  went 
down  into  the  court,  found  his  escort 
gone,  and  the  gates  shut.  Surprised 
and  uneasy,  he  hesitated  what  to  do, 
when  two  knights  summoned  him  to 
the  kuig's  apartments,  in  a  detached 
building  within  the  walls  of  the 
Alcazar. 

**  At  the  door  stood  Pero  Lopet  Padil- 
\%,  chief  of  the  maoe-bearers  of  the 
guard,  with  foar  of  his  people.  Don 
Fadriqae,  still  aocorapanied  by  the  Master 
of  CaUtraya  (Diego  Padilla)  knocked  at 
the  door.  Only  one  of  its  folds  opened, 
and  within  appeared  the  king,  who  forth- 
I 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


852 


MermMi  ffiftory  ^  Ptttr  tfu  CnmL 


[March, 


with  ttxolainied,  '  Veto  LopM^  urtst  tte 
Master  l'-^' Which  of  the  two,  sire !'  in- 
quired the  officer,  hesitatiog  between  Don 
Fadrique  and  Don  Diego  de  PadillA. 
'The  Master  of  Santiago!'  replied  the 
king  in  a  Toice  of  thunder.  Immediately 
Pero  Lopez,  seizing  Don  Fadriqne's  arm, 
said,  'You  are  my  prisoner.'  Don 
Faibiqne,  astounded,  made  no  resistance  ; 
when  the  king  cried  out,  '  Arbalisters, 
kiU  the  Master  of  Santiago!'  Surprise^ 
and  respect  for  the  red  cross  of  St  James, 
for  aa  instant  fettered  the  men  to  the 
spot.  Then  one  of  the  knights  of  the 
palace,  adyaacing  to  the  door,  said : 
'Traitors!  what  do  you!-  Heud  you 
not  the  king's  command  to  kill  the  Mas- 
ter!' The  arbaUsters  lifted  the  mace, 
when  Don  Fadrique,  Tigoronsly  shaking 
off  the  grasp  of  Pero  Lopez,  sprang  bade 
into  the  court  with  the  intention  of  de- 
fending himself.  But  the  hilt  of  his  sword, 
which  he  wore  under  the  large  mantle  of 
hisorder,  was  entangled  with  the  belt,  and 
he  could  not  draw.  Pursued  by  the 
arbalisters,  he  ran  to  and  fro  in  the 
court,  avoiding  their  blows,  but  unable  to 
get  his  sword  out.  At  last  one  of  the 
king's  ffuards,  named  Nunc  Fernandez, 
struck  nim  on  the  head  with  his  mace, 
and  knocked  him  down;  and  the  three 
others  immediately  showered  their  blows 
upon  the  ftbUen  man,  who  lay  bathed  in 
bis  blood  when  Don  Pedro  came  down 
into  the  court,  seeking  the  knights  of  San- 
tiago, to  slay  them  inth  their  chief." 

Id  the  very  chamber  of  Maria  Pa- 
dilla,  the  assassia-kiiig  gave  wii;h  his 
own  hand  the  first  staJt)  to  his  brother's 
esquire,  who  had  taken  refuge  there. 
Leaving  the  ensanguined  boudoir, 
(Maria  Padilla's  apartments  in  the 
Alcazar  were  a  sort  of  harem,  where 
much  oriental  pomp  was  observed,) 
he  returned  to  the  Master,  and  find- 
ing he  stiU  breathed,  he  gave  his  dag- 
ger to  an  African  slave  to  despatch 
him.  Then  he  sat  down  to  dinner  in 
an  apartment  two  paces  distant  from 
his  Iwother's  corpse. 

It  is  a  relief  to  turn  frx)m  acts  of 
such  unnatural  barbarity  to  the  traits 
of  chivalrous  generosiiy  that  ^Mrkle, 
at  long  intervals,  it  Is  true,  upon  the 
dark  background  of  Pedro's  char- 
acter. One  of  these,  connected  with 
a  shiffularlv  romantic  incident,  is  at- 
tested by  Alonzo  Martinez  de  Tala- 
vera,  chaplain  of  John  IL  of  Castile, 
a  chronicler  M.  M^rim^  is  disposed 
to  hold  in  high  esteem.  In  one  of 
his  campaigns  against  his  rebellions 


brethren  and  their  Arragonese  allies, 
the  king  laid  s^ge  to  the  castle  dT 
Cabezon,  belonging  to  Count  Trasta* 
mare ;  and  whose  governor,  summon- 
ed to  yu^d,  refused  even  to  pariey. 

^  Yet  the  whole  garrison  of  the  castle 
consisted  but  of  ten  esquires,  CastUian 
exiles ;  but  behind  thick  and  lofty  walls, 
in  a  tower  built  on  perpendicular  rocks, 
and  against  which  battering  engines  could 
not  be  brought,  ten  resolute  men  might 
defend  themselres  against  an  army,  and 
need  only  yield  to  famine.  The  place 
being  well  prorisioned,  the  siege  was 
likely  to  be  long.  But  the  ten  esquires^ 
all  young  men,  were  better  able  bravely 
to  repulse  an  assault  than  patiently  to 
endure  the  tedium  of  a  blockjtde.  Tim* 
hung  heayy  upon  their  hands,  they  wanted 
amusement,  and  at  last  they  insolently 
insisted  that  the  governor  should  giye 
them  women  to  keep  them  company  in 
their  eyrie*  Now,  the  only  women  in 
Cabezon  were  the  goyemor's  wife  and 
daughter.  '  If  you  do  not  deliTer  them 
to  u^  to  be  dealt  with  ae  we  list,'  said  the 
garrison  to  the  goTemor,  'we  abandon 
yonr  castle,  or,  better  still,  we  open  its 
gate  to  the  King  of  Castile  !'  In  such 
an  emergency,  the  code  of  chiralrous 
honour  was  stringent.  At  the  siege  of 
Tarifa,  Alonzo  Perez  de  Guzman,  sum- 
moned to  surrender  the  town,  under  pen- 
alty of  seeing  his  son  massacred  before 
his  eyes,  answered  the  Moors  by  throw- 
ing them  his  sword,  wherewith  to  slay 
the  child.  This  action,  which  procured 
the  gOTemor  of  Tariftb  the  surname  of 
Guzman  the  Good,  was  a  foMSia  (an 
exploit)— one  of  those  heroic  preced^ts 
which  eyery  man  of  hononr  was  bound 
to  imitate.  PermiUUur  honUcidium 
JUii  potius  quam  deditio  ccukUi,  is  the 
axiom  of  a  doctor  in  chivalry  of  that 
epoch.  The  governor  of  Cabezon,  as  mag- 
nanimous in  his  way  as  Guzman  the 
Good,  so  arranged  matters  that  his  gar- 
rison no  longer  tiiought  of  abandoning 
him.  But  two  of  the  esquires,  less  cor- 
rupt than  their  comrades,  conceived  % 
horror  of  their  treason,  and  escaped  from 
the  castle.  Led  before  the  k&g,  they 
informed  him  of  the  mutiny  they  had 
witnessed,  and  of  its  consequences.  Don 
Pedro,  indignant,  forthwith  entreated  the 
governor  to  let  him  do  justice  on  the 
offenders.  In  exchange  for  those  felons, 
he  offered  ten  gentlemen  of  his  army, 
who,  before  entering  Cabezon,  should  take 
a  solemn  oath  to  defend  the  <»8tle  against 
all  assailants,  even  against  the  king  him- 
self, and  to  die  at  tiheir  posts  witti  the 
governor.  This  proposal  having  been  ao- 
eepted,  the  kinghad  tb»  tiiiioni  qoaitered, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


Idid  J  MMmi^  Ektmy  of  PeUr  «Jb  Qrml.  d58 

BBdtiieirrMuiiivwsftafterwftffdsbiinied.  Pedro,  ignonuit  of  the  fesonrcee  of 

Throoi^  the  oelous  with  which  »  le-  trade,  coald   net   believe   that   his 

mantio  imAginaiion  has  idomtd  this  in-  .treaBuer  had  grown  rich  otherwise 

ddent,  it  18  d^oH  to  Mpuft*  truth  than  at  his  expense.    Sinraers  pro- 

from  fiction  5  Imt  we  at  least  difltingniah  j^^^^  ^^  aelMd  ^  then    as  ha  was 

Iha  fopalar  aj^on  of  the  eharaoUr  of  S^^  ^ywfj;«^^l«!S«wi  T^ 

l)wi^^S^O'-r!imDgfi  amalcaaatioii  of  an^pected  of  haying   concealed  the 

efai^lioo.  sentio^  and  %»f  lofT  of  f^  P«rt  of  his  treasures,  he  was 

Jnstioe,  carried  tofeiocity."  taken  to  SeyiUe  and  put  to  the  tor- 
ture, under  which  he  expired.    The 

There  was  very  little  justice,  or  king  is  said  to  haye  found  in  his 

gratitude  either,  in  the  king's  treat-  coffers  large  sums  of  gold  and  silver, 

ment  of  his  Jew   treasurer.     Don  besides  a  quantity  of  jewels  and  rich 

l%nud  el  Levi,*  Israelite  though  he  stufb,  all  of  which  he  confiscated.    A 

was,  had  proved  himself  a  stancher  sum  of  300,000  doubloons  was  also 

friend  and  more  loyaf  sulject  than  found  in  the  hands  of  Slmuel's  rela- 

any  Christian  of  Pedro^s  court.    He  tives,   receivers   under   his   orders : 

bad  borne  him  company  in  his  cap-  this  proceeded  from  the  taxes,  whose 

tivlty^had   aided   his  escape — had  c<dlection  was  intrusted  to  him,  and 

renovated  his  finances— had  been  his  was  about  to  be  paid  into  the  king's 

minister,   treasiffer,  and   confidant,  exchequer.     There  is  reason  to  be- 

Buddenly  SImuel  was  thrown   into  lieve,  adds  M.  M^rim^,  that  Levi, 

prison.      On   the   same   day,    and  like  Jacques  CoBur  a  century  later, 

tiiroughout  the  kingdom,  his  lunsmen  was  the  victim  of  the  ignorance  and 

and  agents  were  all  arrested.    His  cupidity  of  a  master  he  had  faithfully 

crime    was   his  prodigious   wealth.  served.t 

*  We  hare  9Snmdj  adrvrted  to  the  religioiui  idenoce  of  the  time,  and  to  the 
Intermixtuie  of  MmwmlmanH  and  Chrietianfl  :  M.  Mtfrim^  gires  some  onrioos  detailfi 
on  this  subject.  The  nobility  of  Castile  made  no  difficulty  to  grant  the  Don  to  the 
Moorish  cavaliers,  and  the  rich  Jew  bankers  obtained  the  same  distinction,  then  Tery 
raze  amongst  the  Christians  themselyes.  Thus  Ayala,  the  chronicler,  spei^  of  Don 
Faraxy  D<m  Simuel,  Don  Rwinan,  &c. ;  although  of  Spaniards  he  gives  the  Don  only 
to  the  princes  of  the  blood,  to  a  few  very  powerfbl  rieoi  hambrei,  to  certain  great 
ofiLoen  of  the  crown>  and  to  the  masters  of  the  mHitary  orders  of  knights.  The  An- 
dalnsian  Moors  were  frequently  treated  as  equals  by  the  chevaUers  St  Castile ;  but 
this  is  fkr  less  astonishing  than  that  the  Jews  should  have  attained  to  high  honours 
and  office.  Pedro,  however,  seems  always  to  hare  had  a  leaning  towards  them,  and 
tiie  Israelites,  on  their  part,  invariably  supported  him*  He  was  more  than  once,  in 
tiie  latter  part  of  his  reign,  heard  to  say  that  the  Moors  and  Hebrews  wese  his  only  loyal 
subjects.  At  Miranda,  on  the  Ebro,  in  1 360,  the  pooulaoe,  stirred  up  by  Henry  of  Tras- 
tainare,  massacred  the  Jews,  and  pillaged  their  dwellings.  The  object  of  the  Count 
was  to  oompromise  the  towiispe<9le,  and  thus  to  attach  £em  indissolubly  to  his  cause. 
When  Pedro  arriredy  he  had  the  ringleaders  of  the  riot  arrested;  and,  in  his  presence, 
the  unhappy  wretdies  were  burned  aliye,  or  boiled  in  immense  cauldrons.  Obsolete 
laws  were  rerivod,  to  justify  these  terrible  executions  ;  but  the  crime  of  the  offenders 
was  forgotten  in  the  horror  excited  by  such  barbarous  punishments.  It  was  just 
after  these  scenes  of  cruelty  that  a  priest,  coming  from  Santo-Domingo  de  la  Calaada^ 
eisved  private  andionee  of  the  king,  *  Sire,'  said  he,  *  my  Lord  Saint  Dominick  has 
appeared  to  me  in  a  dream,  bidding  me  warn  you  that,  if  you  do  not  amend  your  life, 
Don  Henry,  your  Inrother,  will  slay  you  wi^  his  own  hand.'  This  prophecy,  on  the 
ere  of  a  battle  between  the  brothers,  was  piobably  the  result  of  fanatical  hatred,  on 
the  part  of  the  ^ieste  towards  a  king  now  generally  accused  of  irreligion.  What- 
ever dictated  it,  Pedro  was  at  first  startled  by  the  prophet's  confident  and  inspired 
air,  but  soon  he  thought  it  was  a  stratagem  of  his  enemies  to  discourage  him  and  his 
troops.  The  priest,  who  persisted  that  his  mission  was  from  St  Dominick,  was 
burned  alive  in  front  of  the  army.— MiniMin,  pp.  55, 290,  299,  &c 

t  '*  According  to  the  interpolator  of  the  chronicle  of  the  D€»f€Kmro  Jtf ofor,  Simuel 
Levi,  whose  death  he  erroneously  fixes  in  the  year  1366,  was  deaonneed  to  the  king 
b^  several  Jews,  envious  of  his  immemie  riches.  Simuel,  on  being  put  to  the  torture, 
died  of  indignation,  *  de  j^mro  eorage^*  says  the  anonymous  authoc^  whom  I  copy,  since 
I  cannot  understand  him.  There  were  found,  in  a  vault  beneath  his  house,  three 
piles  of  ^Id  and  silver  liugotei  so  lofty  *  that  a  man  standing  behind  them  was  not 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


3M 

We  hire  dwelt  so  long  npoa  the 
tMi\j  pages  of  this  histofy,  and  hmre 
sooftea  been  led  wstnj  bj  tbe  iote' 
rest  of  tlie  notes  sod  anecdoies  with 
wiiich  tbej  sre  thicklj  strewn,  that 
we  hsTe  left  oonelTes  without  space 
for  a   notice   of   thoae  porti<ms   of 
the   bolkj  Tolume   roost    iikehr  to 
riret  the   attentioa  of  the  Eoglish 
reader.    When    the    Granda  Cam- 
pagme$ — those    foTTDidable    condot^ 
titrif  who,  for  a  time,  maj  be  said  to 
hire    mied  in  France--cn>ssed  the 
Pjrenees  to  fight  for  Henry  of  Trasta- 
mare,  whilst  the  troops  of  EnglAnd 
and  GnjeDne  came  to  the  help  of 
Pedro ;  when  the  great  champions  of 
their   respecdre   ooimtries,  Edward 
the  Black  Prince  and  Bertrand  da 
Gnesclin,  bared  steel  in  the  civil  strife 
of  Spain^ — then  came  the  tog  of  war 
and  fierce  encounter — then  did   the 
tide  of  battle  roll  its  broad  impetnona 
stmo.     For  even  at  that  remote 
period,  altfaoagh  Spain  boasted  a  ra- 
liant  chiraiiy  and  stubborn  men-at- 
arn»s  her  wars  were  often  a  series  of 
skirmishes,  surprises,  treacheries,  and 
camp-intrignes.  rather  than  of  pitched 
battles  in  the  field.    Hie  same  slag- 
gt^haess  and  indolence  on  the  part  of 
Spanish  generals,  so  conspicaoas  at 
the  present  dav,  was  then  frequently 
obserrable.    VVe  read  of  divisions— 
whose   timely    arrival    would   have 
changed  the  fate  of  a  battle— coming 
op  so  slowly  that  their  friends  were 
beaten  brfore  they  appeared ;  of  ge- 
nerals marching  oat,  and  marching 
bac^  again,  without  striking  a  single 
blow;  or  remaining,  for  days  together, 
gazing  at  their   opponents  without 
risking  an  attadL.    Even  then,  the 
Spaniards  were  a  nation  of  guerillas. 
**  Aoooftomed  to  a  war  of  rapid  skir- 
mishac  againal    th«    Moors,   they   had 
adopted  their  mode  of  fighting.    Covered 
with  light  ooats  of  nail,  or  with  doublets 


Mirim^t  Bisiory  cfPOer  He  CrmeL 


[MaItl^ 

•f  quilted  doth,  aMoted  M  fig^  aW 
active  bones,  their  pettmra  (lij^ 
heneaen)  hnkd  their  javelias  at  a  gal* 
lop,  then  toned  bridle,  witboat  earia^ 
to  keep  their  faaki.  With  the  exceptiaa 
of  the  military  orden,  better  armed  aad 
di«eiplined  tkan  the  ^oMlcrira,  the  Spaa 
tih  cavalry  were  onable  to  oier  resis- 
tanee  im  line  to  the  English  or  Fmch 
men-at-arms." 

The  infantry  of  Spain,  afterwards 
esteemed  the  best  in  Europe,  was  at 
that  time  so  lightly  considered  as  to 
be  rarely  enumerated  in  the  strength 
of  an  army.  The  English  footsoldiov, 
on  the  other  hand,  had  already  achiev- 
ed a  brilliant  rqmtatioo.    ^^  Armed 
with    tall  bows  of  yew,"  says  M. 
Merim^  *^  they  sheltered  theinselves 
behind  pointed  stakes  planted  in  the 
ground,  and,  thus  protected  against 
cavalry,  let  fly  arrows  an  eU  long, 
which  few  cuirasses  could  resist."  The 
equipment  of  the  English  cavalry  was 
far  superior  to  that  of  the  Spanish 
horsemen.    Ajala  recapitnlates,  with 
astouidhment,  the  various  pieces  of 
armour  in  use  amongst  those  northern 
warriors.    Plates  of  steel  and  forged 
iron  were  worn  over  jerkins  of  thick 
leather,  and  even  over  shirts  of  mail. 
The  bull-dog  courage  of  the  men  was 
not  less  remarkable  than  the  strength 
of  their  defensive  arms.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  read  of  the  exploits  of  a  hand- 
ful of  English  soldiers  on  the  very 
ground  where,  four  hundred  and  forty- 
six  years  later,  an  army  of  that  nation 
crushed  the  hosts  of  France.     Sir 
Thomas  Felton,  seneschal  of  Guyenne, 
was  attacked,  when  at  a  considerable 
distance  from  the  English  army,  near 
Arifiia,  two  leagues  from  Vitoria,  by 
more  than  three  thousand  French  gen- 
darmes and  Spanish  light  horse. 

^  Felton  had  bat  two  handred  menw^t 
arms,  and  as  many  arehenu  He  loet  not 
courage,  bat  dismoonted  his  cavalry,  and 


seen.'  The  king,  on  bdiolding  this  treasnre,  exclaimed—'  If  Don  Simnel  had  given 
me  the  third  part  of  the  tmallest  of  these  heape,  1  would  not  have  had  him  tortured. 
How  oottld  he  ooaaent  to  die  rather  than  speak  f  Sumario  de  lo$  Reya  de  Etpana, 
p,  7S.    Credat  Jadnos  Apella."— MiauiiE,  p.  817. 

Don  Pedro  was  often  accnsed  of  avarice,  although  it  appears  probable  that  his 
fmdness  of  money  sprang  from  his  experience  of  the  power  it  gave,  and  of  its  abso- 
late  necessity  in  the  wars  in  which  he  was  continually  engaged,  rather  than  from  any 
nbstraot  love  of  gold.  When,  after  his  flight  fVom  Spain  in  1366,  his  treasures  were 
tnltorously  given  up  to  his  rival  by  Admiral  Boccanegra,  who  had  been  charged  to 
cMvtv  them  to  Portugal,  they  amonated  to  thirty-«U  quintals  of  gold,  (sometWng 
Ukf  fborleea  hnndiod  thousand  pounds  sterimg— a  monstrous  sum  in  those  days,) 
beiidas  a  a«aatity  of  jewels. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


M^rimi€'a  History  of  Peter  the  Cruel. 


drew  them  up  on  a  steep  hillock.  His 
brother,  William  Felton,  alone  refused  to 
qait  his  horse.  With  lance  in  rest,  he 
chared  into  the  midst  of  the  Castilians,and 
at  the  first  blow  droTe  his  weapon  com- 
pletely throagh  the  body  and  iron  armour 
of  a  foe ;  he  was  immediately  cat  to  pieces. 
His  comrades,  dosing  round  their  banner, 
defended  themselTes,  for  sereral  hours, 
with  the  courage  of  despair.  At  last  the 
adyenturersjh^ed  by  the  Marshal  d'Au- 
deneham  and  the  B^ue  de  Vilaines,  dis- 
mounted, and,  forming  column,  broke  the 
English  phalanx,  whUst  the  Spanish  ca- 
Talrj  charged  it  in  rear.  All  were  slain 
in  the  first  fury  of  victory,  but  the  heroic 
resistance  of  this  scanty  band  of  English- 
men struck  eren  their  enemies  with  admi- 
ration. The  memory  of  Felton's  glorious 
defeat  is  presenred  in  the  prorince,  where 
is  still  shown,  near  Ariniz,  the  hillock 
upon  which,  after  fighting  an  entire  day, 
be  fell,  coTcred  with  wounds.  It  is  called, 
in  the  language  of  the  country,  IngUs- 
wendi^  the  English  Hill.'' 

This  gallant  bat  uaiaiportant  skir- 
mish  comprised  fwith  the  exception  of 
a  dash  made  by  Don  Tello  at  the  Eng- 
lish foragers,  of  whom  he  killed  a  good 
number)  all  the  fighting  that  took 
place  at  that  time  upon  the  plain  of 
Vitoria;  althoogh  some  historians 
have  made  that  plain  the  scene  of 
the  decisive  battle  fought  soon  after- 
wards, between  Edward  of  England 
and  Don  Pedro  on  the  one  band,  and 
du  Gaesclin  and  Henry  of  Trastamare 
on  the  other.  Toreno  correctly  indi- 
cates the  ground  of  this  action,  which 
occurred  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
Ebro,  between  Najera  and  Navarrete. 
It  is  true  that  the  Prince  of  Wales 
offered  battle  near  Vitoria,  drawing 
up  his  army  on  the  heights  of  Santo 
Bomano,  close  to  the  village  of  Ale- 
gria,  just  in  the  line  of  the  flight  of  the 
French  when  beaten  in  1813.  The 
Prince  did  this  boldly  and  confidently, 
although  anxious  for  the  coming  up 
of  his  rear-guard,  which  was  still  seven 
leagues  off.  **  That  day,"  says  Frols- 
sart,  **  the  prince  had  many  a  pang  in 
bis  heart,  because  his  rear-guard  de- 
layed so  lonff  to  come."  But  the 
enemy  were  m  no  haste  to  attack. 
Only  a  day  or  two  previously,  Don 
Henry  had  assembled  his  captains  in 


85^ 

council  of  war,  '^  to  communicate  to 
them,"  sajTS  M.  M^m^  "  a  letter 
the  King  of  France  had  written  him, 
urging  him  not  to  tempt  fortune  by 
risking  a  battle  against  so  able  a 
general  as  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and 
such  formidable  soldiers  as  the  veteran 
bands  he  commanded.  Bertrand  da 
Guesdin,  Marshal  d^Audeneham,  and 
most  of  the  French  adventurers,  were 
of  the  same  opinion — frankly  declar- 
ing that,  in  regular  battle,  the  English 
were  invincible.  Du  Guesclin's  advice 
was  to  harass  them  by  continual  skir- 
mishes," &C.,  <&c. ;  and  the  result  of 
the  council  was,  that  Don  Henry  re- 
solved to  keep  as  much  as  possible  on 
the  defensive,  and  in  the  mountains, 
where  his  light  troops  had  a  great 
advantage  over  their  enemies,  who 
were  heavily  armed,  and  unaccustomed 
to  a  gueriUa  warfore.  It  had  been 
well  for  him  had  he  adhered  to  this 
resolution,  instead  of  allowing  himself 
to  be  carried  away  b^  his  ardour,  and 
by  the  confidence  with  which  a  suc- 
cessful skirmish  had  inspired  him. 
In  vain  du  Guesclin,  and  the  other 
captains,  tried  to  detain  him  in  rear 
of  the  little  river  Najerilta  :  declar- 
ing his  intention  of  fi[iiishing  the  war 
by  one  decisive  combat,  he  led  his- 
army  into  the  plain.  When  the  BUck 
Prince,  who  little  expected  such  te- 
merity, was  informea  of  the  move- 
ment—*^ By  St  George ! "  he  exclaim- 
ed, **  in  yonder  basterd  there  lives  a 
valiant  knight  1 "  Then  he  proceeded  ta 
take  up  his  position  for  the  fight  that 
now  was  certain  to  take  place.  **  At 
sunrise.  Count  Henry  beheld  the  Eng- 
lish army  drawn  up  in  line,  in  admir- 
able order ;  their  gay  banners  and  pen- 
nons floating  above  a  forest  of  lances. 
AJready  all  the  men-at-arms  had  dis- 
mounted.* .  .  .  The  Prince  of 
Wales  devoutly  offered  up  a  prayer, 
and,  having  called  heaven  to  witness 
the  justice  of  his  cause,  held  out  his 
hand  to  Don  Pedro :  '  Sir  King,*  he 
said,  *  bi  an  hour  vou  will  know  if  you 
are  King  of  Castile.*  Then  he  cried 
out,  *  Banners  forward,  in  the  name 
of  God  and  St  George!*" 
We  will  not  diminish,  by  extract  or 


*  The  custom  of  the  time,  according  to  Froisiart  and  others.    On  the  march,  most 
of  the  soldiers,  sometimes  eren  the  ardiers,  were  on  horseback ;  but  when  the  hj»or  of 
battle  arrived,  spurs  were  remored,  horses  sent  away,  and  lances  shortened. 
Ihi  Ume  came  for  flight  and  pursuit,  the  combatants  again  sprang  into  t^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


356 


Merime^^  HitHot-y 


abridgneot,  the  pleasure  of  those  of 
oar  r^ers  wlio  may  peraae  M.  M^- 
rhn^^s  masteiij  and  pictnresqne  ac- 
count of  the  battle,  whose  triumphant 
termination  was  tarnished  by  an  act 
of  ferocious  cmdty  on  the  part  of  the 
Castilian  king.  Don  redro  had 
proved  himself,  as  usual,  a  gaUaat 
soldier  in  the  fight ;  and  long  a^  tiie 
English  trumpets  had  sounded  the 
recall,  he  spurred  his  black  charger  on 
the  track  of  the  fogitiYe  foe.  At  last, 
exhausted  by  fatigue,  be  was  return- 
ing to  the  camp,  when  he  met  a  Gras- 
con  knight  bringing  back  as  prisoner 
Ifiigo  Lopez  Orozco,  once  an  intimate 
of  the  king*s,  but  who  had  abandoned 
him  after  his  flight  from  Burgos.  In 
spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  Grascon  to 
protect  him,  Pedro  slew  his  renegade 
adherent  in  cold  blood,  and  with  his 
own  hand.  The  English  were  indig- 
nant at  this  barbarous  revenge,  and 
sharp  words  were  exchanged  between 
Pedro  and  the  Black  Prince.  Indeed, 
it  was  hardly  possible  that  sympathy 
should  exist  between  the  generous 
and  chivalrous  Edward  and  his  blood- 
thirsty and  crafty  ally,  and  this  dis- 
pute was  the  first  symptom  of  the 
mutual  aversion  they  afterwards  ex- 
hibited. From  the  very  commence- 
ment, the  Prince  of  Wales  appears  to 
have  caused  the  cause  of  legitimacy 
in  oppoktion  to  his  personal  predilec- 
tions. His  admiration  of  Count  Heory, 
and  good  opmion  of  his  abilities,  fre- 
quentiy  breaks  out.  After  the  signal 
victory  of  Najera,  whidi  seemed  to 
have  fixed  the  crown  of  Castile  more 
firmly  than  ever  upon  Pedro's  brow, 
Edward  was  the  only  man  whojudged 
differentiy  of  the  future.  "  The  day 
after  the  battie,  when  the  knights 
charged  by  him  to  examine  the  dead 
and  the  prisoners  came  to  make  their 
report,  he  asked  m  the  Gascon  dialect, 
which  he  habitually  spoke:  'Eiobert, 
eMtn&rtdprest  And  the  Bastard,  ishe 
killed  or  taken?*    The  answer  was, 


qfP^ler  the  Cnui.  [MarA, 

that  he  had  disappeared  from  the  Md 
of  battle,  and  that  all  trace  of  Imn 
was  lost.  *  Non  ay  res  fsfU!*  ex- 
claimed the  prince  ;  *Nothing  is  dcMte."* 
The  Black  Prince  spoke  in  a  pro- 
phetic spirit:  the  sequel  proved  the 
wisdom  of  his  words.  The  battie  dT 
Ni^era  was  fought  on  the  Sd  April 
1367.  Two  years  later,  less  elevea 
days,  on  the  23d  March  1369— Edward 
and  his  gallant  followers  having  in  the 
interim  returned  to  Guyenne,  disgust- 
ed with  the  ingratitude  and  bad  fisuth 
of  the  king  they  had  replaced  upon 
his  throne — ^the  Bastard  was  master  of 
Spun,  where  Don  Pedro's  sole  remain- 
ing possession  was  the  castie  of  Mon- 
tiel,  within  whose  walls  the  fallen  mo- 
narch was  closely  blockaded.  Nego- 
tiations ensued,  in  which  Bertrand 
du  Guesclin  shared,  and  in  which  there 
can  be  little  doubt  he  played  a  trea- 
cherous part.  It  is  to  the  credit  of 
M.  M^run^*s  impartiality,  that  he 
does  not  seek  to  shield  the  French 
hero,  but  merely  urges,  in  extenuation 
of  his  conduct,  the  perverted  morality 
and  strange  code  of  kni^btiy  honour 
aco^[>ted  in  those  days.  Bywhomao- 
ev«r  lured,  in  tiie  night-time  Pedro 
left  his  stronghold,  expecting  to  meet, 
outside  its  walls,  abettors  and  eom- 
panioBS  of  a  meditated  flight.  Instead 
of  such  aid,  he  found  himself  a  ca|i- 
tive,  and  presentiy  he  stood  £M)e  to 
face  with  Henry  of  Trastamare.  The 
brotiiers  bandied  insults,  a  blow  was 
dealt,  and  they  dosed  in  mortal  strifiB. 
Around  them  a  circle  of  dievalieni 
gazed  with  deep  interest  at  this  eom- 
bat  of  kings.  Pedro,  Uie  taller  and 
stronger  man,  at  first  had  the  advan- 
tage. Then  a  t^ander^some  aay 
du  Gruescltn,  others,  an  Anugoneae, 
Bocaberti— pulled  the  king  bv  thelMt 
as  be  held  his  brother  under  him^  ami 
dbanged  the  fortune  of  the  dseL 
What  ensued  is  best  told  in  the  words 
of  Loekhart's  dose  and  adnurable  T<r« 
slon  of  a  popular  Spamah  ballad : — 


**Now  Don  Henry  has  the  upmost, 
Now  King  Pedro  Uea  beneath ; 
In  his  heut  his  brother's  poniard 
Instant  finds  its  bloody  sheath. 

Thus  with  moital  gasp  and  quivtf  , 
While  the  blood  in  bubbles  weU'd, 
Fled  the  fieroeat  soul  that  ever 
In  a  Christian  bosom  dwelled.** 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Opmmg  tffkt  Seawn. 


567 


TBE  OPESmO  OF  fHS  SB8SI0K. 


The  BritMi  PBrtiament  has  again 
been  smnmoned  to  resume  its  labours. 
Tbe  period  whkh  intervened  between 
the  close  of  tiie  last,  and  the  opening 
of  the  present  sesi^on,  was  fraagfat 
with  great  anxiety  to  those  who  be* 
lieved  that  the  cause  of  order  and 
peace  depended  npon  the  check  that 
might  be  given  to  the  democratic 
spirit,  then  ragingso  fearfolly  tiirong^- 
ont  Europe.  France,  under  the  dic- 
tatorship of  Cavaignac,  had  emerged 
a  little  from  the  chaotic  slough  into 
which  she  had  been  plunged  by  the 
wickedness,  imbecility,  andla^asonof 
a  junta  of  self-constituted  ministers- 
men  who  held  their  commissions  from 
the  sovereign  mob  of  Paris,  and  who 
were  ready,  for  that  sovereign's  sake, 
to  ruin  and  prostrate  their  country. 
Foremost  among  these  ministers  was 
Lamartine,  a  theorist  whose  intentions 
might  be  good,  but  whose  exorbitant 
vanity  mi^  him  a  tool  in  tiie  hands 
of  otheris  who  had  embraced  revolution 
as  a  trade.  Of  this  stamp  were  Ledru- 
RolHn,  Louis  Blanc,  and,  we  may  add, 
Marrast, — men  who  had  nothing  to 
lose,  but  everything  to  gain,  from  the 
continuanoe  of  popular  disorder. 
Fortunately,  the  daring  attempt  of 
June — which,  if  it  had  sucoeededf 
would  have  surrendered  Paris  to  be 
sacked— was  suppressed  with  sufficient 
bloodshed.  Military  domination  took 
the  place  of  helpless  democratic  fra- 
Usmty;  the  barricades  went  down 
amidst  the  thnnder  of  Uie  cannon,  and 
the  rascaldom  of  the  Faubourg  St 
Antoine  found,  to  their  cost,  that  they 
were  not  ret  altogetiier  triumphant. 
Of  the  subsequent  election  of  Louis 
Ni^eon  to  the  presidentship  we  need 
not  speak.  It  would  be  in  vun,  under 
present  drcumstancee,  to  qiecnlate 
npon  the  probable  destinies  of  Franoe. 
All  that  we  have  to  remark  now  is  ker 
Attitude,  which,  we  think,  is  sympto- 
matic  of  improvement.  ThesooialisI 
theories  are  wellnigh  exploded. 
Equality  may  exist  in  name,  but  it  is 
not  recognised  as  a  reaHty.  The 
provinces  have  suffered  enough  from 
revolution  to  abhor  tiie  thought  of 
anarchy;  and  they  lonff  fbr  any 
government    itrmg    and    rascrfate 


enough  to  ei^rce  the  laws,  and  to 
stamp  with  its  heel  on  the  head  of 
the  Jacobin  hy^a. 

Austria,  on  the  other  side,  has  done 
her  duty  nobly.  Astounded  as  we 
eertainly  were  at  the  outbreak  of 
revolution  in  Vienna,  we  had  yet  that 
confidence  in  the  spirit  and  loyalty  of 
the  old  Teutonic  chivaliy,  that  we 
nevOT  for  a  moment  believed  that  the 
mighty  fabric  of  ages  would  be  allowed 
to  crumble  down,  or  the  imperial 
crown  to  fall  from  the  head  of  the  de- 
scendant of  the  C»sars.  And  so  it 
has  proved.  The  revolt  occasioned 
in  the  southern  provinces  by  the  co- 
operation of  Jacobinism,  under  the 
medous  mask  of  nationality,  with 
the  mean  and  selfish  ambition  of  an 
intriguing  Italian  potentate,  has 
been  triumphantly  suppressed.  Vi- 
enna, after  experiencing  the  horrors 
of  ruffian  occupation— after  having 
seen  assassination  rife  in  her  streets, 
and  the  homes  of  her  burghers  ddivered 
over  to  the  lust  and  pillage  of  the 
anarchists — has  again  returned  to  her 
fealty.  The  insurrections  in  Bohemia 
and  Hungary  have  been  met  by  the 
strong  ann  of  power;  the  schemes  <^ 
treason  and  of  fiction  have  been  dis- 
comfited; nor  can  modem  histoiy 
alferd  us  noblar  examples  of  heroism 
and  devotion  than  have  bem  ex- 
hibited by  Windischgilata  and  Jella- 
chich.  Whilst  the  democratic  press, 
even  in  this  country,  was  sympathis- 
hag  wiUi  the  bisurgents  —  whilst 
treason,  murder,  and  rapine  were 
palliated  and  excused,  and  iUsome 
and  bombastic  panegyrics  pronounced 
upon  the  leading  demagogues  of  the 
movement — ^we  have  watched  the 
efforts  of  Austria  towards  the  re- 
oovecy  of  her  equilibrium,  with  an 
anxie^  wliidi  we  soarody  can  ex- 
press: beoanse  we  felt  convinced  that, 
npon  her  success  or  her  defeat,  upon 
the  maintenance  of  her  position  as  a 
colossal  united  power,  or  her  division 
into  petty  states,  depenuded,  in  a  large 
measure,  the  future  tranquillity  ct 
Europe.  Most  happfly  she  has  suc' 
ceeded,  and  has  mreby  riven  the 
death-Uow  to  the  hopes  of  tiie  be- 
sotted visionaries  at  raMikfort    The 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


L 


858  .     The  Opening 

Central  Power  of  €rermany,  as  that 
singular  assemblage  of  mountebanks, 
with  a  weak  old  imbecile  at  their 
head>  has  been  somewhat  facetiously 
denominated  —  that  pseudo-parlia- 
ment, which,  without  power  to  en- 
force its  decrees,  or  any  comprehen- 
sible scheme  of  action,  nas  arrogated 
to  itself  the  right  of  over-riding  mo- 
narchies— is  gradually  dwindling  into 
contempt.  Even  Frederick- William 
of  Prussia,  its  chief  supporter  and 
stay,  has  found  out  his  vast  mistake 
in  yielding  to  the  democratic  prin- 
ciple as  the  means  of  ultimately  secur- 
ing for  himself  the  rule  of  a  united 
Germany.  The  attempt  has  ahreadv 
wellnigh  cost  him  the  crown  which 
he  wears.  He  now  sees,  as  he  might 
have  seen  earlier,  but  for  the  mists 
of  interest  and   ambition,  that  the 

§  resent  movement  was  essentially  a 
emocratic  one,  and  that  its  leaders 
merely  held  out  the  phantom  of  re- 
suscitated imperialism  in  order  to 
make  converts,  and  to  strike  more  ef- 
fectuaUy  at  eveiy  hereditaiy  constitu- 
tion. The  farce  cannot,  in  the  ordi- 
naiy  nature  of  things,  last  much  longer. 
Without  Austria,  Bavaria,  and  Prus- 
sia, there  is  no  central  power  at  all. 
The  Frankfort  parliament,  as  it  at 
present  exists,  can  be  compared  to 
nothing  except  a  great  Masonic  as- 
semblage. In  humble  imitation  of  the 
brethren  of  the  mystic  tie,  it  is  so- 
lemnly creating  grand  chancellors, 
grand  seneschals,  and,  for  aught  we 
know,  grand  tylers  also  for  an  empire 
which  is  not  in  existence ;  and,  with- 
out a  farthing  in  its  treasury,  is  de- 
creeing civil  lists  and  bounties  to  its 
imperial  grand  master!  Unfortunately, 
the  state  of  Europe  has  been  such  that 
we  cannot  afford  to  laugh  even  at  such 
palpable  fooleries.  They  tend  to  pro- 
long excitement  and  disorder  through- 
out a  considerable  portion  of  the  Conti- 
nent ;  and  already,  through  such  antics, 
we  have  been  on  the  eve  of  a  general 
war,  occasioned  by  the  unjust  attempts 
to  deprive  Denmark  of  her  Schleswig 
provinces.  The  sooner,  therefore,  that 
the  parliament  of  Frankfort  ceases  to 
have  an  existence  the  better.  It 
hardly  can  exist  if  the  larger  states  do 
their  duty,  without  jealousy  of  each 
other,  but  with  reference  to  the  com- 
mon weal. 
But  thoueh  the  democratic  progress, 


of  the  Se$8ion,  [Man^, 

under  whatsoever  form  it  appeared, 
has  thus  received  a  check  in  northern 
Europe,  it  is  still  raging  with  nndi- 
minished  violence  in  the  south.  Bri- 
tish diplomatic  relations  with  theSee  of 
Rome  have  received  the  coup-de-grace^ 
in  the  forcible  expulsion  of  the  Sove- 
reign Pontiff  from  his  territories  I  The 
leading  reformer  of  the  age — the  pro- 
pagandist successor  of  St  Peter—has 
surrendered  his  pastoral  charge,  and 
fled  from  the  howling  of  his  flock,  now 
-suddenly  metamorphosed  into  wolves* 
There,  as  elsewhere,  liberalism  has 
signalised  itself  by  assassination.  The 
star  of  freedom,  of  which  Lord  Minto 
was  the  delegated  prophet,  has  i^ 
peared  in  the  form  of  a  bloody  and 
terrific  meteor.  Even  revolutionised 
France  felt  her  bowels  mov^  by  some 
latent  Christian  compunction,  and  pre- 
pared an  armament  to  rescne,  if  need- 
ful, the  unfortunate  patriarch  from  his 
children.  More  recently,  the  Grand- 
duke  of  Tuscany — a  prince  whose 
mild  rule  and  kindly  government  were 
such  that  democracy  itself  could  frame 
no  articulate  charge  against  him,  be- 
yond the  fact  of  his  being  a  sovereign 
— has  been  compelled  to  abandon  Us 
territory,  and  to  take  ref^  elsewhere. 
Such  is  the  state  of  the  continent 
of  Europe  at  the  opening  of  the  new 
session  of  Parliaments— a  state  which^ 
while  it  undeniably  leaves  great  roooi 
for  hope,  and  in  some  measure  indi- 
cates a  return  to  more  settled  jwinci- 
pies  oif  government,  is  very  far  from 
conveying  an  assurance  of  lasting 
tranquillity.  It  is  now  jost  a  year 
since  the  sagacious  Mr  Cobden  issued 
the  second  part  of  his  prophecies  to 
atone  for  the  failure  of  the  first.  The 
repeal  of  the  com  laws,  and  the  other 
free-trade  measures,  having  not  only 
failed  to  enrich  this  country  at  the 
ratio  of  a  hundred  millions  sterling 
annually — the  premium  which  was 
confidently  offered  by  the  Manchester 
Association,  as  the  price  of  their  ex- 
periment— but,  having  somehow  ix 
other  been  followed'  by  a  calamitous 
deficit  in  the  ordinary  revenue,  the 
member  for  the  WestRiding  bethought 
himself  of  a  new  agitation  for  the 
dlsbandment  of  the  British  army,  and 
the  suppression  of  the  navy,  founded 
upon  the  experiences  which  he  had 
gaUiered  in  the  course  of  his  Conti- 
nental ovations.    He  told  his  faithful 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1W9.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Session. 


859 


mynnidons  tbat  all  Europe  was  in  a 
state  of  profound  peace,  and  that  war 
was  utterly  impossible.  They  echoed 
the  cry,  and  at  once,  as  if  by  magic, 
the  torch  of  revolation  was  lighted  np 
in  every  conntry  save  onr  own.  Nor 
arc  we  entitled  to  daim  absolnte  ex- 
emption. Chartism  exhibited  itself  at 
home  in  a  more  daring  manner  than 
ever  before :  nor  do  we  wonder  at  this, 
since  the  depreciation  of  labour  in  the 
home  marlcet,  the  direct  result  of 
Peel's  injudicious  tariffs,  drove  many 
a  man,  from  sheer  desperation,  into 
the  ranks  of  the  disloyal.  Ireland  was 
pacified  only  by  a  strong  demonstra- 
tion of  military  force ;  and,  had  that 
been  withdrawn,  rebellion  was  the 
inevitable  consequence.  Still,  though 
his  promises  are  thus  shown  to  be 
utterly  false,  the  undaunted  Free- 
trader, in  the  teeth  of  facts  and  logic, 
persists  in  maintaining  his  conclusions. 
Again  he  shouts,  raves,  and  agitates 
for  an  extensive  military  reduction ; 
and,  lo  !  the  next  Indian  mail  brings 
tidings  of  the  war  in  the  Punjaub  I 

Public  attention,  during  the  recess, 
has  been  very  generally  dhrected  to 
the  state  of  the  finances  of  the  coun- 
try. No  wonder.  Last  year,  in  pro- 
posing the  first  of  his  abortive  budgets. 
Lord  John  Russell  distinctly  calcu- 
lated the  probable  excess  of  the  ex- 
penditure over  the  income  at  the  sum 
of  three  millions  and  a  quarter ;  to 
balance  which  he  asked  fbr  an  aug- 
mentation of  the  income  tax — a  pro- 
posal which  the  nation  very  properly 
scouted.  But,  whilst  we  state  now, 
as  we  stated  then,  our  determined 
opposition  to  the  increase  of  the  direct 
taxation  of  the  country,  we  must 
remark  that  the  firee-trade  party  were 
hardly  Justified  in  withholding  their 
support  fh>m  a  minister  who  had 
played  their  game  with  such  unim- 
peachable docility,  in  an  emergency 
directly  resulting  fh>m  the  operation 
of  their  cherished  system .  The  state- 
ment of  1^  Charles  Wood,  to  the 
effect  that,  during  the  last  six  years, 
the  nation  had  remitted  seven  and  a 
half  millions  of  annual  taxation,  ought 
surely  to  have  had  the  effect  of  an 
argument  upon  these  impenetrable 
men.  Seven  millions  and  a  half  had 
been  sacrificed  before  the  Moloch  of 
free  trade.  Good^  benevolent,  plain- 
dealing  Sir  Robert,  and  profound,  cal- 


culating Lord  John,  had  each,  in  pre- 
paring their  annual  estimates,  lopped 
off  some  productive  branch  of  the 
customs,  and  smilingly  displayed  it  to 
the  country,  as  a  proof  of  their  desire 
to  lessen  the  weight  of  the  national 
burdens.  That  our  revenue  should 
fall  was,  of  course,  a  necessary  conse- 
quence. Fall  it  did,  and  that  with 
such  rapidity  that  Sur  Robert  Peel 
dared  not  take  off  the  income  tax, 
which  he  had  imposed  upon  the  coun- 
try with  a  distinct  and  solemn  pledge 
that  it  was  merely  to  be  temporary 
in  its  duration,  but  handed  it  over  as 
a  permanent  legacy  to  his  successor, 
who  coolly  proposed  to  augment  it  I 
Now  it  really  required  no  reflection  at 
all  to  see  that,  if  our  statesmen  chose, 
for  the  sake  of  popularity  or  other- 
wise, thus  to  tamper  with  the  revenue, 
and  to  lessen  the  amount  of  the  cus- 
toms, a  deficit  must,  sooner  or  later, 
occur.  Not  the  least  baneful  effect 
of  the  policy  pursued  by  Sir  Robert 
Peel  has  been  the  system  of  calcu- 
lating the  estimates  so  low,  and 
adapting  the  income  so  closely  to  the 
national  expenditure,  that  a  surplus, 
to  be  handed  over  to  the  commis- 
sioners for  the  reduction  of  the  na- 
tional debt,  is  now  a  tradition.  We 
have  abandoned  the  idea  of  a  surplus, 
nor  can  it  ever  again  be  realised 
under  the  operation  of  the  present 
system.  Instead  of  a  surplus  we 
have  a  permanent  income  tax,  and, 
more  than  that,  a  fresh  debt  incurred 
by  us,  under  Whig  management,  of  no 
less  than  ten  millions. 

Such  being  the  state  of  our  finances, 
the  question  naturally  suggests  itself 
to  the  mind  of  every  thinking  man, 
how  are  we  to  find  a  remedy?  The 
Financial  Reform  Associations— which 
are  nothing  else  than  the  bastard 
spawn  of  the  Anti-Com-law  League — 
are  perfectly  ready  with  their  answer. 
They  see  no  difficulty  about  it  at  all. 
"Act,"  they  say,  "upon  the  same 
principle  which  every  man  adopts  in 
private  life.  Since  your  income  has 
fallen  off,  reduce  your  expenditure. 
Cut  your  coat  accoiding  to  your  cloth. 
Fiad  out  what  are  the  most  expen- 
sive items  of  your  estimates,  and 
demolish  these.  If  you  can't  afford 
to  have  an  army,  don't  keep  one. 
Your  navy  is  anything  but  a  source 
of  income ;    put  it  down.     In  thia 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


S60 


The  Opening  ofBkt  Session. 


[Mardi, 


way  you  will  presently  find  that  you 
can  make  out  a  satisfactory  balance- 
sheet." 

This  is  the  ponnds,  shillings,  and 
pence  view  of  the  case,  and  its  sup- 
porters are  determined  to  enforce  it. 
Dnll  statistical  pamphlets,  inveighing 
agunst  the  enormons  expense  of  our 
establishments,  are  compiled  by 
pompons  pseado-ecoBomists,  and  cir- 
culated by  the  million.  Looking  to 
the  past,  it  requires  no  familiarity  to 
predict,  that,  as  sure  as  winter  follows 
autumn,  so  certainly  will  the  Whigs 
yield  to  the  pressure  from  without. 
Kay,  it  is  not  a  prediction ;  fbr  al- 
ready, in  the  Queen*s  speech,  an  inti- 
mation to  that  effect  has  been  ^ven. 
Now  this  is  a  matter  of  vital  moment 
to  every  one  of  us.  We  are  now 
verging  towards  the  point  which  we 
have  long  foreseen,  when  the  effects 
of  unprincipled  legislation  will  be 
wrested  into  an  argument  against  the 
maintenance  of  t£e  national  neat- 
ness. We  have  a  battle  to  fight  in- 
volving a  more  important  stake  than 
€ver.  We  must  fight  that  battle 
under  circumstances  of  great  disad- 
vantage ;  for  not  only  has  treachery 
thinned  our  ranks,  but  the  abandon- 
ment of  public  principle  by  a  states- 
man whose  hairs  have  grown  gray 
in  office,  has  given  an  example  of 
laxity  most  pernicious  to  the  morals 
of  the  age.  But  not  the  less  readily 
do  we  go  forward  at  the  call  of  honour 
and  duty,  knowing  that  our  cause  is 
truth,  and  confident,  even  now^  that 
truth  must  ultimately  prevail. 

In  the  first  place,  let  us  set  ourselves 
right  with  these  same  Financial  Re- 
form Associations,  so  that  no  charge 
may  be  brought  against  us  of  factious 
opposition  to  salutary  improvement. 
We  have  perused  several  of  their 
tracts  with  great  care;  but,  being 
iolerably  familiar  with  their  statistics 
already,  we  have  not  acquired  any 
large  stock  of  additional  information. 
They  point,  however,  to  many  things 
which  are  most  undoubted  abuses. 
That  a  reform  is  necessary  in  many 
civn  departments  of  the  state,  has 
long  been  our  expressed  <n>inion. 
Money  is  not  only  misapplied,  but  the 
revenues  which  ought  to  be  drawn 
from  some  Dortlons  of  the  public  pro- 
perty, find  their  way  into  private 
'ud  are  not  accounted  f<v. 


We  do  not  doubt  that  the  dockyards 
u*e  largely  jobbed,  and  that  the  nation 
suffers  considerable  loss  by  a  partial 
and  nefarious  system  of  private  instead 
of  public  contracts.  We  are  no  ad- 
mirers of  smecures,  of  unnecessaiy 
commissionerships,  or  the  multiplica- 
tion of  usdess  offices.  Hie  depart- 
ment of  Woods  and  Forests  is  an 
Augean  stable,  which  requires  a  tho- 
rough cleansing.  It  is  notoriously 
the  most  inefficient  and  the  worst 
served  of  the  public  boards,  and  it 
has  permitted  and  winked  at  pecula- 
tion to  an  extent  which  is  almost 
incredible.  We  desire  to  have  the 
public  accounts  better  kept,  and  some 
security  given  that  the  officials  will 
do  their  dutv.  We  wish  to  see 
patronage  faurly  and  honourably  exer- 
cised. We  wish  to  see  abuse  cor- 
rected, curbed,  and  abolished. 

And  why  is  this  not  done?  Simply 
fortius  reason — that  we  are  cursea 
with  a  government  in  every  way  unfit 
for  their  chaige.  The  present  ruling 
family  party  have  not  among  them  a 
vestige  of  a  public  virtue.  Jobbinfi^ 
with  the  Whigs  is  not  an  exceptional 
case — it  is  a  living  principle.  It  is 
more  to  them  than  the  liberty  of  the 
press :  it  is  like  the  ur  they  breathe ; 
if  they  have  it  not,  they  die.  They 
keep  their  adherents  together  solely 
by  the  force  of  jobbing.  Look  at  theur 
Insh  Trevellyan  jobs,  their  commis- 
sions, their  unblufihing  and  unparal- 
leled favouritism !  Never,  in  any  one 
instance,  have  they  attempted  to  save 
a  shilling  of  the  public  revenue,  when, 
by  dwng  so,  they  would  interfere  with 
the  perquisites  of  some  veteran  servi- 
tor of  their  order.  We  know  this 
Sretty  well  in  Scotland,  where  jobbmg 
ourishes  all  the  better  because  we 
are  denied  the  superintendence  of  a 
separate  Secretary  of  State— an  office 
which  is  imperatively  called  for.  The 
present  is  undeniably  a  time  fbr  the 
exertion  of  strict  economy  in  every 
department,  and  yet  ministers  will 
not  vouchsai^  to  commence  it  in  their 
own.  During  the  last  two  3rear8, 
various  offices  which  are  not  heredi- 
tanr,  which  are  notorious  sinecures, 
and  which  are  nevertheless  endowed 
with  large  salaries,  have  become  va- 
cant ;  and,  in  evcnry  case,  these  have 
been  filled  up  by  Lord  John  Russell, 
on  the  broad  ground  that  the  goven- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S49.] 


TnC  t^pttmtff  ^fj  ^t  OCfVtCM* 


361 


ment  could  not  sfford  to  d^miBe 
witb  midi  yalaable  patronage. 

So  far  we  are  at  one  with  the  finance 
reformers.  So  long  as  l^eir  object  is 
to  reform  evident  abuses,  we  are  ready 
not  only  to  appland,  bat  to  co-operate 
with  them:  bat  the  correction  of 
abuses  is  a  very  different  thing  from 
that  suicidal  policy  which  has  been 
oyer  and  orer  again  attempted  in  this 
country — that  pdicy  which,  by  saving 
thousands,  insures  the  loss  of  millions. 

Because  our  revenue  has  fallen  off, 
is  that  any  reason  why  we  should  pait 
with  our  army  and  navy  ?  Let  us  as- 
sume that  the  army  and  navy  are'  ne- 
cessary for  three  purposes— first,  for 
the  deliBnce  of  the  country ;  secondly, 
for  the  maintenance  of  internal  order ; 
and  thirdly,  for  the  retention  of  our 
colonies.  Let  ns  furdier  assume, 
that,  keeping  these  three  necessuy 
points  in  view,  it  is  impossible  to  eflfect 
a  numerical  reduction  of  the  force: 
and  we  then  ask  the  economists  whe- 
ther, these  premises  being  allowed, 
they  would  push  their  doctrine  of 
cloth-cutdng  sd  far  as  still  to  insist 
apon  a  reduction?  Not  one  pMitical 
tailor  of  them  all  will  dare  to  say  so  1 
They  know  the  overwhelming  storm 
of  contempt  that  would  arise  in  every 
comer  of  Great  Britain,  if  they  dared 
to  give  vent  to  such  a  traitorous  sen- 
timent ;  they  leave  it  unuttered,  but 
they  aver  the  non-necessity.*  Here 
we  meet  at  once  upon  lair  and  open 
ground;  and  we  ask,  whether  they 
mean  to  aver  that  the  present  force  is 
greater  than  is  required  for  the  three 
purposes  above  mentioned,  or  whether 
they  mean  to  aver  that  any  one  of 
these  purposes  is  unnecessary?  This, 
as  we  shall  presently  have  occasion 


to  see,  is  a  very  inportaat  di^j&o- 
tioo. 

To  the  first  question,  as  yet,  we 
have  only  inde&rite  answers.  We 
hear  a  good  deal  about  clothing  allow- 
ances amd  abuses,  with  which  we  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do.  It  may  be, 
that  there  exist  some  faidts  in  the 
army  and  navy  department,  and  that 
these  could  be  amended  with  a  saving 
of  expense  to  the  country:  if  so,  let  it 
be  done.  We  cordially  echo  the  lan- 
guage of  Lord  Stanley,  on  movmg  his 
amendment  to  the  address :  *^  I  believe 
it  is  possible  to  effect  some  reductionB 
in  the  dvil  departments  of  the  army, 
ordnance,  and  navy.  I  also  think  that 
large  reductions  may  be  made  by 
checking  the  abuses  which  exist  in  the 
adminl^ration  and  management  of  the 
dockyards.  Bat  the  greatest  security 
we  could  obtun  fyr  having  the  won 
well  done  in  the  dockyards,  would  be 
the  passing  of  an  enactment  to  deprive 
all  persons  in  those  yards  from  voting 
for  members  of  parliament.  I  have 
heard  at  least  twenty  naval  officers 
express  an  opinion  that,  until  persons 
employed  in  the  dockyards  shall  be 
prevented  from  voting  for  members  of 
parliament,  it  will  be  impossible  to 
exerdae  efficient  control  over  the  wMk 
performed  in  those  estabUshments. 
If  reductions  can  be  effected,  in  (rod's 
name  let  them  be  made;  and,  although 
one  may  wonder  how  such  a  course 
has  been  so  long  delayed,  I  will  applaud 
the  government  which  shall  economise 
without  prejudice  to  the  permanent 
int««Bts  of  the  empke.  But  when 
the  country  is  in  a  position  which  re- 
quires that  she  should  have  all  her  re- 
sources and  powers  at  hand,  I  cannot 
concur  with  those  who,  for  the  sake  of 


*  We  fnd  that  we  have  givea  the  leagaers  rather  too  avch  credit  ia  the  above 
par»giaph.  Sdkne  of  them  Appear  to  think  that,  whether  Beoeasary  or  not,  our  fbrooa 
4dioQld  be  diipenaed  with  ;  at  least  to  we  gather  ttom  the  following  ezpreoaioiMi  omr 
tained  in  a  doU  iH-written  tiaot,  poipgrting  to  oMaoate  from  the  ^  Edinbiugh  Fiaaa- 
«ial  RefiDtm  AasooiatioB*''  wldeh  has  jost  come  into  our  hands.  Let  ns  hear  tha 
patriotifl  economists.  **  If  there  be  any  other  eaose  for  maintaining  a  huge  and  ex- 
pensire  fbroe,  it  mnet  be  fbond  in  the  desire  to  proyide  for  the  scions  of  the  nobility 
and  landed  gentry,  with  a  Wew  to  secore  Totes  in  both  houses  of  parliament.  As  is 
well  known,  commissions  in  the  army  and  nayy  are  held  almost  entirely  by  these 
classes.  No  donbt,  officers  in  active  service  may  be  said  to  give  work  for  their  pay^ 
while  their  gallantry  as  soldiers  is  beyond  dispute  ;  bat  this,  nnfortnnately,  does  not 
mend  the  matter.  Their  services  we  hold  to  be  fbr  the  greater  part  nnneeeasary;  mt 
<M  evetUt,  ^y  are  Berriees  ftr  wkwk  the  noHan  oann<4  ajhrd  fe  pay  any  itrnffetf 
trndtkeynEMMTimMougkiU  U  nUnqtd^^el.''  Thla  k  ifltelll^lo  Moiiigh ;  bot  we 
hardly  tfaiak  then  an  many  reaioaefB  of  this  calib*e. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Opening  of  the  Session, 


[March, 


economy , would  largelydiminiBh  the  na- 
val and  military  forces  of  the  country." 
Mr  Cobden,  so  far  as  we  can  gather 
from  his  orations,  advocates  the  pro- 
priety of  disbanding  the  army  on  the 
score  of  peace.  He  thinks  that,  if  we 
were  to  dismiss  our  forces,  all  the 
other  nations  of  the  earth  would  follow 
the  example.  There  is  something 
positively  marvellous  in  the  calm 
audacity  of  the  man  who  can  rise  up, 
as  Cobden  did  at  Manchester,  on  the 
last  day  of  January,  and  enunciate  to 
his  enraptured  audience,  that,  *^  not- 
withstanding all  that  had  been  said 
on  that  subject,  he  reiterated  there 
never  was  a  time  when  Europe  was 
so  predisposed  to  listen  to  advances 
made  by  the  people  of  England,  on 
that  subject,  as  now ! "  Where,  in  the 
name  of  the  Seven  Sleepers  of  Ephesns, 
has  the  man  been  during  the  last 
twelvemonths  ?  What  does  Mr  Cob- 
den understand  by  Europe?  We  should 
like  to  know  this,  for  it  is  very  easy 
to  use  a  general  term,  as  in  the  pre- 
sent instance,  without  conveying  any 
definite  meaning.  Does  he  refer  to 
the  governments  or  the  mobs  of 
Europe — to  the  well-affected,  who 
wish  for  order,  or  to  the  Jacobins 
whose  cause  he  adores  ?  If  he  meant 
the  latter  class  to  signify  Europe,  we 
can  understand  him  readily  enough. 
He  is  right :  great  indeed  would  be 
the  joy  of  the  clubs  in  Paris,  Berlin, 
and  ^enna,  if  there  were  not  a 
soldier  left.  What  jubilee  and  tri- 
umph there  would  be  in  every  Con- 
tinental capital !  Not  the  suppression 
of  the  police  would  excite  deeper 
exultation  in  the  hearts  of  the  deni- 
zens of  St  Giles\  than  would  the 
abolition  of  standing  armies  in  those 
of  the  bearded  patriots  of  the  Conti- 
nent. No  need  then  of  barricades — 
no  fighting  for  the  partition  of  pro- 
perty —  no  bloodshed,  preparatory  to 
the  coveted  rape  and  pillage!  The 
man  who  can  talk  in  this  way  is 
beneath  the  average  of  idiots;  or, 
otherwise,  he  is  somewhat  worse.  Not 
only  during  the  last  year,  but  within 
the  last  five  months,  we  have  seen 
that  the  whole  standing  armies  of 
Europe  have  been  employed  in  the 
task  of  suppressing  insarrection,  and 
have  not  been  able  to  do  it.  Under 
these  circumstances,  what  state  would 
be   '^predisposed"   to  surrender  its 


citizens  to  the  tender  mercies  of  done- 
cracy  ?  Ignorant  indeed  must  be  the 
audience  that  could  listen  to  such 
pitiable  drivelling  as  this ! 

Uiitil  it  can  be  shown  or  proved 
that  our  armaments,  even  in  ordinary 
times,  are  larger  than  are  required  for 
the  purposes  of  defence,  of  internal 
tranquillity,  and  of  colonial  occupa- 
pation,  there  is  no  cause  for  reduction 
at  all.  The  troops  at  home  are  main- 
tained for  the  first  two  objects,  since 
it  would  be  as  wise,  in  the  time  of 
peace,  to  dismantle  the  fortifications 
of  a  town  and  to  spike  the  cannon,  as 
to  dispense  with  an  army.  Is  there 
no  necessity  for  the  troops  at 
home  ?  The  experience  of  last 
year  alone  has  shown  us  what  we 
might  expect  if  Cobden^s  views 
were  realised.  Glasgow,  the  second 
largest  city  of  the  empire,  was  for 
a  time  in  the  hands  of  the  mob.  We 
doubt  whether  the  stiffest  free-trader 
in  the  West  would  now  be  disposed  to 
renounce  militaiy  protection.  Have 
the  people  of  Liverpool  already  for- 
gotten that  their  shipping  and  ware- 
houses were  threatened  with  incen- 
diarism, and  that  such  apprehensions 
of  a  rising  were  entertamed,  that,  at 
the  earnest  entreaty  of  the  ma^tracy, 
a  camp  was  established  m  their 
vicinity?  What  would  be  the  state  of 
Ireland,  at  this  moment,  if  the  troops 
were  withdrawn,  or  their  number  so 
materially  lessened  as  to  give  a  chance 
of  success,  however  momentary,  to 
insun^tion  ?  But  it  is  useless  to  ask 
such  questions,  for,  in  reality,  there  is 
hardly  a  sane  man  in  the  British 
islands  who  does  not  know  what  the 
immediate  result  would  be,  and  the 
horrible  penalty  we  should  ultimately 
pay  for  such  weak  and  culpable  par- 
simony. 

It  is  a  very  favourite  topic,  with 
finance  reformers,  to  rettr  to  the  state 
of  the  army  and  navy  as  it  existed 
previous  to  the  French  Revolution. 
"  In  1792,"  they  say,  "  the  whole  cost 
of  these  departments,  including  the 
ordnance,  amounted  only  to  five  mil- 
lions and  a  half— why  should  we  not 
now  reduce  our  expenditure  to  the 
same  amount?^'  It  is  wearisome  to 
enter  into  the  task  of  explanation 
with  these  gentlemen,  who,  alter  all^ 
are  but  slenderiy  acquainted  with  sta- 
tistics, else  they  would  at  once  divine 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Opening  ofihe  Seision. 


363 


the  answer :  nevertheless  we  shall 
undertake  it.  According  to  the  near- 
est approximation  which  can  be  made, 
the  British  islands,  in  the  year  1792, 
contained  a  popnlation  of  abont^- 
teen  and  a  half  miUion$,  The  census 
in  1841  showed  a  poimlation  of  twenty- 
seven  miUibns,  ana  at  the  present 
I  moment  the  number  is  probably  not 
)  short  of  M^.  So  that,  on  the  reason- 
1  able  principle  that  military  establish- 
ments shomd  bear  a  certain  ratio  to  the 
population,  and  exdading  every  other 
consideration,  the  anniud  estimates 
ought,  according  to  the  standard  of 
the  financial  reformers,  to  be  at  least 
eleven  millions.  But  then,  be  it  ob- 
served,-our  cdonial  possessions  were 
comparatively  small  compared  with 
their  present  extent.  Since  1792,  we 
have  received  accession  of  the  fol- 
lowing colonies  and  settlements: — 
Ceylon,  Trinidad,  St  Lnda,  Malta, 
Heligoland,^Briti8h  Guiana,  the  Falk- 
land Islands,  Hong-Kong,  Labuan, 
Cape  of  Good  Hope,  Mauritius,  Van 
Diemen*s  Land,  Western  and  Southern 
Australia,  New  Zealand,  and  the^ 
Ionian  Islands.  The  area  of  these 
new  possessions  is  considerably  more 
than  six  times  that  of  the  whole  extent 
of  the  British  islands ;  the  surface  of 
the  new  colonies  being,  in  square 
miles,  no  less  than  828,408,  whilst 
that  of  Britain  proper  is  merely 
122,823.  We  purposely  abstain  from 
alluding  to  the  extent  and  increment 
of  oor  older  colonies,  as  our  object  is 
simply  to  show  the  difference  of  our 
position  now,  from  what  it  was  in  the 
year  in&mediately  preceding  the  out- 
break of  the  first  French  Revolution. 
In  the  mean  time,  however,  let  us 
keep  strictiy  to  our  present  point, 
which  is  the  necessity  of  maintaining 
a  standing  army  at  home.  Within 
the  last  fifty-seven  years,  the  popu- 
lation at  home  has  doubled — a  fact 
which,  of  itself,  will  account  for  manv 
social  evils  utterly  beyond  the  reach 
of  legislation.  The  enormous  increase 
of  the  manuflMSturing  towns  has  not 
been  attended  with  any  improvement 
in  the  morals  of  the  people.  The  sta- 
tistical returns  of  criminal  commit- 
ments show  that  vice  has  spread  in  a 
ratio  far  greater  than  the  increase  of  po- 
pulation ;  and  along  with  vice  has  ap- 
peared its  invariable  concomitant,  dis- 
affection. Eveiy  period  of  stagnation 


of  trade  is  marked  by  a  display  of 
Chartism :  the  example  set  by  su<^ 
associations  as  the  League  has  not 
been  lost  upon  the  greater  masses  of 
the  people.  Ireland  is  a  volcano  in 
which  the  fires  of  rebellion  are  never 
wholly  extinguished,  and  every  inter- 
nal movement  there  is  sensibly  felt 
upon  this  side  of  the  Channel. 

But  it  is  needless,  perhaps,  to  en- 
large upon  the  point,  because  there 
are  very  few  persons  who  maintain 
that  our  home  force  is  greater  than 
the  occasion  requires.  That  admitted, 
the  question  is  very  considerably  nar- 
rowed. The  reductions  demanded 
would  then  fall  to  be  made  in  that 
portion  of  our  armaments  which  is 
used  for  colonial  occupation  and  de- 
fence. 

First,  let  us  see  what  we  have  to 
occupy  and  defend.  In  1792,  the 
area  of  the  British  colonies  which  we 
still  retain  was  about  565,700  square 
miles.  Subsequent  additions  have 
extended  this  surface  to  1,400,000. 
This  calculation,  be  it  remarked,  is 
altogether  exclusive  of  India. 

Tbc  free-traders  themselves  do  not 
aver  that  we  maintain  a  larger  force 
than  is  compatible  with  their  magni- 
tude for  the  occupation  of  the  colonies, 
"lam  quite  aware,"  says  Cobden, 
"that  any  great  reduction  in  our 
military  establishments  must  depend 
upon  a  compute  change  in  our  colonial 
system ;  and  I  consider  such  a  change 
to  be  the  necessary  consequence  of 
our  recent  commercial  policy."  We 
are  glad  at  last  to  arrive  at  the  truth. 
That  one  sentence  contains  the  key 
to  the  present  crusade  against  arma- 
ments, and  it  is  veiy  well  that  we 
should  understand  and  consider  it  in 
time.  Our  readers  must  not,  however, 
understand  the  word  "change"  in 
the  literal  sense ;  the  following  ex- 
tract from  the  Edinburgh  tract  will 
put  the  matter  in  a  clearer  light. 
"The  possession  of  the  colonies  is 
supposed  to  add  lustre  to  the  crown ; 
but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the 
honour  is  not  purchased  at  a  price 
considerably  beyond  its  value.  The 
colonies  pay  no  taxes  into  the  ex- 
chequer: we  keep  them,  they  do 
not  keep  us.  An  Englishman  may 
be  told  that  he  belongs  to  an  emphre 
on  which  the  sun  never  sets ;  but,  as 
he  pays  dearly  for  this  in  taxation, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


d^ 


Tke  OpemmgofikeSeimn. 


[Htidl, 


and  gets  notiung  but  sentiment  in  ra- 
tamt  l>e  may  be  inclined  to  question 
the  yalne  df  that  yast  doounion  on 
his  ccmnexion  with  which  he  is  con- 
gratulated. Bat  if  the  Englishinan 
makes  nothing  by  the  colfltiial  posses- 
sions) neither  does  the  colonist.  As 
things  are  managed,  the  union  is 
mutually  embarrassing,  while  the  ex- 
penses we  incur  for  maintaining  the 
colonies  are  ruinous.'^  Were  we  right 
or  wrong  when  we  said,  two  years  ago, 
that  the  tendency  of  free  trade  was  a 
deliberate  morement  towards  the  dis- 
memberment of  the  British  empire, 
and  the  separation  of  the  colonies 
frcnn  the  mother  country  ?  Here  yon 
have  the  principle  idmost  openly 
aTOwed.  The  colonies  are  said  to 
cost  us  about  four  millions  a-year, 
and  this  opens  too  rich  a  field  for  the 
penny-wise  economist  to  be  resisted. 
Nor  are  we  in  the  sligjitest  degree 
surprised  at  these  men  availing  them- 
selves of  the  argument.  If  uiey  are 
right  in  their  premises,  they  ace  aJso 
right  in  their  conclusion.  If  the 
people  of  this  country  are  deliberately 
of  opinion  that  our  commercial  policy 
is,  henceforward  and  for  ever,  to  be 
regulated  upon  the  principles  of  free 
trade,  the  colonies  should  be  left  to 
themselves,  and  Earl  Grey  immedi- 
ately cashiered.  This  is  what  Cobden 
and  his  followers  are  aiming  at ;  tlds 
is  the  ultimate  result  of  the  measures 
planned,  and  proposed,  and  carried  by 
SirRobertPeeL  It  is  no  figment  or  false 
alarm  of  ours.  The  free-traders  do  not 
take  the  pains  todisgnise  it :  tiieirmain 
argument  for  the  reduction  of  our 
forces  is  the  uselessness  and  expense 
of  the  colonies,  and  they  seem  pre- 
pared to  lower  the  British  flag  in  every 
quarter  of  the  g^obe.  Oar  fellow- 
citizen  who  has  compiled  the  last 
Financial  tract  speaks  to  the  point 
with  a  calm  phUosophy  which  shows 
the  thoroughness  of  his  conviction : 
he  says,  "As  foreigners  now  trade 
with  our  colonies  on  the  same  terms 
with  ourselves,  it  is  evident  that  the 
colonists  prefer  our  goods,  oidy  because 
they  are  better  and  che«>er  than 
those  of  foreigners ;  it  therefore  seems 
reasonable  to  suppose  thai  Ae  cohnies 
wmldeofUimietolmpJromustoere^ 
cofunexum  dissohed^  or  greaily  changed 
in  character.  The  United  States  <^ 
America  once  yt^  our  colonies,  and 


the  trade  wit^  them  has  vastly  in- 
creased since  they  became  indepen- 
dent." According  to  this  view,  it 
would  appear  that  Pi^inean  was  not 
only  a  disinterested  patriot,  l»it  also 
an  enlightened  economistl 

See,  then,  what  great  maiters  spring 
from  petty  sources! — how  personal 
ambition,  and  competiticm  f(Mr  pow^ 
between  two  statesmen  of  no  high  or 
exidted  principle,  can  in  a  few  years 
lead  to  a  deliberate  project,  and  alarge 
confedenu^,  lor  the  dismemberment 
of  the  British  empire  I  To  gain  ad- 
ditional swiftness  in  the  race  for  as- 
cendency, Sir  Bobert  Fed  and  Lord 
John  Russell  alternately  threw  away, 
most  usdessly  and  reddesaly,  many 
of  the  surest  items  of  the  national  in- 
come. They  sacrificed,  until  further 
sacrifice  was  no  longer  possible,  with- 
out conceding  a  broad  principle.  The 
principle  was  eonceded;  and  the 
bastard  system  of  free  trade,  without 
reciprocity  and  without  equivalent, 
was  substituted  for  the  wiser  system 
which  had  been  the  foundation  of  our 
greatness.  By  this  time,  indirect 
taxati(m  had  been  reduced  so  low 
that  the  revenue  fell  below  the  mark 
of  the  expenditure ;  the  duties  levied 
upon  miports  exhibited  a  marked  de- 
cline. Both  Feel  and  Enssell  were 
committed  to  free  trade,  and  neither 
of  them  could,  with  any  conaistenGy, 
retrace  their  steps.  Russell,  then  in 
power,  had  no  alternative  except  to 
propose  additional  durect  burdens,  by 
augmenting  the  income-tax.  This 
proposition  was  rejected,  and  thare 
was  a  dead-lock.  Lord  John  was  at 
his  wits'  end.    The  firee-traders  now 

gropose  to  relieve  him  from  his  em- 
arrassment,  by  cutting  down  the 
expenditure  so  as  to  meet  the  dimir 
nished  income.  This  can  only  be  done 
by  redodng  the  army  and  navy,  and 
the  army  and  navy  eannot  be  reduced 
except  by  sacrificing  the  colonies; 
ther^offe,  say  the  nree-traders,  get 
rid  of  the  coioniea  at  once,  and  the 
work  is  ready-done  to  your  hands. 

We  defy  any  man,  be  he  Whig, 
Feelite,  Free-trader,  or  Chartist,  to 
controvert  the  truth  of  what  we  have 
stated  above.  We  anticipid«d  the  re- 
sult from  the  firat  hour  that  Shr  Ro- 
bert Feel  yielded,  not  to  the  expressed 
will  of  tiiie  nation,  but  to  the  damour 
of  aselfish  and  organised  fiiction;  and 


Digjirtid  by  Google 


W^l 


Ti$Opamff 


trraymtTe  siaee  htm  bem  Ib  exact 
coneordanoe  with  our  aatidpations. 
Last  year,  Lord  John  Rusaell  showed 
some  spirit  of  resistance  to  the  power 
which  was  dragging  him  downward : 
he  refused  to  tamper  with  the  army. 
In  an  article  which  appeared  in  this 
Magar.ipe  jnst  twelye  months  ago,  we 
said—''  It  is  to  the  credit  of  the 
Whigs  that,  far  as  they  have  been 
led  astray  by  adopting  the  new- 
fiinded  political  doctrines— rather,  as 
we  oelieve,  for  the  sake  of  maintain* 
ing  power  than  from  anjr  belief  in 
their  efficacy— -they  hare  ^toclined  idl 
partic4>ation  with  the  Manchester 
crew,  in  their  recent  attempts  to  lower 
the  position  and  diminish  the  infla« 
ence  of  Great  Britain."  The  conntj^ 
knows,  by  this  time,  that  we  cannot 
repeat  the  encomiom.  Last  year, 
htfoTt  there  was  a  $mgU  disturwmce 
abroad,  before  insorrection  had  arisen 
in  Ireland,  Lord  John  Bossell  brought 
forward  his  budget,  and,  with  the 
support  of  the  great  majority  of  the 
House,  not  oi^  peremptorily  re&sed 
to  accede  to  a  diminution  of  our 
f(»:ees,  but  actually  proposed  an  aug- 
mentation. 2^  MOT,  we  find  m  the 
royal  qteech  the  following  paragn^h 
— ''  The  present  aspect  of  affairs  has 
enabled  me  to  make  large  reductiotts 
on  the  estimates  of  last  year.'' 

''  The  present  aspect  of  affiiirs  I"— 
Go  to,  then — let  us  see  what  the 
phrase  is  worth— how  &r  the  context 
of  the  whole  speech  wiU  j^tify  the 
choice  of  the  expression?  This  is  no 
time  for  shuffluur  or  weakness — no 
timefbrparty-tridu).  The  atmosphere 
is  dark  around  us.  By  the  hdp  of 
Heay^  we  hare  stood  the  pelting  oi 
the  stMm,  and  yet  stand  unscathed : 
but  the  clouds  are  still  black  and 
threatening.  We  cannot  take  a  Taffue 
assertion,  eren  though  it  proceeded 
fix>m  a  minister  a  thousand  tunes  more 
able  and  trustworthy  than  the  present 
premier.  We  must  have  proofs  be- 
fore we  loosen  our  doak,  and  lessen 
the  security  of  our  position. 

How  stand  we  with  regard  to  the 
Continental  powers?  For  the  first 
time,  for  many  years,  the  British  Soto- 
reign  has  been  unable  to  state  "  that 
she  continues  to  receiTe  firom  all  fo- 
reign powers  assurances  of  their 
Mendly  relations.**  Instead  of  that 
we  are  simply  tdd,  what  no   one 


o/^  Sissiatk  365 

doubts,  that  her  Majesty  is  desirooB 
to  maintain  the  most  friendly  relations 
with  the  other  members  of  the  Euro- 
pean family.  Unfbrtunately,  however, 
desire  does  not  always  imply  posses- 
sion. Are  we  to  attribute  this  omis- 
sion of  the  usual  paragrai^  to  mere 
inadvertence?  <nr  are  we  indeed  to 
conclude  that,  abroad,  there  has  arisen 
a  feeling  so  unfriendly  that  to  hazard 
the  assertion  of  former  relationship 
would  really  be  equivalent  to  a  false- 
hood? It  IS  painnil  to  allow  that  we 
must  arrive  at  the  latter  conclusion. 
The  moral  weight  and  influence  which 
Britain  once  exercised  on  the  Conti- 
nent has  utterly  decayed  in  the  hands 
of  Whig  administrations.  Instead  of 
maintaining  that  attitude  of  high 
dignified  reserve  which  becomes  the 
fint  maritime  power  of  Europe,  we 
have  been  exhibited  in  the  light  of  a 
nation  of  interfering  intriguers,  whose 
proflfered  mediation  is  almost  equiva- 
lent to  an  insult.  Mediators  of  this 
kind  never  are,  nor  can  be,  popular. 
The  answer  invariably  is,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  holy  writ — ^^  Who  made 
thee  a  prince  and  a  judge  over  us? 
intendest  thou  to  kill  me,  as  thou 
killedst  the  Egyptian?'*  and,  inconse- 
quence, wherever  we  have  interfered 
we  have  made  matters  worse,  or  else 
have  been  compiled  to  submit  to  an 
ignominious  rebufi".  Every  one  knows 
what  were  the  consequences  of  Lord 
Falmerston's  impertinent  and  gratui- 
tous suggestions  to  the  crown  of 
Spain.  ''  What,"  said  Lord  Stanley, 
*^  is  the  state  of  our  relations  with 
that  court  ?  Ton  have  most  unwisdy, 
through  your  minister,  interfered  in 
the  internal  administration  of  the 
ai&drs  of  tiiat  country.  That  offence 
has  been  visited  by  the  Government 
of  that  counlary  upon  our  ministers  in 
a  manner  so  offensive  that,  great  as 
was  the  provocation  given  by  the 
British  nunister,  no  man  in  your 
Lordship's  House,  with  the  informar 
tion  we  possess,  could  stand  up 
and  say  that  the  Government  of 
Spain  was  justified  in  the  course 
they  had  pursued,  however  much 
the  maffuitude  of  the  offence  might 
have  puliated  it.  But  the  state  of 
affairs  in  Spain  is  this :  Tour  minis- 
ter has  been  ignominiously  drivenfirom 
Madrid,  and  jon  have  quietly  and 
tacitly  acquiesced  in  the  insult  which 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


866 


The  Opening  of  the  Session, 


[March, 


the  Spanish  Govemment  hare  put 
npon  you."  The  immediate  coDse- 
qoences  of  Minto  negotiation  in  Italy 
have  been  assassination  and  rebellion, 
the  flight  of  the  Pope  from  his  domi- 
nions, and  the  surrender  of  the  sacred 
city  to  the  anarchy  of  the  Clnb  pro- 
pagandists. But  perh^)s  the  worst 
instance  of  our  interference  is  that 
with  the  Neapolitan  and  Sicilian 
affairs.  We  have  thos  chosen  openly 
to  countenance  rebellion:  we  have 
gone  the  length  of  negotiating  with 
insurgents,  for  securing  them  an  inde- 
pendent government.  We  held  out  a 
threat,  which  we  did  not  dare  to  fulfil. 
After  menacing  the  King  of  Naples 
with  a  squadron  off  his  own  shores, 
apparently  to  prevent  the  expedi- 
tion then  prepared  from  setting  sail 
for  Sicily — and  thereby  encouraging 
the  insurgents  by  the  prospect  of 
British  aid— we  allowed  the  fleet  to 
sul,  the  war  to  begin,  the  city  of 
Messina  to  be  bombarded,  and  then, 
with  a  tardy  humanity,  we  interfered 
to  check  the  carnage.  In  consequence, 
we  are  blamed  and  detested  by  both 
parties.  The  Neapolitan  Grovemment 
reel  that  we  have  acted  towards  them 
in  a  manner  wholly  inconsistent  with 
the  character  of  an  ally ;  that  in 
negotiating  with  rebels,  as  we  have 
done,  we  have  absolutely  broken  faith, 
and  violated  honour ;  and  that  even 
our  last  interference  was  as  unprin- 
cipled as  our  first.  If  the  plea  of 
humanity  were  to  be  allowed  in  such 
cases,  where  would  be  the  end  of 
interference  ?  Durst  we  have  said  to 
Austria,  after  the  reoccupation  of 
Vienna,  "  You  have  taken  your 
city,  and  may  keep  it,  but  you  shall 
not  punish  the  rebels.  If  you  do, 
we  shall  interfere,  to  prevent  the 
horrors  of  military  execution  "  ?  We 
think  that  even  Lord  Palmerston, 
notwithstanding  his  itch  for  interpo- 
sition, would  have  hesitated  in  doing 
this.  Lord  Lansdowne,  in  tonchinff 
upon  the  subject  of  the  Austrian  and 
Hungarian  relations,  is  positively  con- 
servative in  his  tone.  According  to 
him,  the  British  cabinet  views  rebel- 
lion in  a  very  different  light,  according 
as  it  appears  in  the  centre  or  the 
south  of  Europe— on  the  banks  of  the 
Danube,  or  on  the  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean.  **As  regarded  the 
administration  of  the  internal  affah^ 


of  Austria  and  Hungary,  the  British 
Govemment  had  not  been  asked  to 
Interfere,  and  had  not  desired  to  inter- 
fere. They  contemplated,  as  all 
Europe  did,  with  that  feeling  which 
was  experienced  when  men  were  seen 
successfully  stru^ling  with  difiicul- 
ties,  a  contest  which  had  led  to  the 
display  of  so  much  lofty  character  oa 
the  part  of  individnais.  Had  this 
been  the  place,  he  (the  Marquis  of 
Lansdowne)  should  have  been  as 
ready  as  the  noble  lord  to  pay  his 
tribute  of  respect  to  individuals  who 
had  appeared  in  that  part  of  the  world, 
and  had  been  most  successful  in  their 
efforts  to  restore  the  glories  of  the 
Austrian  army  in  her  own  dominions. 
In  the  negotiations  between  the  Em^ 
peror  and  his  subjects  theg  had  no  right 
to  interfere^  neither  had  they  been 
invited  by  either  party."  This  is 
sound  doctrine,  we  admit,  but  why 
treat  Naples  otherwise  than  Austria? 
Had  we  any  right  to  interfere  in  the 
negotiations  between  the  King  of  the 
Two  Sicilies  and  his  subjects  ?  Not 
one  tittle  more  than  in  the  other  case ; 
and  we  beg  to  suggest  to  Lord  Pal- 
merston, whether  it  is  creditable  that 
this  country  should  be  considered  in 
the  light  of  a  bully  who  hesitates  not, 
in  the  case  of  a  lesser  power,  to  take 
liberties,  which  he  prudently  abstains 
from  domg  where  one  more  likely  to 
resent  such  unwarrantable  conduct  is 
concerned.  As  for  the  Sicilians,  they 
feel  that  they  have  been  betrayed. 
But  for  the  prospect  of  British  |up- 
port,  certainly  warranted  by  our  atti- 
tude, they  might  not  have  gone  so 
far,  nor  drawn  upon  their  heads  the 
terrible  retribution  which  overtook 
them.  Such  are  the  results  of  Pal- 
merstonian  interference,  at  once  dan- 
gerous, despicable,  and  humiliating. 

We  have  read  with  much  attention 
the  speech  of  Lord  John  Russell,  on 
the  first  night  of  the  Session,  explana- 
tory of  the  Italian  transactions ;  and 
we  must  say  that  his  vindication  of 
his  father-in-law  is  such  as  to  inspire 
us  with  a  devout  hope  that  the  noble 
buneler  may,  in  future,  be  forced  to 
confine  his  talents  for  intrigue  to  some 
sphere  which  does  not  involve  the 
general  tranquillity  of  Europe.  Con- 
sidering the  manner  in  which  we 
are  mScted  for  the  support  of  the 
Elliots,  we  are  hhij  entitled  to  ask 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


.  The  Opening  of  Hit  Session, 


the  hofluy  chief  of  tiiat  maraading  dan 
to  draw  his  salary  in  peace,  without 
Qodertakiog  the  task  of  fomenting  dvil 
discord  between  our  allied  powers  and 
thdr  subjects.  Bat  even  more  impor- 
tant b  the  sort  of  admission  pervad- 
ing the  address  of  the  Premier,  that 
our  interference  in  the  Sicilian  busi- 
ness was  regulated  by  the  views  en- 
tertained by  the  French  admiral.  Sir 
W.  Parker,  it  seems,  did  not  take  the 
initiative ;  it  was  not  his  finer  sense 
of  humanity  which  was  offended ;  for, 
according  to  Lord  John,  *^  when  that 
expedition  reached  Messina,  there 
took  pbice,  at  the  close  of  the  siege  of 
Messina,  events  which  appeared  so 
horrible  and  so  inhuman  in  the  eyes 
of  the  French  admiral  that  he  deter- 
mined to  iuterfere.  It  appeared  to  the 
French  admiral,  that  it  was  impossible 
such  a  warfare  could  continue  without 
an  utter  desolation  of  Sicily,  and  such 
alienation  from  the  Neapolitan  Gov- 
ernment, on  the  part  of  the  Siciliuis, 
that  no  final  terms  of  agreement  could 
arise ;  he  therefore  determined  to  take 
upon  himself  to  put  a  stop  to  the  fur- 
ther progress  of  such  a  horrible  war- 
fare. After  he  had  so  determined^  he 
commumcated  with  Sir  W.  Parker. 
Sir  W.  Parker  had  a  most  difiicult 
duty  to  perform ;  but,  taking  all  the 
circumstances  into  consideration,  our 
former  friendly  relations  with  the 
Sicilians  —  the  accounts  he  had  re- 
ceived from  the  captain  of  one  of  her 
Majestpr's  ships  then  at  Messina— the 
atrocities  he  heard  of,  and  that  ihe 
French  admiral  was  about  to  act — and 
that  it  was  important  at  that  juncture 
that  the  two  nations  should  act  in 
concert,  his  determination  was  to  give 
orders  similar  to  those  which  had  been 
given  by  the  French  admiral."  Now, 
although  we  are  fully  alive  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  maintaining  the  best  pos- 
sible understanding  with  the  fluctuat- 
ing French  governments,  and  exceed- 
ingly anxious  that  no  untoward  cause 
for  jealousy  should  arise,  we  do  not 
think  that  Lord  John's  explanation 
will  be  felt  as  satbfactory  by  the 
country.  It  appears  by  this  statement, 
that,  had  there  been  no  French  fleet 
there.  Sir  W.  Parker  would  not  have 
thought  himself  entitled  to  interfere. 
It  Is  because  the  French  admiral  was 
about  to  move  that  he  thought  fit  to 
move  likewise.     If  there  was  any 

VOL.  LXV.^KO.  CCCCI. 


367 

honour  in  the  transaction,  we  have 
forfeited  all  claim  to  it  by  this  avowal. 
If,  on  the  contrary,  there  was  any 
wrong  done,  we  excuse  it  only  by  the 
undignified  plea,  that  we  were  follow- 
ing the  example  of  France.  This  is  a 
new  position  for  Britain  to  assume — 
not,  m  our  eyes,  one  which  is  likely 
to  raise  us  in  Continental  estimation, 
or  to  support  the  prestige  of  our  mari- 
time supremacy.  To  quarrel  with 
our  allies  is  at  all  times  folly ;  to  vin- 
dicate interference  on  the  ground  of 
maintaining  a  good  understanding 
with  another  power,  is  scarce  conson- 
ant with  prindple,  and  betrays  a  con- 
scious weakness  on  the  part  of  those 
who  have  no  better  argument  to  ad- 
vance. 

See,  then,  how  we  are  situated  with 
the  foreign  powers.  Spain  is  alienated 
from  us — Austria  not  fervid  in  her 
love,  for  there  too,  it  would  seem,  we 
have  most  unnecessarily  interfered. 
We  are  detested  in  Naples  and  Sicily, 
unpopular  elsewhere  in  Italy,  mixed 
up  with  the  Schleswig  dispute,  and  on 
no  diplomatic  terms  with  Central 
Grermany.  Our  understanding  with 
France  has  fortunately  remained  ami- 
cable, but  we  neither  know  the  policy 
of  France,  nor  can  we  foresee  under 
what  circumstances  she  may  be  placed 
in  a  month  from  the  present  time.  Is 
this  a  peaceful  prospect  ?  Let  us  hear 
Lord  John  Russell,  whose  interest  it 
is  to  make  things  appear  in  as  favour- 
able a  light  as  possible: — *^  I  do  not 
contend  that  there  is  not  cause  for 
anxiety  in  the  present  state  of  Europe. 
I  am  far  from  thinking  that  the  revolu- 
tions which  took  place  last  year  have 
run  thehr  course,  and  that  every  nation 
in  which  they  occurred  can  now  be 
said  to  be  in  a  state  of  solid  security. 
I  reioice  as  mueh  as  an^  man  that  the 
ancient  empire  of  Austria,  our  old  ally, 
is  recovering  her  splendour,  and  is 
showing  her  strength  in  such  a  con- 
spicuous manner.  Still  I  cannot  forget 
that  there  are  many  questions  not  yet 
settled  with  regard  to  the  internal  in- 
stitutions of  Austria — that  the  question 
of  the  formation  of  what  the  honourable 
gentleman  (Mr  D*l8raeli)ha8  called  an 
empire  without  an  emperor,  is  still  in 
debate,  and  that  we  cannot  be  sure 
what  the  ultimate  result  of  these 
events  mav  be.  It  is  idso  true  that 
there  may  nave  been,  during  last  year, 
2a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


868 


TheCpmmg 


^ 


an  exMSS  of  appnhengion,  caused 
by  the  great  eTents  that  were  tak- 
ing place,  and  by  the  rising  op  of 
some  wild  theories,  pretending  to 
fonnd  the  happiness  of  the  state 
and  of  mankind  on  visionary  and  nn- 
sonnd  specvlations,  on  which  the  hap- 
piness of  no  people  or  conntry  can 
ever  be  foonded.  We  have  seen 
these  opinions  prevail  in  many  conn- 
tries  to  a  considerable  extent ;  and  no 
one  can  say  that  events  may  not,  at 
some  unforeseen  moment,  take  an  nn- 
fortonate  tnm  for  the  peace  and 
tranqniility  of  Eorope."  These  are 
sensible  views,  moderately  bnt  fairly 
stated ;  and  we  ask  nothing  more  than 
that  his  lordsbip*s  measures  should  be 
framed  in  accordance  with  a  belief 
which  is  not  only  his,  bnt  is  enter- 
tained by  every  man  of  ordinary 
capacity  throughout  the  country. 
Experience  has  shown  us  that  war  is 
almost  invariably  preceded  by  revolu- 
tion. These  are  not  days  in  which 
potentates  can  assemble  their  armies, 
march  across  their  frontiers  without 
palpable  cause  of  offence,  and  seize 
upon  the  territory  of  their  neighbours. 
Bnt  for  the  spirit  of  innovation,  rest- 
lessness, and  lust  of  change,  never 
more  generally  exhibited  than  now 
amongst  the  people,  the  world  would 
remain  at  peace.  It  is  only  when,  as 
in  the  case  of  Germany  and  Italy,  the 
sceptre  is  wrenched  from  the  hands  of 
the  constitutional  authorities,  and 
when  the  rule  of  demagogues  and  ex- 
perimentalists commences,  that  the 
danger  of  war  begins.  At  such  a  time, 
there  are  no  settled  principles  of  polity 
or  of  action.  Crude  theories  are  pro- 
duced, and,  for  a  time,  perhaps,  acted 
upon  as  though  they  were  sound 
realities.  Men  adopt  vague  and 
general  terms  as  their  watchwords, 
and  strive  to  shape  out  constitutions 
to  be  reared  upon  these  utterly  un- 
substantial foundations.  Laws  are 
changed,  and  the  executive  loses  its 
power.  All  is  anarchy  and  confusion, 
until,  by  common  consent  of  those 
who  still  retain  some  portion  of  their 
senses,  military  despotism  is  called 
in  to  strangle  the  new-bom  license. 
This  is  a  state  of  matters  which 
usually  results  in  war.  The  dominant 
authorities  feel  that  their  hold  of 
public  opinion  is  most  precarlons, 
naless  they  can  contrive  to  give  that 


ofik€Ss$$iim.  CKarcb, 

opiaion  an  impulse  in  notber  diree- 
tion,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to 
employ,  in  some  way  or  other,  those 
multitudes  whom  rev<^ntion  has 
driven  from  the  arts  and  oocupatimia 
of  peace,  and  who,  unless  so  provided 
for,  immediately  degenerate  into  con- 
spirators at  home.  War  is  sometimes 
resorted  to  as  the  means  of  avoidiiig 
revolution.  The  disturbed  state  of 
the  north  of  Italy  furnished  Obarles 
Albert  with  a  pretext  for  marching 
his  army  on  Milan,  as  much,  we  be- 
lieve, on  account  of  the  revolutionary 
spirit  rife  within  his  own  dominions, 
as  from  any  decided  hope  of  territorial 
aggrandisement.  This  was  the  policy 
of  Napoleon,  who  pafectly  under- 
stood the  character  of  the  people  he 
had  to  deal  with,  and  who  acted  on  the 
thorough  conviction  that  war  was  the 
necessary  consequence  of  revolution. 
We  do  not  say  that,  in  the  present  in- 
stances, such  calamitous  results  are 
inevitable — ^we  have  hope  that  France 
may  this  time  achieve  a  permanent 
constitution  without  having  recourse 
to  aggression.  At  the  same  time,  it 
would  be  folly  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the 
fact  that,  throughout  a  g^reat  part  of 
Europe,  the  old  boundaries  have  been 
grievously  disturbed;  and  that  the 
modem  system  of  intervention  has  a 
decided  tendency  to  provoke  war,  at 
periods  when  the  popular  mind  is 
raised  to  a  pitch  of  extraordinary 
violence,  and  when  the  passions  are 
so  keenly  excited  as  to  disregard  the 
appeals  of  reason. 

These  considerations  are  not  only 
directed  towards  the  course  of  our 
foreign  policy;  they  are  of  vast 
moment  in  judging  of  the  expediency 
of  reducing  our  forces  at  this  particular 
time.  Last  year,  with  no  revolutions 
abroad,  the  Whigs  not  only  refased  to 
lessen  the  amount  of  our  standing 
army,  but  increased  it.  This  year, 
when  the  Continent  is  still  in  a  state 
of  insurrection,  and  when  war  is  pend- 
ing in  different  parts  of  Europe — 
when,  moreover,  an  Indian  contest, 
more  serious  in  its  aspect  than  any 
other  which  we  have  recently  seen,  has 
commenced — they  propose  to  begin 
the  work  of  reduction.  Her  Majesty 
is  made  to  say, — *^The  present  aspect 
of  affairs  has  enabled  me  to  make 
large  reductions  on  the  estimates  of 
lastyearl** 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


TkeOpemngo/AeSeaiim. 


869 


We  aerer  haye  sospected  Lord 
Jobn  Rossell  of  possessing  much  ac- 
complishment in  the  art  of  logic ;  but, 
realljr,  in  the  present  instance,  he  has 
the  merit  of  inventing  a  new  system. 
According  to  his  own  showing,  accord- 
ing to  his  recorded  admissions,  his 
d<^trine  is  this :  In  time  of  peace, 
when  th^re  is  no  occasion  for  arma- 
ments, increase  them ;  in  time  of 
threatened  war  and  actual  disturbance, 
when  there  maj  be  every  occasion 
for  them,  let  them  be  reduced.  Yet 
perhaps  we  are  wrong:  Sir  Robert 
Peel  may  possibly  be  admitted  as 
the  author  of  this  vast  discovery — ^iu 
which  case,  Lord  John  can  merely 
rank  as  a  distinguished  pupil.  The 
astute  baronet,  in  his  zeal  fbr  com- 
mercial convulsions,  has  taught  us  to 
expand  our  currency  when  there  is 
no  money-fomine,  and  to  contract  it 
in  the  case  of  exigency.  Whether 
Califomian  facts  may  not  hereafter 
get  the  better  of  Tamworth  theories, 
we  shall  not  at  the  present  moment 
stop  to  inquire.  In  the  mean  time  let 
us  confine  our  attention  to  the  pro- 
posed reductions. 

We  are  therefore  compelled— reluc- 
tantly, for  we  had  hoped  better  things 
firom  men  styling  themselves  British 
statesmen— to  adopt  the  view  of  Lord 
Stanley,  in  his  powerful  and  masteriy 
<Mtimate  of  the  policy  of  the  pre- 
sent Government.  **In  the  fkce  of 
all  this,"  said  the  noble  lord,  after 
recapitulating  the  posture  of  affairs 
at  home  and  abroad,  ^^  ministers 
have  had  the  confidence  to  place  in 
the  mouth  of  their  sovereign  the 
astounding  declaration,  that  the  as- 
pect of  affairs  is  such  as  to  enable 
them  to  eflfect  large  reductions  in  the 
estimates.  I  venture  to  state,  openly 
and  fearlessly,  that  it  is  not  the  as- 
pect of  affiEurs  abroad  or  In  Ireland, 
but  the  aspect  of  affairs  in  another 
place,  which  has  induced  the  govern- 
ment to  make  reductions.  /  believe 
that  lft«y  heme  no  aliemative  but  to  do 
^  ^ey  are  ordered.^^  Here,  then,  is 
/the  first  yielding  to  the  new  move- 
pent — the  first  step  taken,  at  the 
Ji>ldding  of  the  Leaguers,  towards  a 
bolicy  which  has  for  its  avowed  end 
/the  abandonment  of  the  colonies! 
jThe  question  naturally  arises— ^rhere 
( is  to  be  the  end  of  these  concessions  ? 
)  Axe  we  in  feaH^  ruled  b J  a  Manchea- 


ter  fiietion,  or  by  a  body  of  men  of 
free  and  independent  opinions,  who 
hold  their  commissions  from  the 
Queen,  and  who  are  sworn  to  uphold 
the  interests  and  dignity  of  their  mis- 
tress and  of  the  realm  ?  Let  us  see 
who  compose  that  faction,  what  are 
their  principles,  what  are  their  inte- 
rests, and  what  means  they  employ  to 
work  out  the  ends  which  they  pro- 
pose. The  splendid  speech  of  Mr 
b^Israeli,  in  moving  his  amendment 
to  the  address — a  speech  which  we 
hesitate  not  to  say  is  superior  to  any 
of  his  former  efforts,  and  which  dis- 
plays an  ability  at  the  present  time 
unequalled  in  the  House  of  Commons 
— a  speech  not  more  eloquent  than 
true,  not  more  glowing  in  its  rhetoric 
than  clear  and  conclusive  in  its  logical 
deductions — has  told  with  withering 
eflfect  upon  the  new  democratic  fac- 
tion, and  has  exposed  the  ministry 
which  bows  before  it  to  the  contumely 
of  the  nation  at  large.  "  I  am  told," 
sud  the  honourable  member,  *^  that 
England  must  be  contented  with  a 
lesser  demonstration  of  brute  force. 
I  am  not  prepared  to  contradict  that  # 
doctrine;  but  I  should  like  to  have 
a  clear  definition  of  what  brute  force 
is.  In  my  opinion,  a  highly  disci- 
plined army,  employed  in  a  great  per- 
formance—that of  the  defence  of  the 
country,  the  maintenance  of  order, 
the  vindication  of  a  nation*s  honour, 
or  the  consolidation  of  national  wealth 
and  greatness— that  a  body  of  men 
thus  disciplined,  influenced  and  led 
by  some  of  the  most  eminent  generals 
—by  an  Alexander,  a  Cassar,  or  a 
Wellesley — is  one  in  which  moral 
force  is  as  much  entered  into  as  phy- 
sical. But  if,  for  instance,  I  find  a 
man  possessing  a  certain  facility  of 
speech,  happily  adapted  to  his  cause, 
addressing  a  great  body  of  his  fellow- 
men  in  idammatory  appeals  to  their 
passions,  and  sthrring  them  up  against 
the  institutions  of  the  country,  that  is 
what  I  call  brute  force — ^whlch  I 
think  the  country  would  be  very  well 
content  to  do  without,  and  which,  if 
there  be  any  sense  or  spirit  left  in 
men,  or  any  men  of  right  feeling  in 
the  country,  they  will  resolve  to  put 
down  as  an  intolerable  and  ignomi- 
nious tyranny !  I  have  often  obswy^  ^, 
ed  that  tiie  hangers-on  of  the  aP^ 
system  are  highly  fond  of  questior 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


870 


The  Opening  of  Hie  Session, 


[March, 


the  apothegm  of  a  great  Swedish  mi- 
nister, who  said,  *  With  how  little 
wisdom  a  nation  may  be  governed  !* 
My  observations  for  the  last  few  years 
have  led  me  to  the  condnslon,  not 
exactly  similar,  but  analogous  to  that 
remark ;  and  if  ever  I  should  be  bless- 
ed with  offspring,  instead  of  using  the 
words  of  the  Swedish  statesman,  I 
would  rather  address  my  son  in  this 
way,  *  My  son,  see  with  how  much 
ignorance  you  can  agitate  a  nation  I* 
Yes!  but  the  Queens  Ministers  are 
truckling  to  these  men !  That  is  the 
position  of  affairs.  Her  Majesty's 
Ministers  have  yielded  to  public  opi- 
nion. Public  opinion  on  the  Conti- 
nent has  turned  out  to  be  the  voice  of 
secret  societies;  and  public  opinion 
in  England  is  the  voice  and  clamour 
of  organised  clubs.  Her  Majesty's 
Ministers  have  yielded  to  public  opi- 
nion as  a  tradesman  does  who  is  de- 
tected in  an  act  of  overcharge — he 
yields  to  public  opinion  when  he  takes 
a  less  sum.  So  the  financial  affairs 
of  this  country  are  to  be  arranged, 
not  upon  principles  of  high  policy,  or 
#  from  any  impenal  considerations,  but 
because  there  is  an  unholy  pressure 
from  a  minority  which  demands  it, 
and  who  have  a  confidence  of  success 
because  they  know  that  they  have 
already  beaten  two  Prime  Ministers." 
No  one  who  has  perused  the  report 
of  the  proceedings  at  the  late  free- 
trade  dinner  at  Manchester  can  have 
failed  to  remark  that  the  League  is 
still  alive  and  active.  It  was  not  for 
mere  purposes  of  jubilation,  for  the 
sake  of  congratulating  each  other  on 
the  accomplishment  of  their  old  object, 
that  these  men  assembled.  Exulta- 
tion there  was  indeed,  and  some  not 
over-prudent  disclosures  as  to  the  na- 
ture and  extent  of  the  machinery 
which  thev  had  employed,  and  the 
agencies  they  had  used  to  excite  one 
dass  of  the  conmiunity  against  the 
other ;  their  inveterate  hatr^  towards 
the  aristocracy  and  landed  gentry  of 
Great  Britain  was  shown  in  the  dia- 
tribes of  almost  eveiT  one  of  the  com- 
mercial orators.  "  We  cannot,"  says 
The  Times,  "  but  regret  that  in  those 
portions  of  the  Manchester  speeches 
which  refer  to  their  corn-law  achieve- 
ments, the  minds  of  the  speakers  ap- 
pear still  imbitteredwith  dass  hatred, 
and  feelings  of  misplaced  animosity 


towards    their   fellow-countrymen." 
"As  a  people,"  quoth  Friend  John 
Bright,  *'  we  have  found  out  we  have 
some  power.   We  have  discovered  we 
were  not  bom  with  saddles  on  our 
backs,  and  country  gentlemen  with 
spurs."    Ulterior  objects  are  not  only 
hinted  at,  but  dearly  and  broadly  pro- 
pounded. The  population  of  the  towns 
is  again  to  be  pitted  against  that  of 
the  counties,  and  the  counties,  if  pos- 
sible, to  be  swamped  bv  an  inunda- 
tion of  urban  voters.    The  banquet  of 
Wednesday  was  followed  by  the  fin- 
ancial meeting  of  Thursday.    George 
Wilson,  the  ancient  president  of  the 
Anti-Com-Law  League,  occupied  the 
chair.    Bright  and  Cobden,  the  Bitias 
and  Pandams  of  the  cotton-spinners, 
moved  the  first  of  a  series  of  resolu- 
tions :  and  an  association  was  formed, 
"  for  maintaining  an  effident  care  over 
the  registration  of  electors  in  boroughs 
and  counties,  and  to  promote  the  in- 
crease of  the  county  dectors  by  the 
extension  of  the  forty-shilling  fireehold 
franchise."     It  was  further  agreed 
*  *  that  the  SBSodation  should  co-operate 
with  similar  associations  throughout 
the  country,  and  that  parties  sub- 
scribing £10  annually  shall  be  mem- 
bers of  the  council,  together  with  such 
persons,  being  membc^  of  the  associ- 
ation, as  shall  be  elected  by  any  vote 
of  the  council."    We  hope  that  these 
announcements  will  open  the  eyes  of 
those  who  thought  that  by  yidding  to 
the  former  agitation  they  were  adopt- 
ing the  best  means  of  bringing  it  to  a 
dose.    Agitation  never  is  so  quieted. 
The  experiment  has  been  made  in 
Ireland  until  further  yidding  was  im- 
possible ;  and  so  will  it  be  in  Britain,  if 
a  higher,  a  bolder,  and  a  more  stead- 
fast line  of  policy  should  not  be  adopt- 
ed by  future  governments.    From  the 
present  Cabinet  we  expect  nothing. 
Their  mvariable  course  is  to  yidd;  for 
they  neither  have  the  ability  to  devise 
measures  forthemsdves,  northepnblic 
virtue  to  resist  unconstitutional  en- 
croachments.   For  where  is  the  con- 
stitution of  this  country,  if  we  are  to 
be  practically  governed  by  Leagues,  by 
huge  dubs  with  their  ramifications  ex- 
tending, as   in  France,   throughout 
every  town  of  the  empire,  and  secretly 
worked  according  to  the  will  of  an 
inscrutable  and  nnacmpiilons  coun- 
cil ?  Public  opinion,  as  we  understood 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 

the  phrase  in  Britain,  manifested  itself 
In  Parliament ;  now,  we  are  told,  that 
itis  something  else — ^thatit  is  the  voice 
(Mf  dnbs  and  assemblies  withoat. 
Very  well,  and  very  powerfully  did 
Mr  D'Israeli  allude  to  this  system  of 
organisation  in  the  dose  of  his  ani- 
mated speech : — 

**  I  hare  noticed  the  omde  and  hostile 
speculations  that  are  afloat,  especially  re- 
spectine  financial  reform,  not  onlyhecause 
I  consider  them  to  he  very  dangerous  to 
the  country;  not  only  beoaas*,  according 
to  rumour,  they  hare  converted  the  6ot- 
emment;  but  becanae,  avowedly  on  the 
part  of  their  promulgatora,  they  are  only 
tending  to  ultimate  efforts.  This  I  must 
Bay  of  the  new  roTolutionary  movementi 
that  its  proceedinffs  are  characterised  by 
frank  audacity.  They  have  already  me- 
naced the  church,  and  they  have  scarcely 
spared  the  throne.  They  have  denounced 
the  constitutional  estates  of  the  realm  as 
antiquated  and  oumbrons  machinery,  not 
adapted  to  the  present  day.  No  doubt, 
for  the  expedition  of  business,  the  Finan- 
cial Reform  Association  presents  greater 
facilities  than  the  House  of  Commons.  It 
is  true  that  it  may  be  long  before  there  are 
any  of  those  collisions  of  argument  and 
intellect  among  them  which  we  hare 
here  ;  they  have  no  discussions  and  no 
doubts;  but  still  I  see  no  part  of  the  go- 
a-head  system  which  is  likely  to  super- 
sede the  sagacity  and  matured  wisdom  of 
EIngHsh  institutions;  and  so  long  as  the 
English  legislature  is  the  chosen  temple 
of  f^ee  discussion,  I  hare  no  fear,  what- 
ever party  may  be  in  power,  that  the 
people  of  England  will  be  in  favour  of  the 
new  societies.  I  know  very  well  the  dif- 
ficulties which  we  have  to  encounter — 
the  dangers  which  illumine  the  dis- 
tance. The  honourable  gentleman,  who 
is  the  chief  originator  of  this  movement, 
made  a  true  obserration  when  he  frankly 
and  Areely  said,  that  the  best  chance  for 
the  new  revolution  lay  in  the  dislocation 
of  parties  in  this  House.  I  told  you  that, 
when  I  ventured  to  address  some  cheer- 
▼ations  to  the  honae  almoet  in  the  last 
hour  of  the  last  session.  I  saw  the  diffi- 
cnlty  which  such  a  state  of  things  would 
inevitably  prodace.  But  let  us  not  des- 
pair; we  have  a  duty  to  perform,  and, 
notwithstanding  all  that  has  occurred,  we 
have  still  the  inspiration  of  a  great  cause. 
We  stand  here  to  uphold  not  only  the 
throne,but  the  empire;  to  vindicate  tiie  in- 
dustrial privileges  of  the  working  classes; 
to  reconstruct  the  colonial  system;  to 
uphold  the  church,  no  longer  assailed 
by  appropriation  clauses,  bat  by  viiored 
l»et ;  and  to  maintain  the  majesty  of 


The  Opemng  of  (he  Seuian* 


371 

parliament  against  the  Jacobin  man- 
oeuvres of  Lancashire.  This  is  a  stance 
not  lightly  to  be  lost.  At  any  rate,  I 
would  sooner  my  tongue  were  paLiied  be- 
fore I  counselled  the  people  of  Ilngland 
to  lower  their  tone.  Yes,  I  would  sooner 
quit  this  House  for  ever  than  I  would  say 
to  the  people  of  England  that  they  over- 
rated their  position.  I  leave  that  delicate 
intimation  to  the  fervid  patriotism  of  the 
gentlemen  of  the  new  school.  For  my 
part,  I  denounce  their  politics,  and  I  defy 
their  predictions;  but  I  do  so  because  I 
have  faith  in  the  people  of  England,  their 
genius,  and  their  destiny  !*' 

Our  views  therefore  are  simply 
these  —  that  while  it  is  the  duty  of 
government  to  enforce  and  practise 
economy  in  every  department  of  the  pnb  - 
lie  service,  they  are  not  entitled,  upon 
any  consideration  whatever,  to  palter 
with  the  public  safety.  We  cannot, 
until  the  estimates  are  brought  for- 
ward, pronounce  any  judgment  upon 
the  merits  of  the  proposed  reductions 
— we  cannot  tell  whether  these  are  to 
be  numerical,  or  effected  on  another 
principle.  Needless  expenditure  we 
deprecate  as  strongly  as  the  most 
sturdy  adherent  of  the  League,  and 
we  expect  and  hope  that  in  several 
departments  there  will  be  a  saving, 
not  because  that  has  been  clamoured 
for,  but  because  the  works  which 
occasioned  the  outlay  have  been  com- 
pleted. For  example,  the  introduc- 
tion of  steam  vessels  into  our  navy 
has  cost  a  large  sum,  which  may  not 
be  required  in  future.  But  to  assign, 
as  ministers  have  done,  the  position  of 
affairs  abroad  as  a  reason  for  redudng 
our  armaments,  is  ntterly  preposter- 
ous. It  is  a  miserable  pretext  to  cover 
thehr  contemptible  truckling,  and  we 
are  perfectly  sure  that  it  will  be  appre- 
ciated throughout  the  countnr  at  its 
proper  value.  It  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  these  estimates  can  be  reduced 
so  low  as  to  meet  the  expenditure  of 
the  country.  Our  own  opinion  is,  that 
they  cannot,  without  impairing  the 
efficiency  of  either  branch  of  the  ser- 
vice ;  and  we  hardly  think  that  minis- 
ters will  venture  to  go  so  far. 

Let  us,  at  all  events,  hope  that  Lord 
John  Russell  and  his  colleagues  are 
not  so  lost  to  the  sense  of  their  duty, 
as  to  make  the  sweeping  reduction 
which  the  Manchester  poOtidans  de- 
mand —  that  they  will  not  consent  to 
renounce  the  colonies,  or  to  leave  them 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TlUCpmi^qflk^Smtioii. 


r  ■ 
•s 


^eooaglii  over  tnd  orer  afaio,  to 
^t  US  to  rellnqniah  oar  defence  of 

^ *t  tbey  called  an  Mitiqnated  and 

""^^^  ^-ont  theory.  Their  supplications 
^^    "We  score  hare  been  so  coatinnoos 
^to  become  absolntelj  painful ;  nor 
^f^     ^mld  we  well  tmderstand  why  and 
"  *    *  nerefore   they  should  be  so  very 
J^  ^-jlicitons  for  our  silence.    Our  wcMrst 
'    ^^-oemies  cannot  accuse  us  <^  adro- 
^  «ting  any  dangerous  innovations  : 
.^our  preachment  may  be  tedious,  but, 
^<  .«t  all  events,  we  do  not  take  the  field 
«<-«  ftt  the  h€»d  of  an  organised  assocta- 
« -A  tioD.    Neither  can  we  be  blamed  for 
BT.-i^  sectary  restiveness,  for  we  do  not 
mtr    stand  alone  in  the  utterance  of  such 
opinions.    The  puUic  press  of  this 
r--    country  has  nobly  fought  the  battle. 
^*     We  have  had  to  cope  with  dexterous 
^      and  skilled  opponents ;  but  never,  upon 
1      any  public  question,  has  a  great  cause 
1      been  maintained  more  unnincfaingly, 
V       more  disinterestedly,  and  more  ably, 
than  that  of  the  true  Conservative 
party  by  the  free  Conservative  press. 
We  are  now  glad  to  see  that  our  de- 
nunciations of  the  new  system  have 
not   been   altogether  without  their 
effect.    The  temporary  failure  of  free 
trade  has  been  conceded  even  by  its 
advocates;  but  we  are  referred  to 
accidental  canses  for  that  failure,  and 
the  entrtaty  now  is,  to  give  the  system 
a  longer  triaL    We  have  no  manner 
of  ol^ction  to  this,  provided  we  are 
BOi  asked  to  snbmit  to  any  further 
experiments.      We    desire   nothing 
better  than  that  the  people  of  Great 
Britain,  be  they  agriculturists,  or  be 
tbey  tradesmen,;  should  have  the  op- 
portunity of  testing  by  experience 
the  blessings  of  the  free-trade  sys- 
tem.   The  first  dass,  indeed,  do  not 
xequire  any  probationary  period  of  low 
prices  to  strengthen  their  conviction 
of  the  fallacy  of  the  anti-reciprocity 
system,  or  of  the  iniquity  of  the  ar- 
rangement which  compels  them   to 
support  the  enormous  amount  of  pau- 
pwism  engendered  by  the  over  amount 
of  population,  systematically  encour- 
aged by  the  manufacturers.      ''The 
manufacturers,"  said  Lord  Brougham, 
**do  not,  perhaps,  tell  the  world  that 
they  manufacture  other  things  besides 
cotton  twist;    but    every   one   who 
knew  anything  of  them,  knew  that 
they  manufactured  paupers.     Where 
the  land  produced  one  pauper,  mann- 


3r$ 

factmrers  created  half-m-dSMDw"  Still 
we  can  hardly  expect  to  be  thoroughly 
emancipated  from  the  effects  of  tho 
great  delusion,  until  men  of  every  sort 
and  quality  are  practically  convinced 
that  their  interests  have  been  sacrificed 
to  the  selfish  objects  of  a  base  and 
sordid  confederation.  We  have  no 
wish  to  hark  back  without  occasion,  or 
prematurely,  to  the  com  laws :  but, 
at  the  same  time,  we  are  not  of  the 
number  of  those  who  think  that  sub- 
sequent events  have  justified  the  wis- 
dom of  the  measure.  If  the  loyalty 
of  the  people  of  Great  Britain  did 
really  rest  upon  so  very  narrow  a 
point,  that,  even  amidst  the  rocking 
and  crashing  of  thrones  and  constitu- 
tions upon  the  Continent,  ours  would 
have  been  endangered  by  the  main- 
tenance of  the  former  law,  we  should 
still  have  reason  to  despair  of  the  ul- 
timate destinies  of  the  country.  Are 
we  to  understand  that,  in  such  a  case, 
the  Jacobin  faction  would  have  had 
recourse  to  arms — that  the  Manchester 
League  would  have  preached  rebel- 
lion, or  excited  its  ad^rents  to  insur- 
rection? If  not  this,  where  would 
have  been  the  danger?  Kever  was 
any  question  agitated  in  which  the 
mass  of  the  operatives  took  less  in- 
terest than  in  the  repeal  of  the  com 
laws.  They  knew  well  that  no  benefit 
was  thereby  intended  to  be  conferred 
upon  Uiem — that  no  philanthropic 
motives  contributed  to  the  erection  of 
tiie  basaars — that  the  millions  of 
popular  tracts  were  poured  forth  from 
no  cornucopia  of  popular  plenty.  The 
very  fwty  that  the  hard  and  griping 
men  <^  calico  were  so  liberal  with 
their  subscriptions  to  promote  an 
agrarian  change,  was  sufilcient  of  it- 
self to  create  a  strong  suspicion  in 
their  minds ;  for  when  was  the  purse 
of  the  taskmaster  ever  produced,  save 
firom  a  motive  of  selfish  interest  ?  We 
will  not  do  the  masses  of  the  British 
population  the  foul  injustice  to  believe 
that,  under  any  drcumstsnoes,  tbey 
would  have  emulated  the  frantic  ex- 
ample of  the  French.  Cobden  has 
not  yet  the  power  of  his  friend  and 
correspondent  Cremieux:  he  is  a 
wordy  patriot,  but  nothing  more ;  and, 
even  had  he  been  inclined  for  mischief, 
we  do  not  believe  that,  beyond  the  im- 
mediate pale  of  his  confederates,  any 
considerable   portion   of  the  nation 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


374 


The  Opening  of&e  Session, 


[March; 


would  readily  have  rallied  round  the 
standard  of  such  a  Gracchus,  even 
though  the  tricolor  stripes  had  been  dis- 
played on  a  field  of  the  choicest  calico. 

^^  The  com  law  is  asettled  question  1 " 
so  shout  the  free-traders  daily,  in  high 
wrath  and  dadgeon  if  any  one  even 
ventures  to  allude  to  agricultural  dis- 
tress. We  grant  the  fact.  It  is  a 
settled  question,  like  every  other  which 
has  been  decided  by  the  legislature, 
and  it  must  remain  a  settled  question 
until  the  legislatm'e  chooses  to  reopen 
it.  We  do  not  expect  any  such  con- 
summation for  a  long  time.  We 
agr6e  perfectly  with  the  other  party, 
that  it  is  folly  to  continue  skirmishing 
after  the  battle  is  over,  and  we  do  not 
propose  to  adopt  any  such  tactics. 
We  are  content  to  wait  until  the  ex- 
periment is  developed,  to  see  how  the 
system  works,  and  to  accept  it  if  it 
works  well;  but  not  on  that  account 
shall  we  less  oppose  the  free-traders 
when  they  advance  to  further  innova- 
tions. The  repeal  of  the  com  laws 
was  not  the  whole,  but  a  mere  branch 
of  the  free-trade  policy.  It  was  un- 
doubtedly the  branch  more  calculated 
than  any  other  to  depress  the  agricul- 
tural interest,  but  the  trial  of  it  has 
been  postponed  longer  than  the  free- 
traders expected.  They  shall  have 
the  benefit  of  that  circumstance ;  nor 
shall  we  say  one  word  out  of  season 
upon  the  subject.  But  perhaps,  re- 
ferring again  to  the  Queen*s  speech, 
and  selecting  this  time  for  our  text  those 
paragraphs  which  stated  that  ^*  com- 
merce is  reviving,^'  and  that  ^^the 
condition  of  the  manufacturing  dis- 
tricts is  likewise  more  encouraging 
than  it  has  been  for  a  considerable 
period,"  we  may  be  allowed  to  oflfer  a 
few  observations. 

We  do  not  exactly  understand 
what  her  Majesty's  ministers  mean  by 
the  revival  of  commerce.  This  is  a 
general  statement  which  it  is  verv 
easy  to  make,  and  proportionally  iif- 
ficolt  to  deny.  If  they  mean  that 
our  exports  during  the  last  half  year 
have  increased,  we  can  understand 
them,  and  very  glad  indeed  we  are  to 
leara  that  such  is  the  case.  For  al- 
though we  have  seen  of  late  some 
elaborate  arguments,  tending,  if  they 
have  any  meanins  at  all,  to  show  that 
our  imports  and  not  our  exports 
should  be  taken  as  the  true  measure 


of  the  national  prosperity,  we  have 
that  faith  in  the  simple  rules  of  arith- 
metic which  forbids  us  from  adopting 
such  reasoning.  But  our  gladness  at 
receiving  such  a  cheering  sentiment 
from  the  highest  possible  authority  is 
a  good  deal  damped  by  the  result  of 
the  investigatioiis  which  we  have 
thought  it  our  duty  to  make.  We 
have  gone  over  the  tables  minutely, 
and  we  find  that  the  exports  of  the 
great  staples  of  our  industry-— cotton, 
woollen,  silk,  linen,  hardware,  and 
earthenware— were  of  less  value  than 
those  of  1847  by  four  miixions  and 
A  DALF,  and  less  than  those  of  1846 
by  a  sum  exceeding  five  bcillions 
AND  A  HALF.  With  such  a  fact  before 
us,  can  it  be  wondered  at  if  we  are 
cantions  of  receiving  such  unqualified 
statements,  and  exceedingly  doubtful 
of  the  good  faith  of  the  men  who 
make  them  ? 

But,  perhaps,  this  is  not  the  sense 
in  which  ministers  understand  com- 
merce. They  are  entitled  to  congra- 
tulate the  country  upon  one  sort  of 
improvement,  which  certainly  was  not 
owing  to  any  efibrts  upon  their  part. 
We  have  at  last  emerged  from  the 
monetary  crisis,  induced  by  the  un- 
happy operation  of  the  Banking  Re- 
striction Act,  and,  in  this  way,  com- 
merce certainly  has  improved.  The 
fact  that  such  a  change  in  the  distri- 
bution of  the  precious  metals  should 
have  taken  place  whilst  our  exports 
were  steadily  declining,  is  very  in- 
structive, because  it  dearly  demon- 
strates the  false  and  artificial  nature 
of  our  present  monetary  system.  The 
consequences,  however,  may  be 
serious,  as  the  price  of  the  British 
funds  cannot  now  be  taken  as  an 
index  of  the  prosperity  of  the  country, 
either  in  its  agricultural  or  its  manu- 
facturing capacity,  but  has  merely 
relation  to  the  possession  of  a  certain 
quantity  of  bullion.  The  rise  of  the 
funds,  therefore,  does  not  impress  us 
with  anv  confidence  that  there  has 
been  a  healthy  revival  in  the  com- 
merce of  the  country.  We  cannot 
consider  the  question  of  commerce 
apart  from  the  condition  of  the  manu- 
facturing districts ;  and  it  is  to  that 
quarter  we  must  look,  in  order  to  test 
Uie  value  of  the  free-trade  experi- 
ments. 

We  have  already  noticed  the  enor- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S49.] 


The  Opening  of^e  S^mn, 


376 


moos  decrease,  daring  tbe  last  three 
jears,  in  the  annual  amount  of  our 
exports.  This,  conpled  with  the  im- 
mense  increase  of  imported  articles  of 
foreign  manufacture,  proves  very 
clearly  that  the  British  manufacturer 
has  as  yet  derived  no  bene6t  from  the 
free- trade  measures.  We  do  not,  of 
course,  mean  to  say  that  free  trade 
has  had  any  tendency  to  lessen  our 
exports,  though  to  cripple  the  colonies 
is  certainly  not  the  way  to  augment 
their  capabilities  of  consumption. 
We  merely  point  to  the  fact  of  the 
continued  decrease,  even  in  the  staples 
of  British  industry,  as  a  proof  of  the 
utter  fruitlessness  of  the  attempt  to 
take  the  markets  of  the  world  by 
storm.  We  are  told,  indeed,  of  ex- 
ceptional causes  which  have  interfered 
with  the  experiment;  but  these  causes, 
even  allowingthem  their  fullest  possible 
operation,  are  in  no  way  commensu- 
rate with  the  results.  For  be  it  re- 
marked, that  the  free-trade  measures 
contemplated  this  result, — that  in- 
creased imports  were  to  be  compen- 
sated by  an  enormous  augmentation 
of  exports :  in  other  word^,  that  we 
were  to  meet  with  perfect  reciprocity 
from  every  foreign  nation.  Now, 
admitting  that  exceptional  causes  ex- 
isted to  check  and  restrain  this  aug- 
mentation, can  we  magnify  these  to 
such  an  extent  as  to  explain  the 
phenomenon  of  a  steady  and  deter- 
mined fall  in  our  staple  exports,  and 
that  long  before  the  occurrence  of  civil 
war  or  insurrection  on  the  continent 
of  Europe?.  The  explanation  is  just 
this, — the  exports  fell  because  the 
markets  abroad  were  glutted,  and  be- 
cause no  state  is  disposed  to  imitate 
tbe  suicidal  example  of  Britain,  or  to 
sacrifice  its  own  rising  industry  for 
the  sake  of  encouraging  foreigners. 
What  inducement,  it  may  be  asked, 


has  any  state  in  the  worid  to  follow 
in  our  wake?  Let  us  take  for  ex- 
ample Germany,  to  whose  markets  we 
send  annually  about  six  millions  and 
a  naif  of  manufactures.  Grermany 
has  considerable  manufactures  of  her 
own,  which  give  employment  to  a 
large  portion  of  the  population. 
Would  it  be  wise  in  the  Germans, 
for  the  sake  of  reducing  the  price 
either  of  linen,  cotton,  or  woollen 
goods  by  an  infinitesmal  degree,  to 
throw  all  these  people  idle,  and  to 
paralyse  labour  in  every  department, 
whenever  they  could  be  undersold  by 
a  foreign  artisan  ?  Undoubtedly  not. 
Germany  has  nothing  whatever  to 
gain  by  pursuing  such  a  course.  The 
British  market  is  open  to  her,  but  she 
does  not  on  that  account  relax  her  right 
of  laying  duties  upon  imports  from 
Britain.  She  shelters  herself  against 
our  competition  in  her  home  market, 
augments  her  revenue  thereby,  and 
avails  herself  to  the  very  utmost  of 
our  reduced  tarifis,  to  compete  in  our 
country  with  the  artisans  of  Sheffield 
and  Birmingham.  Every  new  return 
convinces  us  more  and  more  that 
commercial  interchange  is  the  proper 
subject  of  international  treaty;  but 
that  no  nation  whatever,  and  certainly 
not  one  so  heavily  burdened  as  ours, 
can  hope  for  prosperity  if  it  opens  its 
ports  without  the  distinct  assurance  of 
reciprocity. 

Let  us  try  distinctly  to  ascertain 
the  real  amount  of  improvement  vis- 
ible in  the  manufacturing  districts. 
In  order  to  do  this,  we  must  turn  to 
the  last  official  tables,  which  bring 
down  the  trade  accounts  from  5th 
January  to  5th  December  1848,  being 
a  period  of  eleven  months.  We  find 
the  following  ominous  result  in  the 
comparison  with  the  same  period  in 
former  years : — 


Exports  of  British  Produce  and  Manufactures  from  the  United  Kingdom. 

1S4&  1S47.  1848. 

ToUl,  .  £47^79,413  £47^46,854  £42,158,194 


FlYK       MILUOKS,      TWO       HUMDBED 

THOUSAND  POUNDS  of  decreased  ex- 
ports in  eleven  months  I — and  the 
manufacturing  districts  are  improving! 
Let  us  see  the  ratio  of  decline  on 
some  of  the  principal  articles  which 
ire  the  prodaot  of  these  districts.  We 


shall  therefore  omit  such  entries  as 
those  of  butter,  candles,  cheese,  fish, 
soap,  salt,  &c.,  and  look  to  the 
staples  only.  The  following  results  we 
haMly  think  will  bear  out  the  some- 
what over-confident  declaration  of  the 
ministry : — 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


376 


TkeOpmmgofUmSemom. 


[Xaidi^ 


JBxpoFt  ^  Jyvtapoi  oiQnufQeiuretjTOfti 

theUmkedKmsfdom, 

18M. 

16«. 

IStt. 

£16,276,465 

£16,082,318 

£15,050,57» 

Dot.    yftn, 

7,520,578 

5,547,948 

5,448,80<> 

2,563,658 

2,690,536 

2,475,224 

Do.   yam. 

797,640 

615,550 

440,118 

Silk  manufaotiireB,  . 

768,888 

912,842 

520,427 

Woollen  yarn. 

858,953 

941,158 

712,035 

Do.     mannfactarea, 

5,852,056 

6,424,508 

5,198,05^ 

Earthenware, 

742,295 

778,786 

651,184 

Hardwaref  and  eatlery, 

2^004,127 

2,188,091 

1,669,146 

GlaM, 

241,759 

272,411 

216,464 

Leather,      . 

307,336 

327,715 

244,668 

Maoiiinery,. 

1,050,206 

1,186,921 

779,759 

£88,973,920  £37,913,769         £38^01,758 


Lookiog  at  these  tables,  we  fairly 
confess  that  we  can  see  no  gronnd  for 
exnltatioD  whatever ;  on  the  contrary, 
there  is  in  every  article  a  marked  and 
steady  decline.  Some  of  the  free- 
trade  jonrnals  assert  that,  although  in 
the  earlier  part  of  the  last  year  there 
certainly  was  a  marked  falling  off  in 
our  exports,  yet  that  the  later  months 
have  almost  redeemed  the  deficiency. 
That  statemoit  is  utterly  false  and  nn- 
ibnnded.  In  September  last,  we  showed 
that  the  exports  of  thefirst  seven  com- 
modities in  the  above  table,  exhibited 
a  decline  of  £3,177,370,  for  the  six 
earlier  monthsof  theyear,  as  compared 
with  the  exports  in  1847.  We  con- 
tinne  the  account  of  the  samecommo- 
dities  for  eleven  months,  and  we  find 
the  deficiency  rated  at  £3,370,603 ;  so 
that  we  still  have  been  going  down 
hill,  only  not  quite  at  so  predpitate  a 
rate  as  before.  Free-trade,  therefore — 
for  which  we  sacrificed  our  revenue, 
submitted  to  an  income-tax,  and 
ruined  our  West  India  colonies—has 
utterly  failed  to  stimulate  our  exports, 
the  end  which  it  deliberately  pro- 
posed. 

The  diminutioii  of  exports  implies 
of  course  a  corresponding  diminution 
of  labour.  This  is  a  great  evil,  bat 
one  which  is  beyond  the  remedy  of 
the  statesman.  You  cannot  force  ex- 
ports— ^you  cannot  compel  the  foreign 
nations  to  take  your  goods.  We  beg 
attention  to  the  following  extract  from 
the  speech  of  Mr  DTsraell,  which  puts 
the  matter  of  export  upon  its  true  and 
substantial  basis : — 

"  Look  at  your  condition  with  reference 
to  the  Brazils.  Every  one  recollects  the 
glowing  acconnts  of  the  late  Yice-pretident 
of  the  Board  of  Trade  with  respect  to  tiie 
Brazilian  trade— that  trade  for  whieh  yo« 


Bacrifleed  your  own  eohniiea.  There  is 
an  increase  in  the  trade  with  the  Brazils  of 
26,500,000  of  yards  in  1846  oyer  1845; 
and  18,500,000  yards  in  1847  oyer  1845  ; 
and  this  increase  has  so  completely  glut- 
ted that  market,  that  goods  are  selling  at 
Rio  and  Bahia  at  cost  price.  It  is  stated 
in  the  Mercantile  Journal,  that  'It  is  truly 
al&rming  to  think  what  may  he  the  result 
of  a  continuance  of  imports,  not  only  in  the 
fkce  of  a  very  limited  inquiry,  bat  at  a  period 
of  the  year  when  trade  is  almost  always 
at  a  stand.  Why  cargo  after  cargo  of 
goods  should  be  sent  hither,  is  an  enigma 
we  cannot  solve.  Some  few  vessels  hare 
yet  to  arriye ;  and  although  trade  may 
probably  revive  in  the  beginning  of  1849, 
what  will  become  of  the  goods  received 
and  to  be  received  1  This  market  cannot 
consume  them.  Stores,  warehouses,  and 
the  customhouse  are  full  to  repletion  ^ 
and  if  imports  continue  upon  the  same 
scale  as  heretofore,  and  sales  have  to 
be  forced,  we  may  yet  have  to  witness  the 
pheDomenoB  of  all  descriptions  of  piece 
goods  being  purchased  here  below  the 
prime  cost  in  the  eoontry  of  prodoetion!  *' 
Such  is  the  state  of  matters  in  these 
markets ;  and  I  do  not  see  thai  your  posi- 
tion in  Europe  is  better.  Russia  is  still 
hermeticsJly  seized,  and  Prussia  is  not  yet 
stricken.  I  know  that  there  are  some  who, 
at  this  moment,  think  that  it  is  a  matter 
of  no  consequence  how  much  we  may  ex- 
port ;  who  say  that  foreigners  will  not 
give  their  productions  for  nothing,  and 
that,  therefore,  vre  most  just  manage 
things  in  the  most  favourable  way  we  can 
for  ourselves.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
foreigners  wiU  not  give  us  their  goods  with- 
out some  exchange  for  them  ;  but  the 
question  which  the  people  of  this  country 
are  looking  at  is,  to  know  exactly  what 
are  the  terms  of  exchange  which  it  is  be- 
neficial for  us  to  adopt.  That  is  the 
whole  question.  Yon  may  glnt 
as  I  have  shown  you  have  i 
doing ;  bat  the  only  eftctef  j 
of  your  atCempliag  «#  i 


J 


igitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


tlioM  bofkil*  iaaUkf  hy  opealiig  jour 
port%  i»  thai  yom  •xohaag*  more  oif  your 
Iftbonr  9W9ry  year  and  erery  month  to 
ft  Urn  qnaatity  of  foreign  labour;  thai 
yon  render  Britidi  labour  or  naiire  in- 
dnatry  leis  efficient;  that  yon  degrade 
British  labour — necessarily  diminish  pro- 
fits, and,  therefore,  must  lower  wages ; 
friiile  the  first  philosophers  have  shown 
that  you  will  finally  eifeci  a  change  in 
the  distribution  of  the  precious  metals 
that  must  be  pwnicious  to  this  oountry. 
It  is  for  these  reasons  that  all  practical 
men  are  impressed  with  the  couTiction 
that  yon  should  adopt  reciprocity  as  a 
princes  of  your  commercial  tariff— Bot 
merely  fW>m  its  practical  importance,  but 
as  an  abstract  truth.  This  was  the 
principle  of  the  negotiations  at  Utredit, 
which  was  copied  by  Mr  Pitt  in  his 
oommerdal  negotiations  at  Paris,  which 
Ibrmed  the  groundwork  of  the  instructions 
to  Mr  Eden,  and  which  was  wisely  adopt- 
ed and  upheld  by  the  cabinet  of  Lord 
LiTerpool;  but  which  was  deserted,  fla- 
grantly, and  open]y,and  unwisely,  in  1 846. 
There  is  another  reason  why  you  can  no 
longer  defend  your  commercial  system — 
yon  can  no  longer  delay  considering  the 
state  of  your  colonies.  This  is  called  an 
age  of  principles,  and  no  longer  of  politi- 
cal expedients — you  yourselves  are  the 
disciples  of  economy ;  and  you  hare,  on 
erery  occasion,  enunciated  it  as  a  prin- 
ciple that  the  colonies  of  England  were 
an  integral  part  of  this  country.  You 
ought,  then,  to  act  towards  your  colonies 
on  the  principle  you  hate  adopted,  but 
which  you  have  never  practised.  The 
principle  of  reciprocity  is,  in  fact,  the 

Silk  or  satin  broad  stuib. 

Silk  ribbons. 

Gauze  or  crape  broad  stuft, 

Gauze  ribbons. 

Gauze  mixed. 

Mixed  ribbons, 

VeWet  broad  stuflSi, 

VelTct  embossed  ribbons, 


575,718 

Is  there  any  commentary  required 
on  these  figures?  We  should  hope 
that  no  one  can  be  dull  enough  to  mis- 
apprehend their  import.  In  one  year 
onr  exportation  of  silk  goods  has  fallen 
to  little  more  than  a  half:  in  two  years 
onr  importations  from  the  Continent 
havenearlydoubled.  Where  ninety  Bri- 
tish labourers  worked  for  the  export- 
ing trade,  only  ^(ij  are  now  employed ; 
and  if  we  suppose  that  the  consumpt 
of  silk  manufactures  in  this  country  is 
Mune  lo  1848  as  in  1846,  the  fur- 


qfikeSeumiL  877 

only  principle  onwhidi  yoa  cam  reooa- 
struct  your  commercial  system  in  a  man- 
ner beneficial  to  the  mother  country  and 
adyantageous  to  the  colonies.  It  is,  in- 
deed, a  great  principle,  the  only  principle 
on  which  a  large  and  expansive  system 
of  commerce  can  be  founded,  so  as  to  be 
beneficial.  The  system  yon  are  pursuing 
is  one  quite  contrary — you  go  fighting  hos- 
tile tsxifis  with  fixed  imports;  and  the 
consequence  is  that  yon  are  following  a 
course  most  injurious  to  the  commerce  of 
the  country.  And  every  year,  at  the 
commencement  of  the  session,  you  come^ 
not  to  eoagratnlate  the  House  or  the 
country  on  the  state  of  our  commerce,  but 
to  explain  why  it  soficBred,  why  it  was 
prostrate;  and  you  are  happy  on  this  occa^ 
sion  to  be  able  to  say  that  it  is  recovering — 
from  what  t  From  unparalleled  distress.** 
The  labour  market  in  this  country^ 
so  far  from  improving,  is,  we  have 
every  reason  to  believe,  in  a  pitiable 
state.  Let  us  take  the  one  instance 
of  silk  manufactures.  Of  these  we 
exported,  during  eleven  months  of 
last  year,  an  amount  to  the  value  of 
£912,842;  this  year  we  have  only 
sent  out  £520,427,  or  nearly  £400,000 
less.  But  this  decline  does  not  by  any 
means  express  the  amount  of  the  cur- 
tailment of  labour  in  this  important 
branch  of  industry.  The  home  market 
has  been  inundated  with  foreign  silks^ 
introduced  under  the  tariffs  of  1846^ 
and  that  to  a  degree  which  is  wholly 
without  precedent.  Let  us  see  the 
comparative  amount  of  importations. 


1S4S. 

1847. 

1848. 

115,292  lbs. 

147,656  lbs. 

269,637  lbs. 

180,375  „ 

182,978  „ 

217,243  „ 

Bi,              6,536  „ 

5,588  „ 

8,243  „ 

31,307  ,, 

41,825  „ 

49,460  „ 

18  „ 

8  „ 

39  „ 

1,«42  „ 

3,094  „ 

2,466  „ 

26,798  „ 

27,494  „ 

29,669  „ 

13,550  „ 

14,192  „ 

41,461   „ 

lbs.  422,835  lbs.  618,218  lbs. 

ther  amount  of  labovr  which  has  been 
sacrificed,  by  the  increased  impor- 
tations,  must  be  something  positively 
enormous.  It  is  in  this  way  that  free 
trade  beggars  the  people  and  fills  the 
workhouses;  whilst,  at  the  same  time, 
it  brings  down  the  national  revenue 
to  such  an  ebb,  that  it  is  utterly  insuf* 
ficient  to  balance  the  necessary  expen- 
diture. It  would  be  well  if  politicians 
would  constantly  keep  in  view  this 
one  great  truth— That  of  all  the  bur- 
dens which  can  be  laid  npon  a  people^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


878 

the  heaviest  is  the  want  of  employ- 
ment. No  general  cheapness,  no  class 
accnmnlations  of  wealth,  can  make  up 
for  this  terrible  want ;  and  the  states- 
man who  deliberately  refuses  to  recog- 
nise this  principle,  and  who,  from  any 
motive,  deprives  the  working  man  of 
his  privilege,  is  an  enemy  to  the  inter- 
ests of  his  country. 

We  cannot,  and  we  do  not,  expect 
.that  men  who  have  committed  them- 
selves so  deeply  as  Mr  Cobden  has 
done  to  the  principles  of  free  trade  in 
all  its  branches,  should,  under  any 
development  of  circumstances,  be 
brought  to  acknowledge  their  error. 
No  evidence  however  overwhelming, 
no  ruin  however  widely  spread,  could 
shake  their  faith,  or  at  any  rate  dimi- 
nish the  obstinacy  of  their  professions. 
They  would  rather  sacrifice,  as  indeed 
they  seem  bent  on  doing,  the  best  in- 
terests of  the  British  empire,  than 
acknowledge  the  extent  of  their  error. 
Their  motto  avowedly  is,  vestigia  nuUa 
retrorsum.  No  sooner  is  one  interest 
pulled  down  than  they  make  a  rapid 
and  determined  assault  upon  another, 
utterly  reckless  of  the  misery  which 
they  have  occasioned,  and  hopelessly 
deaf  even  to  the  warnings  of  expe- 
rience. They  are  true  destructives ; 
because  they  feel  that  they  dare  not 
pause  in  their  career  of  violence,  lest 
men  should  have  leisure  to  contem- 
plate the  ruin  already  effected,  and 
should  ask  themselves  what  tangible 
benefit  has  been  obtained  at  so  ter- 
rible a  cost.  Mr  Cobden  knows  bet- 
ter than  to  resume  consideration  of 
free- trade  principles,  now  that  we  have 
seen  them  in  actual  operation.  He  is 
advancing  on  with  his  myrmidons 
towards  the  Moscow  of  free  trade; 
but,  unless  we  are  greatly  mistaken, 
he  may  have  occasion,  some  day  or 
other,  to  revisit  his  ancient  battle- 
fields, but  not  in  the  capacity  of  a 
conqueror.  There  are,  however, 
others,  less  deeply  pledged,  who  begin 
to  perceive  that  in  attempting  to  carry 
out  free  trade  without  reciprocity,  and 
in  the  face  of  hostile  tariffs,  we  are 
rulniufl^  the  trade  of  Britain  for  the 
aole  advantage  of  the  foreigner.  Mr 
Muntz,  the  member  for  Birmingham, 
is  not  at  one  with  ministers  as  to  the 
<^heerfttl  prospect  of  the  revival  among 
the  manufacturers. 

**  When  I  eame  here/  eaid  he  oharae* 


I%e  Opening  of  ike  Seakm. 


[MmxOi, 


teristioally,  ''I  heard  a  great  deal  about 
the  improTement  of  trade  in  the  country. 
Bat  I  went  home  on  Saturday,  and  there 
was  not  a  man  I  met  who  had  experienced 
any  of  this  improvement  in  trade.  On  the 
contrary,  every  one  said  that  trade  was 
flat  and  unprofitable,  and  that  there  was 
no  prospect  of  improvement  becanse  they 
were  so  much  competed  with  by  foreign 
manufacturers.  This  very  morning  I  met 
with  one  of  my  travellers,  who  lukd  just 
returned  from  the  north  of  Clermany; 
and  I  asked  him  what  was  the  state 
of  trade.  '  Oh,'  said  he, '  there  is  plenty 
of  trade  in  Germany,  but  not  trade  with 
England.  They  manufacture  goods  so 
cheaply  themselves,  that,  at  the  prices 
you  sell,  low  as  they  are,  you  can- 
not compete  with  the  Germans.'  I  will 
tell  the  House  another  curious  thing. 
About  three  or  four  years  ago,  the  glass- 
makers  of  Birmingham  were  very  anxious 
for  free  trade,  and,  though  I  warned  them 
that  I  did  not  think  they  could  compete 
with  foreigners,  yet  they  were  quite  cer- 
tain they  oould.  Well,  I  introduoed  them 
to  the  minister  of  the  day — the  right 
honourable  baronet  the  member  of  Tarn- 
worth — when,  to  my  horror  and  astonish- 
ment, they  asked,  not  for  free  trade,  but 
for  three  years  of  protection.  Why,  I 
said  to  them,  I  thought  you  were  for  free 
trade  t  '  Yes,'  they  replied, '  so  we  are ;  but 
we  want  the  three  years  of  protection  to 
prepare  us  for  free  trade.'  Now,  on  Satur- 
day last,  I  received  a  letter  from  one  of 
the  leading  manufacturers,  stating  that 
the  import  duties  on  flint-glass  would  ex- 
pire very  soon,  and  with  those  duties  the 
trade  in  this  country,  he  feared,  was  also 
in  great  danger  of  expiring,  owing  to  the 
produce  of  manufactures  being  admitted 
duty-free  into  this  country,  while  they  had 
protective  duties  in  their  own,  thus  keep- 
ing up  the  price  at  home  by  sending  over 
the  surplus  stock  here.  The  letter  con- 
cluded by  requesting  that  the  protective 
duties,  which  were  about  to  expire,  might 
be  renewed.  The  improvement  in  trade, 
which  was  so  much  talked  of,  is  not  an 
improvement  in  quality,  but  an  improve- 
ment in  quantity  :  there  are  half  a  dozen 
other  trades  which  have  vanished  from 
Birmingham,  because  of  the  over-compe- 
tition of  the  Continent  And,  strangely 
enough,  the  manufactures  that  have  been 
the  most  injured  are  those  which  last 
week  were  held  up  by  the  public  proM 
as  in  a  meet  flourishuig  condition  1" 

This  statement  furnishes  ample 
ground  for  reflection.  The  truth  is, 
that  the  whole  scheme  of  free  trade 
was  erected  and  framed,  not  for  the 
purpose  of  benefiting  the  manufacturers 
at  the  expense  of  the  landed  interest, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Session. 


i 


bat  rather  to  get  a  monopolj  of  ex- 
port for  one  or  two  of  the  leading 
mannfactores  of  the  empire.  Those 
who  were  engaged  in  the  cotton  and 
woollen  trade,  along  with  some  of  the 
iron-masters,  were  at  the  head  of  the 
movement.  No  inflnx  of  foreign  manu- 
factured produce  could  by  possibility 
swamp  (hem  in  the  home  market,  for 
thejare  not  exposed  to  that  competition 
with  which  the  smaller  trades  must 
struggle.  The  Germans  will  take 
shirtings,  but  they  will  not  now  take 
cutlery  firom  us.  The  articles  whidi 
they  produce  are  certainly  not  so  good 
as  ours,  but  they  are  cheaper,  and 
protected,  and  it  is  even  worth  their 
while  to  compete  with  us  in  the  home 
markets  of  Britain.  The  same  may 
be  said  of  the  trade  in  brass,  gloves, 
shoes,  hats,  earthenware,  poroelain, 
and  fifty  others.  They  are  not  now 
exporting  trades,  and  at  home,  under 
the  new  tariffs,  we  are  completely 
undersold  by  the  foreigners.  As  for 
the  glass  trade,  no  one  who  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  present  state  of 
that  manufacture  on  the  Continent, 
can  expect  that  it  will  ever  again 
recover.  This,  in  reality,  is  the  cause 
of  the  present  depression ;  and  until 
this  is  thoroughly  understood  by  the 
tradesmen  who  are  suffering,  there 
can  be  no  improvement  for  the  better. 
What  advantage,  we  ask,  can  it  be  to 
a  man  who  findb  his  profits  disappear- 
ing, his  trade  reduced  to  stagnation, 
and  his  capability  of  giving  employ- 
ment absolutely  annihilated,  to  know 
that,  in  consequence  of  some  sudden 
impulse,  twenty  million  additional 
yards  of  calico  have  been  exported 
from  Great  Britain?  The  glass- 
blower,  the  brazier,  and  the  cutler, 
have  not  the  remotest  interest  in  calico. 
They  may  think,  indeed,  that  part  of 
the  profit  so  secured  may  be  indirectly 
advantageous  in  the  purchase  of  thdr 
wares,  but  they  find  themsel  veslament- 
ably  mistaken.  The  astute  calico- 
master  sells  his  wares  to  the  foreigner 
abroad,  and  he  purchases  with  equal 
disinterestedness  from  the  manufac- 
turing foreigner  at  home.  This  is  the 
whole  tendency  of  free  trade,  and  it 
is  amaEiuff  to  us  that  the  juggle 
should  find  any  supporters  amongst 
the  class  who  are  its  actual  victims. 
If  they  look  soberlv  and  deliberately 
into  the  matter,  they  cannot  fail  to 


379 

see  that  the  adoption  by  the  state  of 
the  maxim,  to  sell  in  the  dearest  and 
buy  in  the  cheapest  market,  more 
especially  when  that  market  is  the 
home  one,  and  when  cheapness  has 
been  superinduced  by  the  introduction 
of  foreign  labour,  must  end  in  the 
consummation  of  their  ruin.  Can  we 
really  believe  in  the  assertion  of 
ministers,  that  manufactures  are  im- 
proving, when  we  find,  on  all  hands, 
such  pregnant  assurances  to  the  con- 
trary? For  example,  there  was  a 
meeting  held  in  St  James's,  so  late  as 
the  11th  of  January,  ^^  to  consider  the 
unprecedented  number  of  unemployed 
mechanics  and  workmen  now  in  the 
metropolis,  and  to  devise  the  best 
means  for  diminishing  their  privations 
and  sufferings,  bv  providing  them  with 
employment."  Mr  Lushington,  M.P. 
for  Westminster,  a  thorough-paced 
liberal,  moved  the  first  resolution, 
the  tendency  of  which  was  towards 
the  institution  of  soup  kitchens,  upon 
this  preamble,  'Uhat  the  number  of 
operatives,  mechanics,  and  labourers 
now  thrown  out  of  employment  is 
unusually  great,  and  the  consequent 
destitution  and  distress  which  exist 
on  all  sides  are  painfully  excessive, 
and  deeply  alarming."  And  yet,  Mr 
Lushington,  like  many  of  his  class 
and  stamp,  can  penetrate  no  deeper 
into  the  causes  of  distress,  than  is 
exhibited  in  the  following  paragraph 
of  his  speech : — "  The  great  majority 
of  those  whose  cases  they  were  now 
met  to  consider,  were  the  victims  of 
misfortune,  and  not  of  crime,  and, 
on  that  account,  they  had  a  legitimate 
claim  upon  thehr  sympathy  and  com- 
miseration. But  private  sympathy 
was  impotent  to  grapple  with  the 
gigantic  evil  with  which  they  had  to 
contend;  isolated  efforts  and  volun- 
tary alms-giving  were  but  a  mere 
drop  in  the  ocean,  compared  with  the 
remedy  that  the  case  demanded.  They 
must  go  further  and  deeper  for  their 
remedy ;  and  the  only  efficacious  one 
that  could  effectuallv  be  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  miseries  of  the  people, 
was  the  reduction  of  the  national 
expenditure — ^the  cutting  down  of  the 
army,  navy,  and  ordnance  estimates, 
and  the  removal  of  those  taxes  that 
pressed  so  heavily  upon  the  P^rer 
portions  of  the  community."  This  is 
about  as  fine  a  specimen  of  nnadul- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


s     "^ 


..r*     •» 


\ 


-•^    V- 


•  :  ,  *^  •  t  1,.'; 


^      ,^  '-'-*-Vv-^*  prosper 

-.  ^.   r- -Hv.^'?^''^'«- 

:;:.:••' •^^'.tt:^^^ 

.  '^  rn,  r-«>:^  *  J^^o    the 


«»"l'lf,rl|. 


■9 'WW  *•»«*»„, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


1849.]  lUOpimng 

its  wcnrk.  The  exdfe  doties  eaimot 
be  suffered  to  coDtinve,  forthej  too, 
according  to  the  modem  ideii,  are 
opproeeiTe  aod  nnjnst ;  and  the  period, 
thus  foreshadowed  by  Mr  Cobdea  at 
the  late  Manchester  banquet,  will  ra- 
pidly arrive :  "  It  is  not  merely  pro- 
teetiye  doties  that  are  getting  oat  of 
favonr  in  this  country ;  bat,  bowerer 
atronff  or  weak  it  may  be  at  present* 
atili  there  is  firmly  and  rapidly  nrow- 
ing  an  opinion  deddely  exposed,  not 
fmerefy  to  ihUkt  for  proteetum^  but  to 
€hUusJbr  reomme  atalL  I  ventare  to 
say  yon  will  not  lire  to  see  another 
statesman  in  England  propose  any 
cnstoms-daty  on  a  raw  material  or 
article  of  first  necessity  like  com. 
I  qaestioB  whether  any  statesman  who 
has  any  regard  for  his  fntare  fame 
will  ever  propose  another  excise  or 
costoms-daty  at  all."  The  whole  re- 
venae  will  then  fidl  to  be  collected 
directly :  and  how  long  the  national 
creditor  will  be  able  to  maintain  his 
claim  against  direct  taxation  is  a  pro- 
blem which  we  decline  to  solve.  The 
land  of  Great  Britain,  like  that  (tf 
Ireland,  will  be  worthless  to  its  owner, 
and  left  to  satisfy  the  daims  of  paa- 
perism ;  and  America,  wiser  than  the 
old  coontry,  will  become  to  the  middle 
classes  the  harbour  of  refage  and  of 
peace. 

We  do  not  believe  that  these  things 
will  happen,  because  we  have  faith  in 
the  sound  sterling  sense  of  English- 
men, and  in  the  destinies  of  thb  noble 
country.  We  are  satisfied  that  the 
time  is  rapidly  approaching  when  a 
thorough  reconstraction  of  our  whole 
commercial  and  financial  policy  will 
be  imperatively  demanded  from  the 
govemment — a  task  which  the  pre- 
sent occupants  of  office  are  notoriously 
incapable  of  undertaking,  i)ut  which 
must  be  carried  through  by  some  effi- 
cient cabinet.  Such  a  measure  can- 
not be  introduced  piecemeal  after  the 
destmctive  fashion,  but  must  be  based 
upon  clear  and  comprehensive  princi- 
ples, doing  justice  to  all  classes  of  the 
community,  and  showing  undue  favour 
to  none. 

Our  observations  have  already  ex- 
tended to  such  a  length,  Ihat  we  have 
little  room  to  speak  of  that  everlasting 
topic,  Ireland.  "  Ireland,"  says  Lord 
John  Russell,  "  is  undergoing  a  great 
transition."    This  is  indeed  news,  and 


o/lkeSmmom. 


d81 


we  shall  be  glad  to  leara  the  particu- 
lars so  soon  as  convenient.  Perhaps 
the  transition  may  be  explained  be- 
fore the  committee,  to  which,  as  usual, 
Whig  helplessness  and  imbecility  has 
referred  the  whole  question  of  Irish 
distress.  The  confid^iee  of  the  Whigs 
in  the  patience  of  the  people  of  tUs 
country  must  be  boundless,  else  they 
would  hardly  have  ventured  again  to 
resort  to  so  stale  an  expedient.  It 
is  easy  to  devdve  the  whole  duties  of 
govemment  upon  committees,  but  we 
are  very  much  mistaken  if  such  triflhig 
will  be  longer  endured.  As  to  the 
distress  in  Ireland,  it  is  fully  admitted. 
Whenever  the  bulk  of  a  nation  is  so 
demoralised  as  to  prefer  living  on 
alms  to  honest  labour,  distress  is  the 
inevitable  consequence ;  and  the  only 
way  to  cure  the  habit  is  carefully  to 
withhold  the  alms.  Ministers  think 
otherwise,  and  they  have  carried  a 
present  grant  of  fifty  thousand  pounds 
from  the  imperial  exchequer,  which 
may  serve  for  a  week  or  so,  when 
doubtless  another  application  will  be 
tabled.  This  is  neither  more  nor  less 
than  downright  robbery  of  the  British 
people  under  the  name  of  charity. 
Ireland  must  in  future  be  left  to  de- 
pend entirely  upon  her  own  resources ; 
situated  as  we  are,  it  would  be  mad- 
ness to  support  her  further ;  and  we 
hope  that  every  constituency  through- 
out the  Unit^  Kingdom  will  keep  a 
watchful  eye  on  the  conduct  pursued 
by  their  representatives  in  the  event 
of  any  attempt  at  further  spoliation. 
From  all  the  evidence  before  us,  it 
appears  that  our  former  liberality  has 
been  thrown  away.  Not  only  was  no 
gratitude  shown  for  the  enormous  ad- 
vances of  last  year,  but  the  money  was 
recklessly  squandered  and  misapplied, 
no  doubt  in  the  fall  and  confident 
expectation  of  continued  remittances. 
And  here  we  beg  to  suggest  to  honour- 
able members  from  the  other  side  of  the 
Channel,  whetheritmightnotbewell  to 
consider  what  ofiect  free  trade  has 
had  in  ameliorating  the  condition  of 
Ireland.  If  on  inquiry  at  Liverpool 
they  should  chance  to  find  that  pprk 
is  now  imported  direct  from  America, 
not  only  salted,  but  fresh  and  pre- 
served in  ice,  and  that  in  such  quan- 
tities and  at  so  low  a  rate  as  seriously 
to  afiect  the  sale  of  the  Irish  pro- 
duce, periiaps  patriotism  may  ope- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


382 


TIte  Optmng 


rate  in  their  minds  that  conviction 
which  reasoning  would  not  effect. 
If  also  they  should  chance  to  learn 
that  butter  and  dairy  produce  can 
no  longer  command  a  remunerative 
price,  owing  to  the  increased  imports 
both  from  America  and  the  Continent, 
they  will  have  made  one  further  step 
towards  the  science  of  political  eco- 
nomy, and  may  form  some  useful  cal- 
culations as  to  the  prospect  of  future 
rentals.  Should  they,  however,  still  be 
of  opinion  that  the  interests  of  the  Irish 
people  are  inseparably  bound  up  with 
the  continuance  of  free  trade — that 
neither  prices  nor  useful  labour  are 
matters  of  any  consequence — they 
must  also  bear  in  mind  that  they  can 
no  longer  be  allowed  to  intromit  with 
the  public  purse  of  Britain.  The 
Whigs  may  indeed,  and  probably  will, 
make  one  other  vigorous  effort  to 
secure  their  votes;  but  no  party  in 
this  nation  is  now  disposed  to  sanction 
such  iniquitous  proceedings,  and  all  of 
us  will  so  far  respond  to  the  call  for 
economy,  as  sternly  to  refuse  alms  to 
an  indolent  and  ungrateful  object. 

In  conclusion,  we  shall  merely  re- 
mark that  we  look  forward  with  much 
interest  to  the  financial  exposition  of 
the  year,  in  the  hope  that  it  may  be 
more  intelligible  and  satisfactory  than 
the  last.  We  shall  then  understand 
the  nature  and  the  amount  of  the  re- 
ductions which  have  been  announced 
under    such   extraordinary   drcum- 


ofihe  Session.  [March,  1849. 

stances,  and  the  state  of  the  revenue 
will  inform  those  who  feel  themselves 
oppressed  by  excise  duties,  of  the 
chances  of  reduction  in  ttu&t  quarter. 
Meanwhile  we  cannot  refrain  from 
expressing  our  gratitude  to  both  Lord 
Stanley  and  Mr  D'Israeli  for  their 
masterly  expositions  of  the  weak  and 
vacillatmg  policy  pursued  by  the  Whig 
government  abroad,  and  of  the  false 
colour  which  was  attempted  to  be 
thrown  upon  the  state  and  prospect  of 
industry  at  home.  Deeply  as  we  la- 
mented the  premature  decease  of  Lord 
George  Bentinck  at  the  very  time 
when  the  value  of  his  public  service, 
keen  understanding,  and  high  and 
exalted  principle,  was  daily  becoming 
more  and  more  appreciated  by  the 
country,  we  are  rejoiced  to  know  that 
his  example  has  not  been  in  vain  ; 
that  his  noble  and  philanthropic  spirit 
still  lives  in  the  coundls  of  those  who 
have  the  welfare  of  the  British  people 
at  heart,  and  who  are  resolute  not 
to  yield  to  the  pressure  of  a  base 
democracy,  actuated  by  the  meanest 
of  personal  motives,  unscrupulous  as  to 
the  means  which  it  employs,  impervi- 
ous to  reason,  and  utterly  reckless  of 
consequences,  provided  it  may  attain 
its  end.  Against  that  democracy 
which  has  elsewhere  not  only  shat- 
tered constitutions  but  prostrated  so- 
ciety, a  determined  stand  will  be 
made ;  and  our  heartfelt  prayer  is,  that 
the  cause  of  truth  may  prevail. 


PrmUdbjf  WaUamBIaekuH>od<md&m9,Edmbtir^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BLACKWOOD^S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCCCII. 


APRIL,  1849. 


Vol.  LXY.   * 


macaulay's  history  of  englakd. 


The  historical  and  critical  essay  is 
a  species  of  literary  composition  which 
has  arisen,  and  been  brought  to  perfec- 
tion, in  the  lifetime  of  a  smgle  genera- 
tion.   Preceding  writers,  indeed,  had 
excelled  in  detached  pieces  of  a  lighter 
and  briefer  kind;  and  in  the  whole 
annals  of  thought  there  is  nothing 
more  churning  than  some  of  those 
which  graced  the  age  of  Queen  Anne, 
and  the  reigns  of  the  first  Georges.  But 
though  these  delightful  essays  remain, 
and  will  ever  remain,  models  of  the 
purest  and  most  elegant  composition, 
and  are  always  distinguished  by  just 
and  moral  reflections,  yet  their  influ- 
ence has  sensibly  declined;  and  they 
are  turned  to,  now,  rather  from  the 
felicity  of  the  expression  by  which 
they  are  graced,  than  either  the  in- 
formation  which   they  contain,  the 
originality  by  which  they  are  distin- 
guished, or  the  depth  of  the  views 
which  they  unfold.      It  is  still  true 
that  *'  he  who  would  attain  an  English 
style,  familiar  but  not  coarse,  and 
elegant  without  being  ostentatious, 
must  ^ve  his  days  and  his  nights  to 
the  study  of  Addison."     It  is  not 
less  true,  that  he  who  would  appre- 
ciate the  force  of  which  the  English 
language  is  capable,  and  acquire  the 
condensed  vigour  of  expression  which 
enters  so  largely  into  the  highest  kind 
of  composition,  will  ever  study  the 
prose  of  Johnson ;  as  much  as  the  poet, 
for  similar  excellencies,  will  recur  to 
the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  or  the 
epistles  and  sath*es  of  Pope. 

But,  with  the  advent  of  the  French 
Revolution,  the  rise  of  fiercer  passions, 
and  the  collision  of  dearer  mterests, 

VOL.  LXV.— NO.  CCCCII. 


the  elegant  and  amusing  class  of  essays 
rendered  so  popular  by  Addison  and  his 
followers  passed  away.   The  incessant 
recurrence  of  moralising,  the  frequent 
use  of  allegory,  the  constant  strain- 
ing after  conceits,  which  appear  even 
in  the  pages  of  the  Spectator  and  the 
Rambler^  are  scarcely  redeemed  by 
the  taste  of  Addison,  the  fancy  of 
Steele,  or  the  vigour  of  Johnson.    In 
inferior  hands  thov  became  insupport- 
able.     Men     whose     minds     were 
stimulated  by  the  Rights  of  Man— 
who   were    entranced   by    the  elo- 
quence of  Pitt  —  who  followed  the 
career  of  Wellington— who  were  stun- 
ned by  the  thunderbolts  of  Nelson — 
could  not  recur  to  the  Delias,  the 
Chloes,  or  the  Phillises  of  a  slumber- 
ing and  pacific  age.  The  proclamation 
of  war  to  the  palace,  and  peace  to  the 
cottage,  sent  the  stories  of  the  co- 
quette, the  prude,  and  the  woman  of 
sense  to  -the  right-about.    What  was 
now  required  was  something  which 
could  minister  to  the  cravings  of  an 
excited  and  enthusiastic  age ;  which 
should  support  or  combat  the  new  ideas 
generally   prevalent;    which  should 
bring  the  experience  of  the  past  to 
bear  on  the  visions  of  the  present,  and 
tell  men,  from  the  recorded  events  of 
history,  what  they  had  to  hope,  and 
what  to  fear,  from   the  passion  for 
innovation  which  had  seized  posses- 
sion of  so   large  a  portion  of  the 
active  part  of  mankind. 

The  Edinburgh  Review  was  the 
first  journal  which  gave  a  decided 
indication  of  this  change  in  the  tem- 
per of  the  public  mind.  From  the 
very  outset  it  exhibited  that  vigour 
2b 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


884 


MacauJayU  History  of  England, 


[April, 


of  thought,  fearlessness  of  discussion, 
and  raciness  of  expression,  which 
bespoke  the  preyalence  of  indepm- 
d^t  feeling,  novel  yearnings,  and  ori- 
ginal ideas,  among  the  people.  There 
was  something  refreshing  and  exhila- 
rating in  the  change.  Its  sncoess  was 
imm^ate  and  inmiense.  The  long- 
slumbering  domisioiL  of  the  monthly 
and  other  reviews,  which  then  had 
possession  of  the  sceptre  of  criticism, 
was  at  once  destroyed.  Mediocrity 
«  f^  into  the  shade  when  the  light  of 
genios  appeared ;  criticism  assumed  a 
bolder  and  more  decided  character. 
Men  rejoiced  to  see  the  pretensions  of 
authors  levelled,  their  vanity  mortified, 
their  errors  exposed,  their  pride  pulled 
down,  by  the  stem  hand  of  the  merci- 
less reviewer.  The  practical  applica- 
tion of  the  maxim,  ^*  Judex  damnatnr 
cum  nocens  absolvitnr,"  gave  univensal 
satis&ction.  Every  one  fi^t  his  own 
consequence  increased,  his  personal 
feelings  soothed,  his  vanity  flattered, 
when  the  self-constituted  teachers  of 
mankind  were  pulled  down  from  their 
lofhr  pinnacle. 

But  it  was  not  merely  m  Uteraiy 
criticism  that  the  Edinburgh  Eemew 
opened  a  new  era  in  our  periodiod 
literature.  To  its  early  supporters  we 
owe  tiie  introduction  of  the  Criticai. 
AiiB  HuTOBiCAL  EssAT,  which  was 
an  entirely  new  species  of  oomposi- 
tion,  and  to  the  frequoit  use  of  which 
the  rapid  success  of  that  journal  is 
nndnly  to  be  ascribed.  The  essay 
always  had  the  name  of  a  book  pre- 
fixed to  it:  it  professed  to  be  a  review. 
But  it  was  generally  a  review  only  in 
name.  The  author  was  frequently 
never  once  mentioned  in  its  whole 
extent.  His  worit  was  made  use  of 
merely  as  a  peg  on  which  to  hang  a 
long  disquisition  on  the  subject  of 
which  it  treated.  This  disquisition 
was  not,  like  the  essays  of  Addison 
or  Johnson,  tiie  wtyric  of  a  few  hours' 
writing,  and  drawn  chieflv  frtnn  the 
fancy  or  imagination  of  the  author : 
it  was  the  elaborate  production  of  a 
mind  imbued  with  the  subject,  and  the 
fhut  of  weeks  or  months  of  careful 
composition.  Itwassometimesfounded 
on  years  of  previous  and  laborious 
study.  Thence  its  great  and  obvious 
value.  It  not  only  enlarged  the  cirde 
of  our  ideas ;  it  added  to  the  stock  of 
our  knowledge.    Men  came  to  study 


a  paper  on  a  subject  hi  a  review,  as 
caremlly  as  they  did  a  regular  work 
of  a  known  and  reQ>ectal3e  author: 
they  looked  to  it  not  only  for  amuse- 
ment, but  for  information.  It  had  this 
immense  advantage— it  was  shorter 
than  a  book,  and  often  contained  its 
essence.  It  was  distilled  thought;  it 
was  abbneviated  knowledge.  To  say 
that  many  of  these  elaborate  and 
attractive  treatises  were  founded  in 
error  —  that  they  were  directed  to 
objects  of  the  moment,  not  of  durable 
interest,  and  that  their  authors  too 
often 

"To  part^  me  up  what  was  meant  for 
mankma  '* — 

is  no  impeadmieiit  eith^  of  the  ability 
with  which  they  were  exeented,  or 
denial  of  tiie  beneficial  ends  to  which 
they  ultimately  became  subservient. 
What  though  great  part  id  tiie  taloita 
with  which  they  were  written  is  now 
seen  to  have  him  misdfrected — of  the 
views  they  contained  to  have  been  eifo- 
neom.  It  was  that  talent  whidi  raised 
the  oonnter  spirit  that  rigiited  the 
public  mind;  it  was  those  viewa which 
ultimately  led  to  thehr  own  correction. 
In  an  age  of  intelligence  and  mental 
activity,  no  dread  need  be  entertained 
of  the  ultimate  sway  of  error.  Ex- 
perience, the  great  assertor  of  truth, 
is  ever  at  hand  to  scatter  its  assailants. 
Ik  is  in  an  age  of  mental  torpor  and 
inactivity  that  the  chains  of  felsefaood, 
whether  in  religion  or  politics,  are 
abidingly  tiirown  over  the  human 
mind. 

But,  from  this  very  cause,  tiie  po- 
litical essays  of  the  Edinburgh  Remew 
have  been  left  behind  by  the  march  <^ 
the  worid ;  they  have  been  stranded 
on  the  shoals  of  time ;  tiiey  have 
almost  all  been  di^roved  by  the 
event.  Open  one  of  the  political 
essays  in  the  Blue-and-yellow,  which 
were  read  and  admired  by  all  the 
worid  thkfy  or  forty  years  ago,  and 
what  do  you  find?  Loud  dedamations 
against  the  continuance  of  the  war, 
and  emphatic  assertions  of  the  inability 
of  En^^d  to  contend  at  land  with 
the  conqueror  of  contuioital  Europe ; 
continual  reproaches  of  incapacity 
against  the  ministry,  who  were  pre- 
paring the  liberation  of  Spain  and  the 
battle  of  Waterioo ;  ceaseless  asser- 
tions that  the  misery  of  Ireland  was 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Maeatuiay*B  History  of  Engkmd. 


885 


entirely  owing  to  misgoyeniment— 
that  nothing  bat  Catholic  emancipa- 
tion, and  the  cnrtaBment  of  the  fto- 
testant  x^hnrdi,  were  required  to  make 
ftat  iflland  the  most  happ j,  loyal,  and 
contented  realm,  and  its  Cdtio  inhabi- 
tents  the  most  indasM)n8  and  well- 
conditioned  in  Emrope ;  load  denonda- 
tions  that  the  power  of  tiie  crown  ^^  had 
increased,  was  increasing,  and  onght  to 
be  diminished ; "  lamentations  on  the 
eyidentlj  approaching  extinction  of 
the  lib^es  of  England,  under  the 
combined  a^on  of  a  gigantic  war  ex- 
penditure and  a  corrupt  selfish  di- 
garchj;  strong  recommendations  ai 
file  ^eedj  abolition  of  slayery  in  our 
West  IndU  colonies,  as  the  only  mode 
ofenid>ling  our  planters  to  compete  with 
the  efforts  of  the  slaye-sugar  states. 
Thne  has  enairiied  the  world  to  estimate 
these  doctrines  at  their  tnie  value.  It  is 
not  surprising  th^t  the /xifiUca/ essays 
of  a  journal,  professfaig  such  prindplee, 
have,  amidst  great  eflbrts  towards 
bolstering  up,  and  ceaseless  stodns  of 
p«rty  laudation,  been  quietly  eon- 
aigned  by  subsequent  times  to  the 
Tiiilt  of  all  the  Capulets. 

It  is  oa  its  literary,  critical,  and 
historical  essiQrs,  therefore,  that  tiie 
reputation  of  the  jomaal  now  almoat 
entirely  rests.  No  boolcseaer  has  yet 
-ventured  <m.  the  hazardous  step  of 
publishing  its  political  essays  together. 
They  will  not  supplant  those  of  Burke. 
But  it  is  otherwise  with  its  literary 
lucubrations.  The  publication  of  the 
collected  works  of  its  leading  contri- 
butors, in  a  separate  form,  has  enabled 
tike  world  to  form  a  tolerably  correct 
mrinion  of  their  respective  merits  and 
defidendes.  Without  taking  upon 
oursdves  tiie  office  of  crimes,  and  folly 
aware  (tf  the  delicacy  which  one  peri- 
odical should  fed  in  discussing  the 
merits  of  another,  wemay  be  permitted 
topresent,  in  a  5^  words,  what  appear 
tons  to bethe  leading  characteristicsof 
the  prindpal  and  well-known  contri- 
butors to  that  far-fiuned  journal.  This 
is  the  more  allowable,  as  scnne  of 
them  have  paid  the  debt  (^  nature, 
while  others  are  reposing  under  the 
shadow  of  tiieir  wdl-eamed  laurels, 
£»  removed  from  the  heat  and  bustle 
of  the  day.  Their  names  are  fomiliar 
to  eveiy  reader;  their  works  have 
taken  a  lasthig  place  'm  English  as 
wdl  as  American  literature;  uid  their 


qualities  and  excdleneies  are  so  dif- 
forent  as  at  once  to  invite  and  raggest 
critical  discrimination. 

The  great  characteristic  of  Lord 
jBFntirris,  with  some  strikfaig  ex- 
ceptions, the  ftdmess  and  general 
justice  of  the  criticism  which  his  works 
exhildt,  the  kindly  fooling  which 
they  evince,  and  tiie  livdy  illus- 
trations  with  which  they  abound. 
He  had  vast  powers  of  application. 
When  in  great  practice  at  the  bar, 
and  deservedly  a  leading  counsel  in 
jury  cases,  he  contrived  to  find  time 
to  conduct  the  EdnUmrffh  Remew,  and 
to  enrich  its  pages  by  above  a  hundred 
contributions.  There  is  no  great  ex- 
tent of  learning  in  them,  fow  origlnid 
ideas,  and  little  of  that  earnestness  of 
expresdon  which  springs  from  str<mg 
intenal  conviction,  and  is  the  chief 
fountain  of  doquent  and  overpower- 
ing oratory.  He  rarely  quotes  clas- 
dcal  or  Italian  literatare,  and  his 
writings  give  no  token  of  a  mind 
stored  with  their  imagery.  He  seldom 
gives  yon  tiie  fooling  that  he  is 
serious,  or  deeply  impressed  witii  his 
subject.  He  seldom  strikes  with  force, 
bat  very  often  touches  with  folid^» 
The  feding  which  pervades  his  writ- 
ings is  always  excellent,  often  gener- 
ous ;  his  taste  is  correct,  his  criticism 
in  general  just;  and  it  is  impossible 
not  to  admire  the  light  and  airy  hand 
with  which  he  treats  of  the  most  diffi- 
cult subjects,  and  the  happy  expres- 
dons  with  which  he  often  illustrates 
the  [most  abstruse  ideas.  He  deals 
more  in  Scotch  metaphysics  than  suits 
the  present  age :  he  made  some  signal 
and  wdl-known  mistakes  Ia  the  esti- 
mation of  contemp<»mi7  poetry ;  and 
laboured,  without  efiect,  to  wriie  up 
Ford,  Massing^,  and  the  old  dra- 
matists, whom  their  inveterate  in- 
decency has  justly  banished  from 
general  popularity.  But  these  faults 
are  amply  redeemed  by  the  attrac- 
tions or  his  essays  in  other  respects. 
There  are  no  more  charming  re- 
views in  our  language  than  some 
which  his  collected  papers  contain: 
and  no  one  can  rise  ih>m  thdr  perusal 
with  any  surprise  that  the  accom* 
plished  author  of  works  contahdng  so 
much  just  and  kindly  criticism  should 
deservedly  be  a  most  popular  and  re- 
spected judge. 

It  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  more 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


386 


MaeauUxy'i  Hitiory  of  England, 


[April, 


thorough  contrast  to  Lord  Jeffirey  than 
the  writings  of  Sidney  Smfih  exhibit. 
Though  a  reverend  and  pions  divine, 
the  prebendary  of  St  Paul's  had  veiy 
little  of  the  sacerdotal  character  in 
him .  His  conversational  talents  were 
great,  his  success  in  the  highest  Lon- 
don society  unbounded ;  but  this  in- 
toxicating course  neither  relaxed  the 
vigour  of  his  application,  nor  deadened 
the  warmth  of  his  feelings.  His 
powers,  and  they  were  of  no  ordinary 
kind,  were  always  directed,  though 
sometimes  with  mistaken  zeal,  to 
the  interests  of  humanity.  His  say- 
ings, like  those  of  Talleyrand,  were 
repeated  from  one  end  of  the  em- 
pire to  the  other.  These  brilli- 
ant and  sparkling  qualities  are  con- 
spicuous in  his  writings,  and  have 
4naiuly  contributed  to  their  remark- 
able success  both  in  this  country  and 
America.  There  is  scarcely  any 
scholarship,  and  little  information,  to 
be  met  with  in  his  works.  Few 
take  them  up  to  be  instructed ;  many 
to  be  amused.  He  has  little  of  the 
equanimity  of  the  judge  about  him, 
but  a  great  deal  of  the  wit  and  jocu- 
larity of  the  pleader.  He  would  have 
made  a  Arst-rate  jury  counsel,  for  he 
would  alternately  have  driven  them 
by  the  force  of  his  arguments,  and 
amused  them  by  the  brilliancy  of  his 
expressions.  There  is  no  more 
vigorous  and  forcible  diatribe  in  our 
language  than  his  celebrated  letter  on 
North  American  repudiation,  which 
roused  the  attention,  and  excited  the 
admiration,  of  the  repudiators  them- 
selves. He  has  expressed  in  a  single 
line  a  great  truth,  applicable,  it  is 
to  be  feared,  to  other  nations  be- 
sides the  Americans:  "They  pre- 
ferred any  load  of  infamy,  how- 
over  great,  to  any  burden  of  tax- 
ation, however  light."  But  Sidney 
Smithes  blows  were  expended,  and 
wit  lavished,  in  general,  on  subjects 
of  passing  or  ephemeral  Interest :  they 
were  not,  like  the  sti*okes  of  Johnson, 
levelled  at  the  universal  frailties  and 
characteristics  of  human  nature.  On 
this  account,  though  their  success 
hitherto  has  been  greater,  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  his  essays  will  take  so  high 
a  lasting  place  in  English  literature  as 
those  of  Lord  JeflDrey,  which  in  ge- 
neral treat  of  works  of  permanent 
interest. 


Sir  James  ^LLCKmTOSH  differs  aa 
widely  from  the  original  pillars  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review  as  they  do  from 
each  other.  The  publication  of  his 
collected  essays,  with  the  historical 
sketch  and  fragment  which  he  has 
left,  enables  us  now  to  form  a  fair 
estimate  of  his  powers.  That  they 
were  great,  no  one  can  doubt;  but 
they  are  of  a  different  kind  from  what 
was  at  first  anticipated.  Not  a 
shadow  of  a  doubt  can  now  remain, 
that,  though  his  noble  mind  had  not 
been  in  a  great  degree  swallowed  up  aa 
it  was  in  the  bottomless  gulf  of  London 
society,  and  he  had  spent  his  whole 
foi*enoons  for  the  last  fifteen  years  of 
his  life  in  writing  his  history,  instead 
of  conversing  with  fashionable  or  lite- 
rary ladies,  his  labours  would  have 
terminated  in  disappointment.  The 
beginning  of  a  history  which  he  has 
left,  is  a  sufficient  proof  of  this:  it 
is  learned,  minute,  and  elaborate, 
but  dull.  The  Whigs,  according  to 
their  usual  practice  with  all  writers  of 
their  own  party,  hailed  its  appear- 
ance with  a  fiourisli  of  trumpets ;  but 
we  doubt  whetlier  many  of  them 
have  yet  read  it  through.  He  had 
little  dramatic  power;  his  writings 
exhibit  no  traces  of  a  pictorial  eye, 
and  though  he  had  much  poetiy  in 
his  mind,  they  are  not  imbued  with 
the  poetic  character*  These  de- 
ficiencies are  fatal  to  the  popularity 
of  any  historian :  no  amount  of  learn- 
ing or  philosophioal  aouteness*  can 
supply  their  want  in  the  narrotioe  of 
events.  Guizot  is  a  proof  of  this:  he  is, 
perhaps,  one  of  the  greatest  writers  on 
the  philosophy  of  history  that  ever 
lived  ;  but  his  history  of  the  English 
Revolution  is  lifeless  beside  the  pa^ 
of  Livy  or  Gibbon*  Sir  James  JVIjutkin- 
tosh  was  fitted  to  have  been  the 
Gui20t  of  English  history.  His  mind 
was  esaentiaUy  didactic  Reflection, 
not  action,  was  both  the  bent  of  his 
disposition  and  the  theatre  of  his 
glory.  His  History  of  Englosd, 
written  for  Lardner*s  Encyclopedic^ 
can  scarcely  be  called  a  history ;  it 
is  rather  a  series  of  essays  on  history. 
It  treats  so  largely  of  some  events, 
so  scantily  of  others,  that  a  reader 
not  previously  acquainted  with  the 
subject,  might  rise  from  its  perusal 
with  scarcely  any  idea  of  the  thread 
of  English  story.  But  no  one  who  was 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


;1849.] 


Macau!m/*8  History  ofBngland. 


already  informed  on  it  can  do  so, 
Tvithoot  feeling  bis  mind  stored  with 
original  and  valuable  reflection,  jnst 
and  profound  views.  His  collected 
essa]^  from  the  Edinburgh  Review^ 
lately  put  together,  are  not  so  dis- 
cursive as  those  of  Lord  Jeflrey,  nor 
so  amusing  as  those  of  Sidney  Smith ; 
but  they  are  much  more  profound  than 
either,  and  treat  of  subjects  more  per- 
manentlv  interesting  to  the  human 
race.  Many  of  them,  particularly 
that  on  representative  governments, 
abound  with  views  equaJly  just  and 
original.  It  is  impossible  not  to 
regret,  that  a  mind  so  richly  stored 
with  historical  knowledge,  and  so 
largely  endowed  with  philosophic 
penetration,  should  have  left  so  few 
lasting  monuments  of  its  great  and 
varied  powers. 

Much  as  these  very  eminent  men 
diflfer  from  each  other,  MtMacaulay 
is,  perhaps,  still  more  cleariy  distin- 
guished firom  either.  Both  his  turn 
of  mind  and  style  of  writing  are  pecu- 
Kar,  and  exhibit  a  combination  rarely 
if  ever  before  witnessed  in  English,  or 
even  modem  literature.  Unlike  Lord 
Jeffrey,  he  is  deeply  learned  in  an- 
cient and  modem  lore;  his  mind  is 
richly  stored  with  the  poetry  and 
history  both  of  classical  and  Conti* 
nental  literature.  Unlike  Mackintosh, 
be  is  eminently  dramatic  and  pictorial ; 
he  atteraately  speaks  poetry  to  the 
soul  and  pictures  to  the  eye.  Unlike 
Sidney  Smith,  hehas  avoided  subjects  of 
party  contention  and  passing  interest, 
and  grappled  with  the  great  questions, 
the  immortal  names,  which  will  for 
ever  attract  the  interest  and  command 
the  attention  of  man.  Milton,  Bacon, 
Machiavelli,  first  awakened  his  dis- 
criminating and  critical  taste ;  Clive, 
Warren  Hastings,  Frederick  the  Great, 
called  forth  his  dramatic  and  historic 
powers.  He  has  treated  of  the  Refor- 
mation and  the  Catholic  reaction  in 
his  review  of  Ranke;  of  the  splen- 
did despotism  of  the  Popedom  in  that 
of  Hildebrand  ;  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution in  that  of  Barere.  There  is  no 
danger  of  his  essays  being  forgotten, 
like  many  of  those  of  Addison;  nor 
of  pompous  uniformity  of  style  being 
eomplamed  of,  as  in  most  of  those  of 
Johnson.  His  learning  is  prodigious; 
and  perhaps  the  chief  defects  of  his 
composition  arise  from  the  exuberant 


887 

riches  of  the  stores  from  which  they 
are  drawn.  When  warmed  in  his 
snhject  he  is  thoroughly  in  earnest, 
and  his  language,  in  consequence, 
goes  direct  to  the  heart.  In  many  of 
his  writings— and  especially  the  first 
volume  of  his  history,  and  his  essay 
on  the  Reformation — there  are  reflec- 
tions equally  just  and  original,  which 
never  were  surpassed  in  the  philosophy 
of  history.  That  he  is  imbued  with 
the  soul  of  poetry  need  be  told  to 
none  who  have  read  his  Battle  of  the 
Lake  Regillus;  that  he  is  a  great 
biographer  will  be  disputed  by  none 
who  are  acquainted  with  the  splendid 
biographies  of  Clive  and  Hastings,  by 
much  the  finest  productions  of  the 
kind  in  the  English  language. 

Macaulay's  style,  like  other  original 
things,  has  abready  produced  a  school  of 
imitators.  Its  influence  may  distinctly 
be  traced,  both  in  the  periodical  and 
daily  literature  of  the  day.  Its  great 
characteristic  is  the  shortness  of  the 
sentences,  which  often  equals  that  of 
Tacitus  himself,  and  the  rapidity  with 
which  new  and  distinct  ideas  or  facts 
succeed  each  other  in  his  richly-stored 
pages.  He  is  the  Pope  of  English 
prose:  he  often  gives  two  sentiments  and 
facts  in  a  single  line.  No  preceding 
writer  in  prose,  in  any  modem  lan- 
guage with  which  we  are  acquahited, 
has  carried  this  art  of  abbreviation, 
or  rather  cramming  of  ideas,  to  such 
a  length;  and  to  its  felicitous  use 
much  of  the  celebrity  which  he  has 
acquired  is  to  be  ascribed.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  it  is  a  most  powerful  engine 
for  the  stirring  of  the  mind,  and  when 
not  repeated  too  often,  or  carried  too 
far,  has  a  surprising  effect.  Its  intro- 
duction forms  an  era  in  historical  com- 
position. To  illustrate  our  meaning, 
and  at  the  same  time  adorn  our  pages 
with  passages  of  exquisite,  almost 
redundant  beauty,  we  gladly  trans- 
cribe two  well-known  ones,  taken 
from  the  most  perfect  of  his  historical 
Of  Lord  Clive  he  says— 


^  From  Clive's  second  Tisit  to  India 
dates  the  political  wcendenoy  of  the 
English  in  that  country.  His  dexte- 
rity and  resolntion  realised,  in  the  course 
of  a  few  months,  more  than  all  the  gor- 
geous Tisions  which  had  floated  befbre  the 
imagination  of  Dopleix.  Such  an  extent 
of  cultiTated  territory,  such  an  amount  of 
reyenue,  such  a  multitude  of  subjects,  was 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


& 


»^ 


MacauXmf^  History  of  England. 


[April, 


^f  added  to  the  dominion  of  Rome  by 


^^  '    j^ost  Buocesaful  proconsul.    Nor  were 

^^^-m^     wealthy   raoils  ever  borne   under 

^ ^*^e ^  °^  triumph,  down  the  Sacred  Way, 

^  ^^*^  i,lirough  the  crowded  forum,  to  the 

^^  <A  ^i>old  of  Tarpeian  Jove     ""    * " 


^  <A  ^i^old  of  Tarpeian  Jove.    The  fame  of 
Y^<^'^   '^^^  subdued  Antiochus  and  Tigra- 
\^^y^  ^^x^^^  ?*™>  when  compared  with  the 

"le  young 
the  head 
3  to  one- 
I  Clive's 
(urity  of 
empire. 
Qsparing 
pression, 
had  pre- 
thai  war 
eai«,  hU 
?.  The 
id?  US  to 
s  <>f  bis 
aut  thai 
L  If  the 
■  **frrants 
i:ii.a  the 
berf  the 
ea  found 
dyua^ty  ; 
r?  which 
Se  whole 
Af  fi-.nv-^- 

r\t;  vf  XKT 

<•  wvaUlu 
^  \lu«  to 
«i  thi!»  roll 
X  a  Mter 
dvmo  and 
lUi^uViud. 
;i\  a  place 
'  and  IVa- 

w^tormor 
uh  which 
i\t  Turj^>t^ 
<»tativxu  \\f 

Ma(u«  «f 


i  »UV       >fcN 


a 


,.W^^' 


«-  ♦  N-%  • 


v.» 


V*.:..v 


Intion  of  Somen;  the  hall  where  the  elo- 
quence of  Strafford  had  for  a  moment 
awed  and  melted  a  victorious  party,  in- 
flamed with  just  resentment;  the  hall 
where  Charles  had  confh>nted  the  Hi^ 
Court  of  Justice  with  the  placid  courage 
which  has  half  redeemed  his  fame. 
Neither  military  nor  civil  pomp  was  want- 
ing. The  avenues  were  lined  with  grena- 
diers ;  the  streets  were  kept  clear  by 
cavalry  ;  the  peers,  robed  in  gold  and 
ermine,  were  marshalled  by  the  heralds, 
under  the  Garter  king-at-arms.  The  judges, 
in  their  vestments  of  state,  attended  to 
give  advice  on  points  of  law.  Near  a 
hundred  and  seventy  lords,  three-fourtha 
of  the  Upper  House,  as  the  Upper  House 
then  was,  walked  in  solemn  order  from 
their  usual  place  of  assembling  to  the  tri- 
buuaL  The  junior  baron  present  led  the 
way — George  Eliott,  Lord  Heathfield,  re- 
cently ennobled  for  his  memorable  defence 
of  Gibraltar  against  the  fleets  and  armies 
of  France  and  Spain.  The  long  proces- 
sion was  closed  by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk, 
earl-marshal  of  the  realm,  by  the  great 
dignitaries,  and  by  the  brothers  and  sons 
of  the  king.  Last  of  all  came  the  Prinee 
of  Wales,  conspicuous  by  his  fine  person 
and  noble  bearing.  The  gray  old  walla 
were  hung  with  scarlet.  The  long  gal- 
leries were  crowded  by  an  audience,  such 
a5  ha5  rarely  excited  the  fears  or  the  emu- 
Is  t  ion  of  an  orator.  There  were  gathered 
toct^ther,  from  all  parts  of  a  great,  free, 
cnlii;ht4'ued,Rnd  prosperous  empire,  grace 
and  female  loveliness,  wit  and  learning, 
the  representatives  of  every  scienoe  and 
ot*  every  art  There  were  seated  round  the 
queen  the  fair-haired  young  daughters  of 
tlie  house  of  Brunswick.  There  the  am- 
ba:$$^:kdor8  of  great  kings  and  common- 
wealths gaxed  with  admiration  on  a  spec- 
tacle which  no  other  country  in  the  world 
could  present.  There  Siddons,  in  the 
prime  of  her  majestic  beauty,  looked 
with  emotion  on  a  scene  surpassing  all 
the  imitations  of  the  stage.  'Hiere 
the  historian  of  the  Roman  Empire 
thonjsht  of  the  days  when  Cicero  pleaded 
ih*  cau$o  of  Sicily  against  Verres,  and 
when«  bef\tre  a  senate  which  still  retained 
^vixu>  ^ow  of  tVeedom,  Tacitus  thundered 
a^.^m»t  the  oppressor  of  Africa.  There 
\«vr«  :^Mi,  «ide  by  side,  the  greatest 
)M\atct  and  the  greatest  scholar  of  the 
*j;v.  The  spectacle  had  allnred  Reyn- 
^v.^  tfVs^w  th:n  easel  which  has  preserv- 
evl  t\«  »t«  the  thoni^htfVil  foreheads  of  so 
wi%ni  wr»n'T9  and  «tale«Bien«  and  the 
«>tt^  ^w.:^  «f  »>  many  noble  matrons, 
li  VnU  (v^vkvW  l>aiT  to  sospend  his  Isr 
S^r»  «a  tlMkl  4aik  Md  proitoud  mine 


•  ^N  J^''   f\M  \H!k  \vu  "iNVV  2*^^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S49.] 


MMmOaift  History  of  England. 


dS9 


from  whieh  he  had  extracted  a  Tast  tretr 
sure  of  eruditioii-— a  treasure  too  often 
buried  in  the  earth,  too  often  paraded 
with  injudicious  and  inelegant  ostenta- 
tion, but  still  precious,  massive,  and  splen- 
did. There  appeared  the  voluptuous 
charms  of  her  to  whom  the  heir  of  the 
throne  had  in  secret  plighted  his  faith. 
Tliere,  too,  was  she,  the  beautiful  mother 
-of  abeautiftil  race,1he  Saint  Cecilia  whose 
deHcate  fiBatnres,  lighted  up  by  love  and 
music,  art  has  rescued  from  the  common 
decay.  There  were  the  members  of  that 
brilliant  society  which  quoted,  criticised, 
and  exchanged  repartees  under  the  rich 
peacock  hangings  of  Mrs  Montague.  And 
there  the  ladies,  whose  lips,  more  per- 
suasive than  those  of  Fox  himself,  had 
carried  Westminster  against  Palace  and 
Treasury,  shone  round  Georgiana  Duchess 
of  Devonshire.'** 

As  a  contrast  to  these  splendid  pic- 
tares,  we  sntti^^in  the  portrait  of  the 
Black  Hole  of  Calcntta,  which  proyes 
^at,  if  the  author  is  in  general  en^ 
dowed  with  the  richness  of  Ariosto's 
imaginadon,  he  can,  when  necessary, 
6xhHit  the  terrible  powers  of  Danle. 

"  Then  was  committed  that  great  crime 
— memorable  for  its  singular  atrocity^ 
memorable  for  the  tremendous  retribu- 
tion by  which  it  was  followed.  The 
English  captives  were  left  at  the  mercy 
of  Uie  guaids,  and  the  guards  determined 
to  secure  them  for  the  night  in  the  prison 
•  of  the  garrison,  a  chamber  known  hy  the 
fearfhl  name  of  the  Blaok  Hole.  Even 
for  a  single  European  malefactor  that  dun- 
geon would,  in  such  a  climate,  have  been 
too  close  and  narrow.  The  space  was 
only  twenty  feet  square.  The  air-holes 
were  small  and  obstructed.  It  was  the 
summer  solstice — the  season  when  the 
fierce  heat  of  Bengal  can  scarcely  be  ren- 
dered tolenU>le  to  natives  of  England  by 
lofty  halls,  and  by  the  constant  waving  of 
fiuis.  The  number  of  the  prisonera  was 
146.  When  thayware  ordered  to  enter  the 
cell,  they  imagined  that  the  soldiers  were 
joking  ;  and,  being  in  high  spirits  on  ac- 
count of  the  promise  of  the  nabob  to 
spare  their  lives,  they  laughed  and  jested 
at  the  absurdity  of  the  notion.  They  soon 
discovered  their  mistake.  They  expos- 
tulated, they  entreated,  but  in  vara.  The 
guards  threatened  to  cut  all  down  who 
hesitated.  The  captives  were  driven  into 
the  cell  at  the  point  of  the  sword,  and 
the  door  was  instantly  shut  and  looked 
upon  them. 
''Nothing   in   history  or  fiction — not 


even  the  story  which  Ugolino  told  in  the 
sea  of  everUuting  ice,  i^r  he  had  wiped 
his  bloody  lips  on  the  scalp  of  his  murderer 
— approaches  the  horrors  which  were  re- 
counted by  the  few  surrivors  of  that  night. 
They  cried  for  mercy  ;  they  strove  to 
burst  the  door.  Holwell,  who  even  in 
that  extremity  retained  some  presence  of 
mind,  offered  large  bribes  to  the  gaolers. 
But  the  answer  was,  that  nothing  could 
be  done  vrithout  the  nabob's  orders  ;  that 
the  nabob  was  asleep,  and  that  he  would 
be  angry  if  anybody  woke  him.  Then 
the  prisoners  went  mad  with  despair. 
They  trampled  each  other  down,  fought 
for  the  places  at  the  windows— fought  for 
the  pittance  of  water  with  which  the 
cruel  mercy  of  the  murderers  mocked 
their  agonies — raved,prayed,blasphemed, 
implored  the  guards  to  fire  among  them. 
The  gaolers,  in  the  mean  time,  held  lights 
to  the  bars,  and  shouted  vrith  laughter  at 
the  fhtntic  struggles  of  the  victims.  At 
length  the  tumult  died  away  in  low  gasp- 
ings  and  meanings.  The  day  broke.  The 
na^b  had  slept  off  his  debauch,  and 
permitted  the  door  to  be  opened  ;  but  it 
was  some  time  before  the  soldiers  could 
make  a  lane  for  the  surrivors,  by  piling  up 
on  each  side  the  heaps  of  corpses  on  whim 
the  burning  climate  had  already  begun 
to  do  its  loathsome  work.  When,  at 
length,  a  passage  was  made,  twenty-three 
ghi^tly  figures,  such  as  their  own  mothers 
would  not  have  known,  came  forth  alive. 
A  pit  was  instantly  dog  :  the  dead  bodies^ 
a  hundred  and  twen^-three  in  number, 
were  flung  into  it  promisouonslj,  and 
covered  up."  f 

This  style  does  admirably  well  for 
short  biographic,  snch  as  those  of 
Warren  Hastings  or  CUve,  in  the 
Edinlmrgk  Jienewy  in  whidi  the  ob* 
Jeot  is  to  condense  the  important 
events  of  a  whde  Ufelime  into  com- 
paratively  faw  pages,  and  fascinate 
the  reader  bj  as  condensed  and  briK 
liant  a  jnctnre  as  it  is  possible  to  pre- 
sent, of  the  most  striking  features  of 
their  character  and  story.  Bnt  how 
will  it  answer  for  a  lengthened  his- 
tory, snch  as  Macanlay^s  great  work 
promises  to  be,  extending  to  twelTO 
or  fifteen  volumes?  How  will  it  do 
to  muke  the  ^^extreme  medicine  of  ^at 
constitution  its  daily  bread  ?  "  Ba- 
gouts  and  French  disbes  are  admir- 
able at  a  fbast,  or  on  paitknlar  occa- 
sions, bnt  what  should  we  say  to  a 
diet  prescribed  of  sudi  highly  season- 
ed food  every  day?    It  is  true,  there 


'  Critical  and  Bmtorieal  E$$ay^  iii.  446, 447. 


fiWd^iii,  144-146. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


890 


2dacaiday^$  History  of  England. 


[April, 


are  not  many  such  bHlliant  and  strik- 
ing fiassages  as  those  we  have  quoted. 
The  sabject,  of  course,  would  not  ad- 
mit of,  the  mind  of  the  reader  would 
sink  under,  the  frequent  repetition  of 
such  powerful  emotion.  But  the  style 
is  generally  the  same.  It  almost  al- 
ways indicates  a  crowd  of  separate 
ideas,  facts,  or  assertions,  in  such  dose 
juxtaposition  that  they  literally  seem 
wedged  together.  Such  is  the  extent 
of  the  magazine  of  reading  and  infor- 
mation from  which  they  are  drawn, 
that  they  come  tumbling  out,  often 
without  much  order  or  arrangement, 
and  generally  so  dose  together  that  it 
is  difficult  for  a  person  not  previouslv 
acquainted  with  the  subject  to  tdl 
which  are  of  importance  and  which 
are  immaterial. 

This  tendency,  when  as  coniirmed 
and  general  as  it  has  now  become, 
we  consider  by  far  the  most  serious 
fault  in  Mr  Macaulay*s  style;  and 
it  is  not  less  conspicuous  in  his 
general  history  than  m  his  detiiched 
biographies.  Indeed,  its  continu- 
ance in  the  former  spedes  of  com- 
position is  mainly  owing  to  the 
brilliant  success  with  which  it  has 
been  attended  in  the  latter.  In  his- 
torical essays  it  is  not  a  blemish,  it  is 
rather  a  beauty;  because,  in  such 
miniature  portraits  or  cabinet  pieces, 
minuteness  of  finishing  and  crowding 
of  incidents  in  a  small  space  are 
amonff  the  prindpal  requisites  we  de- 
sire, uie  chief  charm  we  admire.  But 
the  style  of  painting  which  we  justly 
admire  in  Albano  and  Yanderwerf, 
wonld  be  misplaced  in  the  ceiliog  of 
the  Sistine  C&iH[>el,  or  even  the  ex- 
tended canvass  of  the  Transfiguration. 
We  do  not  object  to  such  elaborate 
finishing,  such  brevity  of  sentences, 
such  crowdmg  of  ^ts  and  ideas,  in 
the  delineation  of  the  striking  ind- 
dents  or  prindpal  characters  of  the 
work;  what  we  olject  to  is  its  con- 
tinuance on  ordinary  oocasLons,  in  the 
drawing  of  inconsiderable  characteis, 
and  in  what  should  be  the  simple 
thread  of  the  story.  Look  how  easy 
Home  fai  in  his  ordinary  nairative — 
how  miambitious  Livy,  m  the  creater 
part  of  his  history.  We  desiderate 
such  periods  of  relaxation  and  repose 
in  Macaiday.  We  there  alwi^^s  dis- 
cover learning,  genius,  power;  but 
the  prodigal  msplay  of  these  powers 


often  mars  their  effect.  We  see  it 
not  only  in  delineating  the  immortal 
deeds  of  heroes,  or  the  virtues  of 
princesses,  but  in  portraying  the  ha- 
bits of  serving- women  or  the  finiltles 
of  maids  of  honour.  With  all  its 
elevated  and  poetical  qualities,  the 
mind  of  Macaulay  occasionally  gives 
token  of  its  descent  from  our  common 
ancestress.  Eve,  in  an  evident  fond- 
ness for  gossip.  It  wonld  perhaps  be 
well  for  him  to  remember  that  tha 
scandal  of  our  great  great-grandmo* 
thers  is  not  generally  interesting,  or 
permanently  edifying ;  and  that  he  is 
not  to  measure  the  gnitiflcation  it  wift 
give  to  the  world  in  general,  by  the  avi- 
dity with  which  it  is  devoured  among 
the  titled  descendants  of  the  fair  sin- 
ners in  the  Whig  coteries.  There  is 
oflen  a  want  of  breadth  and  keeping  in 
his  pictures.  To  resume  our  pictorial 
metaphor,  Macaulay^s  pages  often 
remind  us  of  the  paintings  of  Bassano, 
in  which  warriors  and  pUgrims,  horses 
and  nrales,  dromedaries  and  camels, 
sheep  and  lambs,  Arabs  and  Ethio- 
pians, shining  armour  and  glistening 
pans,  spears  and  pruning-hooks,  sd- 
mitars  and  shephenls*  crooks,  baskets » 
tents,  and  precious  stuffs,  are  crammed 
together  without  mercy,  and  with  an 
equal  light  thrown  on  the  most  in- 
significant as  the  most  important  parts 
of  the  piece. 

AVhen  he  is  engaged  in  a  subject, 
however,  in  which  minute  painting  is 
not  misplaced,  and  the  condensation 
of  striking  images  is  a  prindpal  charm, 
Mr  Macanlay's  pictorial  eye  and  poeti- 
cal powers  appear  in  their  full  lustre. 
We  observe  with  pleasure  that  he  haa 
not  forgotten  the  example  and  pre-* 
cept  of  Herodotus,  who  considered 
geography  as  a  prindpal  part  of  his-* 
toiy ;  and  that,  in  Che  deseription  of 
countries,  he  has  put  forth  the  whole 
vigour  of  his  mind  with  eqnal  correot- 
ness  of  drawing  and  brilliancy  of  oo« 
louring.  As  a  specimen,  we  subjoin 
the  adrofrable  picture  of  the  plain  of 
Bengal,  in  the  life  of  Clive : — 

*  Of  the  provinces  which  had  been 
sabject  to  the  house  of  iTamerlanc,  the 
wealthiest  was  Bengal.  Ko  part  of  India 
possessed  such  natural  advantages,  both 
for  agricnHine  and  for  eommeree.  Th« 
Ganges,  rushing  throng  a  handred  chan- 
nels to  the  sea,  has  formed  a  vast  phdn 
of  rich  mould,  which,  even  under  the  tro« 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Mocaalaifs  History  of  England. 


pioal  Bky,  rirals  the  yerdare  of  an  English 
April.  The  rice-fields  yield  an  increase 
each  as  is  elsewhere  unknown.  Spices, 
sugar,  Tegetable  oils,  are  produced  with 
marrelloas  exuberance.  The  rifers  afford 
an  inexhaustible  supply  of  fish.  The 
desolate  islands  along  the  sea-coast,  OTer- 
grown  by  noxious  vegetation,  and  swarm- 
ing with  deer  and  tigers,  supply  the  cul- 
tfyated  districts  with  abundance  of  salt.* 
The  great  stream  which  fertilises  the  soil 
is,  at  the  same  tiine,  the  chief  highway  of 
Eastern  commerce.  On  its  banks,  and  on 
those  of  its  tributary  waters,  are  the 
wealthiest  marts,  the  most  splendid  capi- 
tals, and  the  most  sacred  abrmes  of  India. 
The  tyranny  of  man  had  for  ages  strug- 
gled in  Tain  against  the  oyerflowing 
bounty  of  nature.  In  spite  of  the  Mus- 
sulman despot,  and  of  the  Mahratta  free- 
booter, Bengal  was  known  through  the 
East  as  the  garden  of  Eden,  as  the  rich 
kingdom.  Its  population  multiplied 
exceedingly.  Distant  prorinces  were 
ju)imshed  from  the  oyerflowing  of  its 
granaries ;  and  the  noble  ladies  of  Lon- 
dan  and  Paris  were  clothed  in  the  deli- 
cate produce  of  its  looms.  The  race  by 
whom  this  rich  tract  was  peopled,  ener- 
Tated  by  a  soft  climate,  and  accustomed 
to  peaceful  aTocations,  bore  the  same  re- 
lation to  other  Asiatics  which  the  Asiatics 
generally  bear  to  the  bold  and  energetic 
children  of  Europe.  The  Castilians  haye 
%  proyerb,  that  in  Valencia  the  earth  is 
waler,  and  the  men  women ;  and  the  de- 
neription  is  at  least  equ^y  applicable  to 
the  yast  plain  of  the  lower  Ganges. 
Whateftr  the  Bengalee  does  he  dees 
languidly.  His  fayourite  pursuits  are 
sedentaiy.  He  shrinks  from  bold  exer- 
tion ;  and  though  Toluble  in  dispute,  and 
singularly  pertinacious  in  the  war  of 
chicane,  he  seldom  engages  In  a  personal 
conflict,  and  scarcely  ever  enlists  as  a 
soldier.  We  doubt  whether  there  be  a 
hundred  Bengalees  in  the  whole  army  of 
the  East  India  Company.  There  ncTer, 
perhaps,  existed  a  people  so  thoroughly 
fitted  by  natee  and  by  habit  for  a  foreign 
yake."* 

Th«  talent  of  military  description, 
and  the  pictnre  of  battie,  is  one  of  a 
very  peculiar  kind,  which  ia  often 
wiiolly  awanting'  in  historians  of  a 
venr  high  charact^  in  other  respects. 
It  is  a  common  observation,  that  all 
battles  In  history  are  like  each  other — 
a  sore  proof  that  their  authors  did  not 
understand  the  subject;  for  every 
battle,  fonght  from  &e  beginning  of 
time,  in  reality  differs  from  another 


891 

as  much  as  every  countenance.  In 
his  previous  writings,  Mr  Macaulay 
had  enjoyed  few  opportunities  of  ex- 
hibiting his  strength  in  this  important 
particular;  though  it  might  have  been 
anticipated,  from  the  brilliancy  of  his 
imagination,  and  the  powerful  pictures 
in  his  LaysofRome^  that  he  would  not 
be  inferior  m  this  respect  to  what  he 
had  proved  himself  to  be  in  other 
parts  of  history.  But  the  matter  has 
now  been  put  to  the  test ;  and  it  gives 
us  the  highest  satisfaction  to  perceive, 
from  the  manner  in  which  he  has 
treated  a  comparatively  trifling  en- 
gagement, that  he  is  fully  qualified 
to  portray  the  splendid  victories  of 
Marlborough,  the  bold  intrepidity  of 
Hawke,  and  the  gallant  daring  of 
Peterborough.  It  would  be  diflBcult 
to  find  in  history  a  more  spirited  and 
graphic  description  than  he  has  given 
in  his  great  work  of  the  battle  of 
Sedgemoor,  with  the  scene  of  which 
he  seems,  firam  early  acquaintance,  to 
be  peculiarly  familiar: — 

^Monmouth  was  startled  at  finding 
that  a  broad  and  profound  trench  lay 
between  him  and  the  camp  he  had  hoped 
to  surprise.  The  insorgents  halted  on  the 
edge  of  the  hollow,  and  fired.  Part  of 
the  royal  infantry,  on  the  opposite  bank, 
returned  the  fire.  During  three  quarters 
of  ^an  hour  the  roar  of  musketry  was 
incessant.  The  Somersetshire  peasants 
behaved  as  if  they  had  been  veteran 
soldiers,  save  only  that  they  levelled  their 
pieces  too  high.  But  now  the  other  di- 
vi^ons  of  the  royal  army  were  in  motion. 
The  Life  Guards,  and  Blues,  came  prick- 
ing np  from  Weston  Zoyland,  and  scat- 
tered, in  an  instant,  some  of  Grey's  horse, 
who  had  attempted  to  rally.  The  fugi- 
tives spread  a  panic  among  the  fugitives 
in  the  rear,  who  had  charge  of  the  am- 
munition. The  waggoners  drove  off  at 
full  speed,  and  never  stopped  till  they 
were  some  miles  from  the  field  of  battle. 
Monmouth  had  hitherto  done  his  part 
like  a  stout  and  able  warrior.  He  had 
been  seen  on  foot,  pike  in  hand,  encour- 
aging his  infkntry  by  voice  and  example. 
But  he  was  too  well  acquainted  with 
military  aifiurs  not  to  know  that  all  was 
over.  His  men  had  lost  the  advantage 
which  surprise  and  darkness  had  given 
them.  They  were  deserted  by  the  horse 
and  by  the  ammunition  waggons.  The 
king's  forces  were  now  united,  and  in 
good    order.       Feversham    had    been 


*  Cri^kal  and  HiHorkal  E9iay§,  iii.  141,  142. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


392 


Mae(mbq/*s  Hktory  ofEm^nmd, 


[Apfil, 


awakened  by  the  firing,  had  a^Jnated  his 
orarat,  had  looked  himself  well  in  the 
glass,  and  had  come  to  see  what  his  men 
were  doing.  What  was  of  mnch  more 
consequence,  Churchill  (  Marlborough  ) 
had  rapidly  made  an  entirely  new  dispo- 
eition  of  the  royal  infisintry.  The  day  had 
begun  to  break.  The  event  of  a  conflict 
on  an  open  plain  by  broad  sunlight  could 
not  be  donbtfhl.  Yet  Monmouth  should 
liare  felt  that  it  was  not  for  him  to  fly, 
while  thousands,  whom  aflfeetion  for  him 
had  hurried  to  destruction,  were  still 
fighting  manfhlly  in  his  cause.  But  vidn 
hopes,  and  the  intense  love  of  life,  pre- 
vailed. He  saw  that,  if  he  tarried,  the 
royal  cavalry  would  soon  be  in  his  rear : 
he  mounted,  and  rode  off  from  the  field. 

Yet  his  foot,  though  deserted,  made  a 
gallant  stand.  The  Life  Guards  attacked 
them  on  the  right,  the  Blues  on  the  left; 
bnt  these  Somerset  clowns,  with  their 
scythes  and  the  but-ends  of  their  muskets, 
faced  the  royal  horse  like  old  soldiers. 
Oglethorpe  made  a  vigorous  attempt  to 
break  them,  and  was  manftally  repulsed. 
Sarsfleld,  a  brave  Irish  officer,  whoee 
name  afterwards  obtained  a  melancholy 
celebrity,  charged  on  the  other  flank. 
His  men  were  beaten  baok :  he  himself 
was  struck  to  the  ground,  and  lay,  for  a 
time,  as  one  dead.  But  the  struggle  of 
the  hardy  rustics  oould  not  last;  their 
powder  and  ball  were  spent.  Cries  were 
heard  of,  <<  Ammunition !  for  God's  sake, 
ammunition !"  But  no  ammunition  was 
at  hand.  And  now  the  king's  artillery 
eame  up.  Even  when  the  guns  had  ar- 
rived, there  was  such  a  want  of  gunners, 
that  a  sergeant  of  Dumbarton's  regiment 
had  to  tiUce  apon  himself  the  manage- 
ment of  several  pieces.  The  cannon, 
however,  though  ill  served,  brought  the 
engagement  to  a  speedy  dose.  The  pikes 
of  the  rebel  battalions  began  to  shake — 
the  ranks  broke.  The  king's  oavahry 
charged  again,  and  bore  down  everything 
before  them.  The  king's  infantry  came 
pouring  across  the  ditch.  Even  in  that 
extremity,  the  Hendip  miners  stood 
bravely  to  their  arms,  and  sold  their  lives 
dearly.  Bnt  the  rout  was  in  a  few 
minutes  complete;  three  hundred  of  the 
soldiers  had  been  killed  or  wounded. 
Of  the  rebels,  more  than  a  Uiousand  lay 
4ead  on  the  moor."* 

We  have  dwelt  so  long  on  the  gene- 
ral chai*acteri3tica  and  peculiar  excel- 
lencies of  Mr  Macaolay^s  compositions, 
that  we  have  hardly  left  ourselves 
Bofficient  space  to  enter  so  fully  as 


we  conld  wish  into  the  merits  of  the 
great  work  on  which  he  has  staked 
his  repntation  with  ftitnre  times,  it 
was  looked  forward  to  with  pecoHar, 
and  we  may  say  unexampled  interest, 
both  from  the  known  celebrity  and 
talents  of  the  author— not  less  as  a 
parliamentary  orator  than  a  practised 
critic— and  thelmportance  of  the  blank 
whichhe  was  expected  to  fill  up  ln£kig* 
lish  literature.  He  has  contracted  an 
engagement  with  the  public,  to  give  the 
History  of  England  during  the  last 
centuiy ;  to  fill  up  the  Tmd  firom  the 
English  to  the  French  Revolution. 
He  came  after  Hume,  whose  simple 
and  undying  narratiye  will  be  coeval 
with  the  long  and  erentfol  thread 
of  English  story.  He  has  under* 
taken  the  histoiy  of  the  glorious  age 
of  Queoi  Anne,  and  the  era  of  the 
first  Georges  — of  tiie  victories  of 
Mariborough,  and  the  disasters  of 
North— of  the  ener^  of  Chatham, 
and  the  brilliancy  of  Bolingbroke ;  he 
has  to  recount  equally  the  chival- 
rous episode  of  Cluurles  Edward  and 
the  heroic  death  of  Wolfe — ^the  in- 
glorious capitulation  of  Comwallis, 
and  the  matchless  triumphs  of  Clive. 
That  the  two  first  volumes  of  his  wod^ 
have  not  disiH[>pointed  the  public  ex- 
pectation is  pnyred  by  the  fact,  that, 
before  two  months  had  elapsed  firom 
publication,  they  had  already  reached 
a  third  edidon. 

We  shall  not,  in  treating  of  the 
merits  of  this  very  remaikaUe  pro- 
duction, adopt  the  not  uncommon  prac- 
tice of  reviewers  on  such  occasions. 
We  shall  not  pretend  to  be  better  in- 
formed on  the  details  of  the  sulqect 
than  the  author.  We  shallnot  set  up 
the  reading  of  a  few  wedu  or  montiis 
against  the  study  of  half  a  lifetime. 
We  shaU  not  imitate  certain  critics 
who  look  at  the  bottom  of  the  pages 
for  the  authorities  of  the  author,  and, 
having  got  the  chie  to  the  requisite 
information,  proceed  to  examine  with 
the  utaMMt  minuteiiess  every  particu- 
lar of  his  nairative,  aad  make  in  ooa* 
sequence  a  vast  di^^y  of  knowledge 
wholly  derived  fiom  the  reading  whldi 
he  has  suggested.  We  shall  not  be  so 
deluded  as  to  suppose  we  have  made 
a  greatdisoovery  in  biography,  became 
we  have  asoertained  that  sodm  Lady 


^iffory,  1.610, 611. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


MfumiSknfn  Bktary  of  EngkauL 


Oarolifle  of  tiie  last  generatHm  was 
bora  on  the  7th  October  1674,  instead 
of  the  8th  Febroaiy  1675,  as  the  his- 
torian, with  shamefoi  negligence,  has 
affirmed ;  nor  shall  we  take  credit  to 
oarsd^esfor  a  jonraey  down  to  Hamp- 
shire to  conaolt  tiie  parish  register  on 
thesabject.  As  little  shall  we  in  fatnre 
accuse  Macanl&y  of  inaccoraoy  in  de- 
scribing battles,  because  on  referring, 
without  mentioning  it,  to  the  milita^ 
authorities  he  has  quoted,  and  the  page 
be  has  referred  to,  we  have  discovered 
that  at  some  battle,  as  Malplaquet, 
Lottum*s  men  stood  on  the  right  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  when  he  says  ther 
stood  on  the  left;  or  that  Marlborough 
dined  on  a  certain  day  at  one  o'do^ 
when  hi  point  of  fact  he  did  not  sit 
down,  as  is  proved  by  incontestable 
authority,  till  kalf-past  two.  We  shall 
leave  sudi  minute  and  Lilliputian 
criticisms  to  the  minute  and  LiU^u- 
tian  minds  by  whom  alone  they  are 
ever  made.  Mr  Macaalay  can  afford 
to  smile  at  all  reviewers  who  affect  to 
possess  more  than  his  own  gigantic 
stores  of  information. 

In  the  first  place,  we  must  bestow 
the  highest  praise  on  the  general  sketch 
of  English  history  which  he  has  given 
down  to  the  period  of  Charles.  Sudi 
a  prtciB  forms  the  most  appropriate 
introduction  to  his  work,  and  it  is  done 
with  a  penetration  and  justice  which 
leaves  nothiug  to  be  des&ed.  Several 
of  his  remariu  are  equally  original  and 
profound,  and  applicable— not  only  to 
«  right  understanding  of  the  thread  ai 
former  events,  but  to  the  social  ques- 
tions with  which  the  nation  is  engaged 
at  the  present  moment.  We  allude  in 
particular  to  the  observatioos  that  the 
spread  of  the  Reformation  has  been 
evwywhere  commensurate  with  that 
of  the  Teutonic  race,  and  that  it  has 
never  been  able  to  take  root  among 
those  of  Celtic  descent;  that,  in  modem 
times,  the  spread  of  intelligence  and  the 
vigour  of  the  human  mhid,  has  been 
coextensive  with  the  establishment  of 
the  Reformed  opinions,  while  despot- 
ism in  governments,  and  slumber  in 
their  subjects,  has  characterised,  with 
certain  brilliant  exceptions  of  infidel 
passion,  those  in  which  the  ancient 
mith  is  still  prevalent ;  and  that  the 
Romish  belief  and  observances  were  the 
greatest  blessing  to  humanity,  during 
the  violence  and  barbarism  of  the 


middle  ages,  but  the  reverse  among 
enlightened  nations  of  modem  times. 
It  is  refreshing  to  see  ophiions  otf  this 
obviously  just  and  important  kind  ad- 
vanced, and  distinctions  drawn,'  by  a 
writer  of  the  high  celebrity  and  vast 
knowledge  of  Mr  Macaulay.  It  is 
still  more  important  when  we  have 
only  just  emerged  from  an  age  in 
which  the  admission  of  the  B^man 
Catholics  into  parliament  was  so 
strenuously  recommended,  as  the 
greatest  boon  which  could  possibly  be 
conferred  on  sodety — and  are  entcdng 
on  another,  in  which  its  ceremonies 
and  exdtements  have  become  the  re- 
fage  of  so  many  even  in  this  country, 
.  at  least  of  the  softer  sex,  and  in  the 
highest  ranks,  with  whom  the  usual 
attractions  of  the  world  have  begun 
to  fail  or  become  insipid  —  to  see  the 
evident  tendency  of  the  Romish  faith 
characterised  in  a  manner  equally 
removed  from  the  bigoted  prejudices  of 
the  Puritans,  and  the  blind  passion  of 
modem  Catholic  prosdytism,  by  an 
author  ht^  up  amid  the  din  of  Roman 
Catholic  Emandpation,  and  a  distin- 
guished contributor  to  the  Edinburgh 
Hcview, 

We  wish  we  could  bestow  equal 
praise  on  the  justice  of  the  views,  and 
impartiality  of  the  delineation  of  cha- 
racter, in  the  critical  period  of  the  Great 
Rebellion,  which  Mr  Macaulay  treats 
more  at  length;  and  lest  he  should 
fear  that  our  praise  will  be  valueless, 
as  being  that  of  a  panegyric,  we  shall 
be  proud  to  give  him  fierce  battle  on 
that  point.  We  thank  God  we  are 
not  only  old  Tories,  but,  as  the 
Americans  said  of  a  contemporary 
historian,  the  "  oldest  of  Tories  f'  and 
we  are  weak  enough  to  be  confirmed 
in  our  opinions  by  the  evident  fact  that 
they  are  those  of  a  small  minority  of 
the  present  age.  It  is  not  likely, 
therefore,  that  we  should  not  find 
an  opportunity  to  break  a  lance 
with  our  author  in  regard  to  Charles 
I.  and  the  Great  Rebellion.  We  must 
admit,  however,  that  Mr  Macaulay 
is  much  more  impartial  in  his  esti- 
mate of  that  event,  than  he  was 
in  some  of  his  previous  essays ;  that 
he  gives  with  anxious  fairness  the 
arguments  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  question ;  and  that  he  no  longer 
represents  the  royal  victim  as  now  a 
favourite  only  with  women — and  that 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


394 

because  hia  conntenance  is  pacific  and 
handsome  on  the  canvass  of  Vandyke, 
and  be  took  his  son  often  on  his  knee, 
and  kissed  him. 

Mr  Macanlay  represents  the  Great 
Rebellion  as  a  glorious  and  salutary 
struggle  for  the  liberties  of  England ; 
— a  stimggle  to  the  success  of  which, 
against  the  tjranny  of  the  Stuarts,  the 
subsequent  greatness  of  England  is 
mainly  to  be  ascribed.  The  trial  and  exe- 
cution of  Charles  I.  he  describes  as  an 
event  melancholy,  and  to  be  deplored ; 
but  unavoidable  and  necessary,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  perfidy  and  deceit  of 
a  **  man  whose  whole  life  had  been  a 
series  of  attacks  on  the  liberties  of 
England.'*  He  does  full  justice  to  the 
courage  and  dignity  with  which  he  met 
his  fate,  but  hoi  as  that  he  was  de- 
servedly destroyed,  though  in  a  most 
violent  and  illegal  manner,  in  conse- 
sequence  of  his  flatteries  and  machi- 
nations.'^ "  There  never,"  says  he, 
'*  was  a  politician  to  whom  so  many 
frauds  and  falsehoods  were  brought 
home  by  undeniable  evidence."  We 
take  a  directly  opposite  view  of  the 
question.  We  consider  the  resistance 
of  the  Long  Parliament  to  Charles 
as  a  series  of  selfish  and  unprincipled 
acts  of  treason  against  a  lawful  sove- 
reign ;  not  less  fatal  to  the  liberties 
of  the  country  at  the  time,  than  they 
were  calculated  in  the  end  to  have 
proved  to  its  independence,  and  which 
would  long  ere  this  have  worked  out 
its  min,  if  another  event  had  not,  in  a 
way  which  its  author  did  not  intend, 
worked  out  a  cure  for  the  disease. 
We  consider  the  civil  war  as  com- 
menced fVom  blind  selfishness,  '*  igno- 
rant impatience  of  taxation,**  and 
consummated  under  the  combmed  in- 
fluence of  hypocritical  zeal  and  guilty 
ambition,  we  regard  the  death  of 
Charles  as  an  atrodous  and  abomin- 
able murder,  vindicated  by  no  reasons 
of  expedience,  authorised  by  no  prin- 
ciple of  justice,  which  has  lowered  for 
ever  England  to  the  level  of  the  ad- 
joining nations  in  the  scale  of  crime ; 
and  which,  had  it  not  been  vindi- 
cated by  subsequent  loyalty  and 
chivalrous  feeling,  in  the  better  part  of 
the  people,  would  long  since  have  ex- 
tinguished alike  its  Uberties  and  its 


Macauhif's  History  of  England, 


[April, 


independence.  Even  Hume  has  re- 
presented the  conduct  and  motives  of 
the  leaders  of  the  Long  Parliament  in 
too  favourable  a  light — and  it  is  no 
wonder  he  did  so,  for  it  is  only  since 
his  time  that  the  selfish  passions  have 
been  brought  into  play  on  the  potitf- 
cal  theatre — which  at  once  explains 
the  difficulties  with  which  Charles  had 
to  struggle,  and  put  in  a  just  light  his 
tragic  fsiie. 

Mr  Hume  represents  the  Long 
Parliament,  in  the  commencement  o{ 
the  contest  with  the  king,  as  influ- 
enced by  a  generous  desire  to  secure 
and  extend  the  liberties  of  their  coun- 
try, and  as  making  use  of  the  consti- 
tutional privilege  of  giving  or  with- 
holding supplies  for  that  important 
object.  If  this  was  really  their  object, 
we  should  at  once  admit  they  acted 
the  part  of  true  patriots,  and  are  en- 
titled to  the  lasting  gratitude  of  their 
countiy  and  the  world.  But,  admitting 
this  was  what  they  professed,  that  this 
was  theur  stalking-horse,  in  what  re- 
spect did  their  conduct  correspond  with 
such  patriotic  declarations?  Did  they 
use  either  their  le^timate  or  usurped 
power  for  the  purpose  of  extending 
and  confirming  the  liberties  of  their 
country,  or  even  diminishing  the 
weight  of  the  public  burdens  which 
pressed  most  severely  on  the  people  ? 
So  far  from  doing  so,  they  multiplied 
these  bm'dens  fiftyfold ;  thev  levied 
them,  not  by  the  authority  of  parlia- 
ment, but  by  the  terrors  of  military 
execution ;  and  while  they  refused  to 
the  entreaties  of  the  king  the  pittance 
of  a  few  hundred  thousand  pounds,  to 
put  the  coasts  in  a  state  of  defence, 
and  protect  the  commerce  of  his  sub- 
jects, they  levied  of  their  own  autho- 
rity, and  without  parliamentary  sanc- 
tion, no  less  than  eighty-four  miUions 
sterling,  between  1640  and  1659,  in 
the  form  of  military  contributions — 
levied  for  no  other  purpose  but  to 
deluge  the  kingdom  with  blood,  de- 
stroy its  industry,  and  subject  its 
liberties  to  the  ruin  of  military  op- 
pression. True,  Charles  I.  dissolved 
many  parliaments,  was  often  hasty 
and  intemperate  in  the  mode  of  doing 
so ;  for  eleven  years  reigned  without 
a  House  of  Commons,  and  brought  od 


Vol.i.p.  127,128. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849J 


Maccttday^s  History  of  England, 


395 


the  collision  by  his  attempt  to  levy 
sbip-money,  for  the  protection  of  the 
coasts,  of  his  own  authority,  fiat 
why  did  he  do  so  ?  Why  did  he  en- 
deavour to  dispense  with  the  old  and 
venerable  name  of  parliament,  and 
incur  the  odium,  and  run  the  risk,  of 
governing  alone  in  a  country  where  the 
hereditaiy  revenue  was  so  scanty,  and 
the  passion  for  freedom  so  strong  that, 
even  with  all  the  aids  from  parlia- 
ment, he  had  never  enjoyed  so  large 
an  income  as  two  millions  a-year? 
Simply  because  he  was  driven  to  it  by 
necessity ;  because  he  found  it  was 
absolutdy  impossible  to  get  on  with 
parliaments  which  obstinately  refused 
to  discharge  their  first  of  duties— that 
of  providing  for  the  public  defence — or 
discharge  his  duties  as  chief  magis- 
trate of  the  realm,  in  conformity  either 
with  his  coronation  oath  or  the  plain 
necessities  and  obligations  of  his 
office,  from  the  invincible  resistance 
which  the  House  of  Commons,  on 
eveiy  occasion,  made  to  partmg 
with  money* 

Their  conduct  was  regulated  by  a 
very  plain  principle — it  was  perfectly 
consistent,  and  such  as,  under  the  exist- 
ingconstitution,  could  not  fail  very  soon 
to  bring  government  to  a  dead-lock, 
and  compel  the  sovereign  either  at 
once  to  abdicate  his  authority,  or  bar- 
ter it  away  piecemeal  against  small 
grants  of  money,  reluctantly,  and  in 
the  most  parsimonious  spirit,  granted 
by  his  subjects.  They  said,  "  Govern 
any  way  you  please,  defend  the  conn- 
try  the  best  way  you  can,  get  out  of 
your  difficulties  as  you  think  fit,  but 
do  not  come  to  us  for  money.  Anything 
but  that.  It  is  youi*  business  to  defend 
us,  it  is  not  ours  to  contribute  to  our 
defence.  Let* our  coasts  be  insulted 
by  the  French,  or  pillaged  by  the 
Dutch ;  let  our  trade  be  ruined,  and 
even  our  fishermen  chased  into  their 
harbours,  by  the  Continental  priva- 
teers ;  but  don't  come  to  us  for  money. 
If  we  give  you  anything,  it  will  be  as 
little  as  we  can  in  decency  offer;  and, 
in  return  for  such  liberal  concessions, 
you  must  on  every  occasion  sunren- 
der  an  important  part  of  the  pre- 
rogative of  the  crown."  The  king 
dia  this  for  some  years  afler  he 
came  to  the  throne,  always  trusting 
that  his  concessions  would  secure 
at  length  a  liberal  supply  of  money, 


for  the  public  defence,  from  the  House 
of  Commons.  He  said,  and  said  with 
truth,-  that  he  had  conceded  more  to 
his  subjects  than  any  monarch  that 
ever  sat  on  the  throne  of  England. 
The  Petition  of  Bights,  granted  early 
in  his  reign,  proved  this :  it  contained 
nearly  all  the  guarantees  since  de- 
sired or  obtained  for  English  fireedom. 
But  all  was  unavailing.  The  Com- 
mons would  give  no  money,  or  they  . 
would  give  it  only  in  exchange  for 
the  most  essential  prerogatives  of  the 
crown,  without  which  public  defence 
was  impossible,  and  anarChy  must 
have  usurped  its  place. 

They  began  the  civil  war  at  length, 
and  handed  the  nation  over  to  the 
horrors  of  domestic  slaughter  and 
military  despotism,  because  the  king 
would  not  consent  to  part  with  the 
command  of  the  armed  force— a  requi- 
sition so  monstrous  that  it  plainly 
amounted  to  an  abrogation  of  the 
royal  authority,  and  has  never,  since 
the  Eestoration,  been  seriously  con- 
tended for  by  Radicals,  Repealers,  or 
Chartists,  even  in  the  worst  periods 
of  the  Irish  Rebellion  or  French  Re- 
volution. It  is  not  surprising  that 
subsequent  times  for  long  mistook  the 
real  nature  of  the  king^s  situation, 
and  threw  on  him  blame  for  events  of 
which,  in  reality,  he  was  blameless. 
Mankind  were  not  then  so  well 
acquainted  as  they  have  since  become, 
with  the  strength  of  an  ignorant 
impatience  of  taxation.  Since  then, 
they  have  seen  it  divide  the  greatest 
empires,  ruin  the  most  celebrated  com- 
monwealths, disgrace  the  most  famed 
republics,  paralyse  the  most  powerful 
states.  It  has  oroken  down  the  cen- 
tral authority ,'and  divided  into  sepa- 
rate kingdoms  the  once  puissant  Ger- 
man empire  ;  it  has  ruined  and 
brought  partition  on  the  gallant 
Polish  democracy ;  it  induced  on 
France  the  horrors  of  the  Revolution, 
and  permanently  destroyed  its  liber- 
tics  by  causing  the  Notables  to  refuse 
Caloune's  proposition  for  equal  taxa- 
tion ;  it  has  disgraced  the  rise  of 
American  freedou),  by  the  selfishness 
of  repudiation  and  the  cupidity  of 
conquest.  These  were  the  evils,  and 
this  the  disgrace,  which  Charles  I. 
strove  to  avert  in  his  contest  with 
the  Long  Parliament ;  these  the  evils, 
and  this  the  disgrace,  which   their 


Digitized  by 


Goosle 


]|i 


39e 


Maoemby'i  Hittory  qfEitgtmiL 


CApra^ 


leadas  strove  to  hnpoie  on  tlds  ooim-* 
try.  We  have  only  to  look  at  the 
Free-trade  Hall  at  Manchester,  at 
tills  tune  re-echoing  with  applause 
at  jnoposala  to  disband  onr  army 
and  sm  our  ships,  in  order  to  be 
able  to  sell  cotton  ffoods  a  halfjpenny 
per  ponnd  che^>er  than  at  present,  to 
see  what  was  the  spirit  with  whidi 
Charies  L  had  to  contend  during  the 
Great  Rebellion. 

Historians  have  often  expressed 
their  surprise  at  the  vigour  of  the  rule 
of  Cromwell,  and  the  energetic  man- 
ner in  which  he  caused  the  national 
flag  to  be  respected  by  foreigh  states. 
But,  without  detracting  from  the  well- 
earned  fiime  of  the  Protector  in  this 
respect,  it  may  safely  be  affirmed, 
tiiat  the  main  cause  of  his  success  in 
foreiffn  transactions  was,  that  he  had 
got  me  means  of  making  the  English 
pi^  taxes.  He  levied  them  with  the 
sabre  and  the  baycmet.  Between 
oonMbntlons,  sequestrations,  and 
impo^tions,  his  commissioners  con- 
trived to  wrench  enormous  sums,  for 
those  days,  out  of  the  country.  He 
raised  the  revenue  from  £2,000,000 
a^year  to  nearly  £6,000,000.  He 
got  quit  of  the  disagreeable  burden 
of  parliamentary  grants.  He  found 
his  troops  much  more  effectual  tax- 
gatherers.  He  did  what,  by  gentler 
means,  and  in  a  less  oppressive  way, 
Charles  had  tried  to  do.  He  levied 
sums  from  the  nation  adequate  for 
the  public  defence,  and  which  enabled 
it  to  take  the  place  to  which  it  was 
entitled  in  the  scale  of  nations.  Had 
the  original  leaders  of  the  Long  Par- 
liament not  been  superseded  by  his 
iron  hand,  they  would  have  left  Eng- 
land as  much  exposed  to  foreign  in- 
sult, as  much  in  peril  of  foreign  inva- 
sion, as  Poland  proved  from  the 
triumph  of  the  same  selfish  principles. 

It  is  true  Charles  at  length  be<^me 
a  dissembler,  and  made  many  pro- 
mises which  were  afterwards  broken. 
But  why  did  he  become  a  dissembler? 
How  did  it  happen  that  his  nature, 
orighially  open,  unreserved,  and  chi-' 
vahtms,  even  to  a  fault,  became  at 
length  (duitious,  and  marked  by  dis- 
simulation ?  Simply  because  he  was 
assailed  on  all  sides  by  dissemblers 
and  disrimulators.  He  was  driven 
to  it  by  stem  necessity  in  his  own 
defence,  and  as  the  only  way  of  carry- 


ing on  the  government.  Hie  wfa<^ 
conduct  of  h»  parOamentB  to  him 
was  one  tissue  of  fklsehood  and  de- 
cat.  They  constantly  professed 
loyalty  with  their  lips,  ^ile  tiiej 
were  thinking  only  of  treason  in  tiieir 
hMitB ;  they  were  kmd  in  their 
protestations  of  seal  for  tiie  public 
service,  when  thev  were  thinking 
only  of  kcMiing  dose  thehr  purse- 
strmgs,  and  suiaking  off  every  imagin- 
able tax  levied  for  the  public  defence. 
Like  their  descendants  in  Transatlan- 
tic realms,  they  ^*  prefoned  any  load 
of  inAuny,  however  great,  to  any 
burden  of  taxation,  however  light.^' 
It  was  <mly  by  foir  words,  by  pro« 
mising  more  than  he  was  able  to 
perform,  by  bartering^  prerogative 
of  &e  crown  for  parsimonious  grants — 
£200,000  one  year,  £300,000  anodier 
— that  he  was  able  to  }m>vide,  in  the 
most  penurious  way,  for  the  puMio 
service.  His  faithM  Commons  were 
impressed  wHh  the  idea,  and  proceeded 
on  the  principle,  that  tlM  mooarcb 
was  an  enemy  cased  in  armour,  and 
that  it  was  their  business  to  strip  him 
of  eveiy  article  he  possessed,  so  as  to 
leave  him  entirely  at  their  mercy,  and 
reduce  the  government  to  a  pure  un- 
taxed democracy.  They  first  got  the 
shield;  they  next  seiaea  the  hehnet; 
the  breast-plate  couldnot  long  be  with- 
held ;  and  at  last  they  began  to  fight 
for  tiie  sword.  Was  consistency,  or 
perfeetsincerity  of  conduct,  practicable 
with  such  men?  Have  not  the  English, 
in  their  wars  in  the  East,  been  under 
the  necessity  of  borrowmg  from  their 
opponents  much  of  theur  vigour  and 
violence,  and  not  unfrequently  then* 
ambition  and  dissimulation  ?  Let  us 
figure  to  ourselves  Queen  Victoria, 
without  a  national  debt  or  parliamen- 
tary influence,  going  to  Mr  Cobden 
and  the  Commons  in  Free-Trade  Hall, 
Manchester,  and  asking  for  ftinds  to 
support  the  army  and  navy  in  a  de- 
fensive war,  which  promised  no  ex- 
tension of  the  market  for  cotton 
goods ;  or  the  president  of  the  Ame- 
rican republic  proposing  a  direct  in- 
come-tax of  five  per  cent  on  his 
foithful  repudiators,  to  support  a  war 
which  held  out  a  prospect  neither  of 
Mexican  silver  nor  CaUfomian  sold, 
and  we  shall  have  some  idea  of  the 
difficulties  with  which  the  unhappy 
Charies  had  to  contend  in  his  parlit- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1M9.] 


JUk»oijmkK!f*i  Hia^ory  ofEfigkmd. 


mentary  straggleB,  and  «4>preciate  the 
atom  naceflfiity  whicli  tamed  eren  hia 
noble  and  chivalrous  charactar  to 
tamporary  shifts,  and  sometimes  die- 
pfeouable  expedients. 

Again,  as  to  the  death  of  Chades^ 
ean  it  be  regarded  in  any  other  light 
bntas  a  foidand  atrocious  murder?  He 
was  tried  neither  by  the  Peers  nor  the 
Commons — neither  by  the  courts  of 
law,  mura  national  oonyention— bat  by 
a  self-oonstitated  junto  of  militaiy  offi- 
cerSf  rebels  to  his  goyemment,  traitors 
totheircoontry,  whothayingexhansted 
in  their  remorseless  career  every  im- 
aginaUe  crime  of  robbery,  rape, 
arson,  aasaolt,  and  treason,  now  added 
wiLFuZi  MUBDBBr-cold-blooded  mar- 
der,  to  thennmber.  However  it  is 
viewed,  the  crime  was  equally  un- 
pardonable and  inexpedient.  If  the 
oountry  was  still  to  be  regarded  as 
a  monardiy^  though  torn  by  lutes* 
^tine  divisions,  tiicn  were  Cromwell  and 
all  his  brother  regiddea  not  <mly  mur- 
derersy  but  traitors,  for  they  put  to 
death  their  lawful  sovereign.  If  the 
bonds  of  allegianoe  are  to  be  held  as 
having  been  broken  in  the  preceding 
convulsions,  and  the  ccmtest  eon- 
aidered  as  that  of  one  state  inAi 
another  —  which  is  the  most  fa« 
vourable  view  to  adi^  for  the  r^- 
cides— then  Charles^  when  he  rail 
into  their  hands^  was  a  prisoner  of 
war ;  and  it  was  as  much  murder  to 
put  him  to  death  as  it  woald  have 
been  in  the  Ea^^ishtif  they  had  slain 
Nimole<m  when  he  came  on  board  the 
B^erophon,  (Ht  in  Charles  V.,  if  he 
had  dei^atched  Frauds  L  when  he  be- 
came his  prisons  after  the  battle  of 
Pavia.  The  immediate  otgect  at  issue 
when  the  dvil  war  began— 4he  right 
claimed  by  the  Commons  of  appoint-' 
ingofllcers  to  the  militia^— was  one  in 
which  they  were  clearly  and  confess- 
edly in  the  wrong,  and  one  whidi,  if 
gnmted  by  Charles^  as  all  the  previous 
demands  of  the  Commons  had  been, 
would  infallibly  have  landed  the  nation 
in  the  bottomless  pit  of  an  untaxed, 
unbridled,  and  senseless  democracy, 
as  incapable  of  self-defence  as  Poland, 
as  regardless  of  external  rights  as 
Bomeinandent,  or  America  in  modem 
times. 

The  extreme  peril  to  £ngii^  liber- 
ties and  independenoe  which  arose 
from  the  exorbitant  pretensions  and 


397 

disastrous  succeas  of  the  Long  Parlia- 
ment, with  their  canting  militory  suc- 
eessora,  distinctly  appears  in  t^e  de- 
plorable state  and  disgraceful  situation 
of  England  from  the  Bestoradon  in 
1661  totheBevolutioninl688.  Not- 
withstanding all  their  profi»8sions  of 
regard  for  freedom,  and  their  anxiety 
to  secure  the  liberties  of  the  subject, 
the  Long  Parliament  had  done  nothing 
for  either  in  future  timea,  while  they 
had  destroyed  both  in  present  They 
had  not  even  introduced  a  habeas 
carpus  act  to  guard  aganist  arbifwy 
imprisonment.  They  had  not  given 
life  appointments  to  tiie  judges.  They 
had  made  no  provisicm  for  the  impar- 
tial sdection  of  juries.  They  had  left 
the  courts  of  law  what,  till  tiie  Bevo- 
lution,  they  had  ever  been  in  English 
history — the  arena  in  which  the  con- 
tending factions  in  the  state  altemately 
overthrew  or  murdered  each  other. 
They  were  too  decided  tyrants  in  their 
hearts  to  part  with  any  of  the  weapons 
of  tyranny  in  their  hands.  They  had 
made  no  permanent  providon  for  the 
support  of  the  crown,  or  the  mainte- 
nance of  a  force  by  sea  and  land  ade- 
quate to  the  public  defence ;  but  left 
tiieir  sovereign  at  the  mercy  of  a  par- 
liament of  Cavaliers  eager  fbr  ven- 
geance, thirsting  for  blood,  but  nearly 
as  indisposed  to  make  any  suitable 
gnmts  for  the  public  service  as  any  of 
Uieir  predecessors  had  been.  The 
^^ ignorant  impatience  of  taxation" 
was  as  conspicuous  in  the  parsimony 
of  their  supplies  as  it  had  been  in  those 
of  Charles's  parliament.  But  such  was 
the  strength  of  the  reaction  in  favour 
of  monaiihy  and  royal  authority,  in 
consequence  of  the  intensity  of  theevils 
which  had  been  suffered  from  demo- 
cratic and  paiiiamentary  government, 
that  there  was  scarcely  any  sacri- 
fice of  public  liberties  that  fhe  royalist 
parliiunents  were  not  at  first  disposed 
to  have  made,  provided  it  could  be 
done  without  trenchmgon  their  pecu- 
niary resources.  An  untaxed  despotism 
was  their  idea  of  the  perfection  of 
government,  as  an  untaxed  republic 
had  been  the  bright  vision  of  the  par- 
liamentary leaders.  Had  Charles  11. 
been  a  man  of  as  much  vigour  and 
perseverance  as  he  was  of  quickness 
and  talent,  and  had  his  abilities,  which 
were  wasted  in  the  boudoirs  of  the 
Dudiessof  Portsmouth  ortheCountess 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Macautay's  History  of  England, 


898 

of  .Castlemaine,  been  devoted,  like 
those  of  Lonls  XI.  or  Cardinal  Riche- 
lieu, to  a  systematic  attack  on  the 
public  liberties,  be  might,  without 
difficulty,  have  subverted  the  freedom 
of  England,  and  left,  as  a  legacy  of  the 
Long  rarliament,  to  future  times,  not 
only  the  murder  of  their  sovereign, 
but  the  final  ruin  of  the  national 
liberties. 

Mr  Macaulay  has  done  one  essential 
service  to  the  cause  of  truth  by  the 
powerful  and  graphic,  and,  we  doubt 
not,  correct  account  h6  has  given  in 
his  first  volume  of  the  desperate  feuds 
of  the  rival  parties  with  each  other 
during  this  reign,  and  the  universal 
prostitution  Of  the  forms  of  justice, 
and  the  sanctity  of  comts  of  law,  to 
the  most  cruel  and  abominable  pur- 
poses.   There  is  no  picture  of  human 
miquity  and  cruelty  more  revolting 
than  is  presented  in   the  alternate 
tiiumphs  of  the  Whig  andTory  parties, 
from  the  excitement  produced  by  the 
Popish  and  Ryehouse  plots,  and  the 
noble  blood  which  was  shed  alternately 
by  both  parties  in  torrents  on  the 
scaffold,  to  allay  the  terrors  of  insensate 
folly,  or  satiate  the  revenge  of  aroused 
indignation.    The  hideous  iniquity  of 
the  courts  of  law  during  those  disas- 
trous days,  and  the  entire  concurrence 
of  the  ruling  majority  of  the  moment 
in  their  atrocious  proceedings,  demon- 
strate how  lamentably  the  Long  Par- 
liament had  failed  in  erecting  any 
bulwarks  for  the  public  liberties,  or 
strengthening  the  foundations  of  pub- 
lic virtue.    At  the  same  time,  the  dis- 
graceful spectacle  of  our  fleets  swept 
from  the  Channel,  or  burnt  in  their 
hffrbours  by  the  Dutch,  proves  how 
wretched  a  provision  the  Great  Re- 
bellion had  made  for  the  lastingdefence 
of  the  realm.    Nor  was  private  mo- 
rality, either  in  high  or  low  places,  on 
a  better  footing.    The  king  and  all  his 
ministers   received  the  pensions  of 
Louis  XIV. ;  the  whole  leaders  of  the 
patriots,  from  Algernon  Sidney  down- 
wards, with  the  exception  of  Lord 
Russell,  followed  his  example.    The 
ladies  of  the  metropolis,  as  well  as  the 
court,  were  intent  only  on  intiigue. 
The  licentiousness  of  the  st^e  was 
such  as  almost  exceeds  belief    No- 
thing was  thought  of  in  the  House  of 
Commons  but  saving  money,  or  satis- 
fring  revenge.    Such  was  the  parsi- 


[April, 


mony  of  parliament,   whether   tbe 
majority  was  Whig  or  Royalist,  that 
the  most  necessary  expenses  of  the 
royal  household  could  only  be  defrayed 
by  pensions  from  France.     French 
mistresses  directed  the  king's  connciiB, 
and  almost  exclusively  occupied  his 
time ;  French  alliance  misdirected  the 
national  forces ;  French  manners  en- 
tirely subverted  the  national  morals. 
England,    from    its    vacillatioa    in 
foreign  policy,  had  forfeited  all  the 
respect  of  foreign  nations,  while,  from 
the  general  selnshness  and  cotraption 
which  prevailed,  it  had  lost  all  respect 
for  itself.    The  Long  Parliament  and 
Great  Rebellion,  from  the  necessary 
reaction,  to  which  they  gave  rise,  of 
loyalty  against  treason,  and  of  the 
thirst  for  pleasure  against  the  cant  of 
hypocrisv,  had  all  bntiiiined  En^and ; 
for  they  had  exchanged  its  liberties  for 
tyranny,  its  morals  for  licentiousness. 
In  truth  England  wom  rumed^  both 
externally  and  internally,  frt>m  these 
causes,  had  it  not  been  for  one  of  those 
events  by  which  Providence  at  times 
confounos  the  counsels  of  men,  and 
changes  the  destiny  of  nations.    The 
accession,  of  James  IL,  and  the  syste- 
matic attack  which,  in  concert  with 
Louis  XIY.,  he  made  on  the  Protest- 
ant fedth,  at  length  united  all  England 
against  the  fatal  attempt.    The  spec- 
tacle of  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantes,  in  France,  in  November  1605, 
showed  the  Protestants  what  they  had 
to  expect  from  the  mieasnres  stmnlta- 
neously  adopted,  and  in  virtue  of  asecret 
compact,byJamesII.inEnghmd.  The 
Treaty  of  Augsburg  in  1686,  by  which 
the  Protestant  states  of  the  (Continent 
were  united  in  a  league  against  this 
Roman   Catholic  inyasion,   and  to 
which  William  in,  on  the  Revolu- 
tion, immediately  got  England  to  ac- 
cede, was  the  foundatioii  of  the  grand 
alliance  which  secured  independence 
to  the  Reformed  Mth,  and  liberty  to 
Europe,  as  effectually  as  the  grand 
alliance  in  1813  resened  it  from  iMe 
tyranny  of  Napoleon.    We  go  along 
entirely  with  Mr  Macaulay^s  admirable 
account  of  the  causes  which  led  to  the 

fBueral  coalitioa  of  parties  against 
ames — ^the  abominable  cruelty  of  Jef- 
freys^ campaign  in  the  west,  after  the 
suppression  of  MonmonUi's  rebellion, 
and  Uie  evident  determination  the  mo- 
narch evinced  to  force  the  slavery  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


18490 


3facaicl((^*«  History  of  England* 


absurdities  of  theBomish  faith  on  ana- 
t  ioQ  too  generally  enlightened  to  submit 
to  either.  It  is  refreshing  to  see  these 
jnst  and  manly  sentiments,  so  long  the 
glory  of  Endand,  coming  firom  a  man 
of  his  weight  and  learning,  after  the 
sickly  partiality  for  Roman  Catholic 
agitators  which,  for  the  purposes  of 
fac^n,  have  so  long  pervaded  many 
of  his  party,  and  the  inexplicable 
retom  to  the  sway  of  priests  and  con- 
fessors which  has  recently  appeared 
among  some  <^  our  women  of  fashion. 
We  hold  that  James  justly  forfeited 
his  crown  ibr  his  share  in  these  atro- 
cious proceedings,  and  entirely  concur 
with  Mr  Macaulay  in  regarding  the 
Bevolntion  as  the  tumin|^-point  of 
English  history — the  termmus  a  quOy 
fh>m  which  we  are  to  date  its  celebrity 
in  arms  and  literature,  its  mighty  ad- 
vance in  strength  and  power,  and  the 
establishment  of  its  liberties  on  a  last- 
ing foundation.  We  congratulate  the 
eountiy  that  the  task  of  recording  the 
eircumstaoces,  and  tracing  the  conse- 
quences of  this  great  event,  has 
&Uen  into  the  hands  of  a  gratleman  so 
singulariy  qualified  todo  it  justice,  and 
sinoerely  wish  him  a  long  lease  of  lifb 
and  heuth  to  bring  his  noble  work  to 
a  ccmdusion. 

If  we  were  disposed  to  criticise  at  all 
the  manner  in  which  he  has  executed 
the  part  of  this  great  worii  hitherto  pre- 
sented to  the  public,  we  should  say 
that,  in  the  tracing  Uie  causes  of  events, 
he  ascribes  too  much  to  domestic,  and 
too  little  to  foreign  influences ;  and  that 
in  the  delineation  of  character,  though 
he  never  advances  what  is  false,  he 
not  unfrequently  conceals,  or  touches 
but  lightly,  on  what  is  true.  He  re- 
presents England  as  almost  entirely 
refi:nlated  in  its  movements  by  internal 
agitation  or  parliamentary  contests ; 
forgetting  that  that  agitation,  and 
these  contests,  were  in  general  them- 
selves, in  great  part,  produced  by  the 
rimultaneons  changes  going  on  in  (pi- 
nion and  external  relations  on  the 
Continent.  His  history,  as  vet  at 
least,  is  too  exclusively  English,  not 
sufficiently  European.  Thus  he  men- 
tions only  incidentally,  and  in  three 
lines,  1m  treaty  of  Augsburg  in 
1686,  which  bound  Protestant  Europe 
against  France,  and  entirely  reffulated 
the  external  police  and  internal  tnougfat 
of  En^^d  for  the  next  century.    So 

VOL.  LXV.— KO.  CCCCII. 


899 

also  in  the  delineation  of  character: 
we  can  never  fail  to  admire  what  he 
has  done,  but  we  have  sometimes 
cause  to  regret  what  he  has  left  un- 
done. He  has  told  us,  what  is  un- 
doubtedly true,  that  James  II.  did 
not,  after  the  struggle  began  in  Eng- 
land, evince  the  courage  he  had  pre- 
viously shown  in  action  with  the 
Dutch :  but  he  has  not  told  us  what 
is  equally  true,  that  in  those  actions 
he  had  fought  as  often,  and  evinced 
heroism  as  great,  as  either  Nelson  or 
Collingwooa.  He  has  told  us  that 
James  sedulously  attended  to  the 
royal  navy,  and  was  successful  be- 
cause he  was  the  only  honest  man  in 
his  dockyards ;  but  ho  has  not  told 
us  what  is  equally  true,  that  it  was 
that  attention  to  the  navy,  and  the 
effort  to  raise  fhnds  for  it,  which  the 
Long  Parliament  from  selfish  parsi- 
mony positively  refused  to  grant, which 
cost  Charles  I.  his  throne  and  life, 
and,  now  renewed  by  his  son,  laid 
the  fbundation  of  the  navy  which 
gidned  the  battle  of  La  Hogue,  1692, 
broke  the  naval  power  of  Louis  XIV., 
and  for  the  next  century  determined  the 
maritime  struggle  between  France  and 
Endand. 

He  has  told  us  sufficiently  often, 
that  the  beginning  of  the  Dnke 
of  Marlborough's  fortunes  was  the 
gift  of  £5000,  which  he  received  from 
the  beautifhl  mistress  of  the  king. 
Lady  Castlemaine.  This  is  un- 
doubtedly true;  and  he  has  added 
what  we  have  no  doubt  is  equally  so, 
that  on  one  occasion  he  was  so  near 
being  caught  with  her  ladyship  that 
he  only  escaped  by  leaping  out  of  the 
window.  He  has  added,  also,  that  when- 
ever he  was  going  to  do  anything  par- 
ticularly base,  Marlborough  always  be- 
gan speaking  about  bis  consdence,  and 
the  Protestant  faith.  We  have  no 
objection  to  the  leaphng  the  window, 
for  it  is  very  probable,  and  at  all 
events  piquant  —  and  se  non  e  vera 
e  ben  trovato;  but  we  object  vehe- 
mently to  his  protestations  ia 
favour  of  the  Reformed  religion  being 
set  down  as  a  hypocritical  cover 
for  base  and  selfish  aesigns,  for  that 
is  imputing  motives— a  mode  of  pro- 
ceeding never  allowed  in  the  humblest 
court  of  justice,  and  in  an  especial 
manner  reprehensible  in  a  firstrate 
historian,  who  is  painting  a  charac* 
2c 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


400 

ter  for  the  instractioii  and  consider- 
ation of  fntore  times.  And  since  Mr 
Macanlaj  has  so  prominently  brought 
forward  what  is  to  be  Uamed  in 
Marlborongh^s  career,  (and  no  one  can 
condemn  more  severely  than  we  do  his 
treachery  to  James,  though  it  has  been 
so  long  praised  by  Whig  writers,)  we 
hope  he  will  record  with  eqnal  accu- 
racy, and  tell  as  often,  that  he  refhsed 
repeatedly  the  offer  of  the  government 
of  the  Low  Countries,  with  its  mag- 
nificent appointment  of  £60,000  a- 
year,  made  to  him  by  the  Emperor 
after  the  battle  of  Ramilies,  lest  by 
accepting  it  heshouldhiduce  dissension 
in  the  alliance ;  that  his  private  cor- 
respondence with  the  duchess  evinces 
thronghoilt  the  war  the  most  anxious 
desire  for  its  termination ;  and  that,  at 
the  time  when  the  factious  Tory  press 
represented  him  as  prolonging  hostili- 
ties for  his  own  sordid  purposes,  he 
was  anxiously  endeavouring  to  effect 
ageneralpacification  at  the  conferences 
of  Gertruydenberg,  and  writing  a 
private  and  very  earnest  letter  to  his 
nephew,  the  Duke  of  Berwick,  then 
at  the  head  of  the  French  army, 
urging  him  to  use  his  influence  with 
Louis  XIV.  in  order  to  bring  about  a 
neace.  We  would  stron^y  recommend 
Mr  Macaulay  to  consider  the  advice 
we  have  heard  given  to  a  historian  in 
the  delineation  of  character  :  ^^Make 
it  a  point  of  conscience  to  seek  out, 
and  give  with  full  fbrce,  all  authentic 
favourable  anecdotes  of  persons  whom 
you  disUke^  or  to  whose  opinions  you 
are  apposed.  As  to  those  whom  you 
like,  or  who  are  of  your  own  party, 
you  may  exercise  your  own  discre- 
tion.'» 

Cordially  concurrinff,  however,  as 
we  do  with  Mr  Macaulay,  in  his  esti- 
mate of  the  beneficial  eflSdcts  of  the 
Revolution  of  1688,  there  is  one  pe- 
culiar benefit  which  he  may  possibly 
not  bring  so  prominently  forward  as 
its  importance  deserves,  and  which, 
therefore,  we  are  anxious  to  impress 
upon  the  public  mind.  It  is  true  that 
it  purifiea  the  bench,  confirmed  the 
Habeas  Corpus  Act,  closed  the  human 
shambles  which  the  Court  of  Ktag's 
Bench  had  been,  pacified  Scotland, 
and  fbr  above  a  century  effected  the 
prodigy  of  keeping  Ireland  quiet.  But 
it  dill  yet  greater  thtogs  than  these ; 
and  the  era  of  the  Bevolution  is  chiefly 


Macanday^s  HuOory  o/Eti^^and, 


[Aprfl, 


remarkable  for  thenewdynastyhaving 
taught  the  government  how  to  raise 
taxes  in  the  country^  and  thus  brought 
England  to  take  the  place  to  which 
she  was  entitled  in  the  scale  of 
nations,  by  bringing  the  vast  national 
resources  to  bear  upon  the  national 
struggles.  Charles  I.  had  lost  his 
crown  and  his  head  in  the  attempt  to 
raise  money— first  legally,  and  then, 
when  he  fuied  in  that,  illegally— in  the 
realm,  adequate  to  the  national  defence. 
Cromwell  had  asserted  the  national 
dignity  in  an  honourable  way,  only 
because  his  troops  gave  him  the  means 
of  levying  suffident  supplies,  fbr  the 
first  time  in  English  histoiy,  at  the 
point  of  the  bayonet.  But  with  the 
termination  of  his  iron  rule,  and  the 
restoration  of  constitutional  sway  at 
the  Restoration,  the  old  difficulty  about 
supplies  returned,  and  government,  to 
all  practical  purpose,  was  neailybrough  t 
to  a  dead-lock.  The  Commons,  now 
Royalist,  would  vote  nothing,  or  next 
to  nothing,  in  the  way  of  money ;  and 
the  nation  was  defeated  and  disgraced, 
teom  the  impossibility  of  discovering 
any  way  of  maldng  it  vote  money  for 
Its  own  defence.  But  that  which  the 
Stuarts  could  never  efiect  b^  appeals 
to  honour,  spirit,  or  patoiotism,  Wil- 
liam m.  and  Anne  soon  found  the 
means  of  accomplishing,  by  bringing 
Into  play,  and  enlisting  on  their  mde, 
different  and  less  cremtable  motives. 
They  did  not  oppose  honour  and  pa- 
triotism to  interest,  but  they  contrived 
to  rear  up  one  set  of  interests  to  com- 
bat another.  They  brought  with  them 
fh)m  Holland,  where  it  had  been  long 
practised,  and  was  perfectly  under- 
stood, the  art  of  managing  public  as- 
sembles. They  no  longer  bullied  the 
House  of  Commons — ^^  bribed  it ; 
and,  strange  to  say,  it  is  to  the  entire 
success  of  the  gigantic  system  of  bor- 
rowing, expending,  and  corrupting, 
which  they  mtroduced,  and  which  their 
successors  so  faithfVilly  followed,  that 
the  subsequent  greatness  of  England 
Is  mainly  to  be  ascribed. 

William  m.,  on  his  accession,  im- 
mediatelyioined  the  league  of  Augsburg 
against  irance — a  league  ob^oxisly 
rendered  necessary  by  the  exorbitant 
ambition  and  priest-ridden  tyranny  of 
Louis  XIV. ;  and  the  contest  brought 
to  a  glorious  termination  by  the  treaty 
of  Ryswick  in  1697,  was  but  a  pre- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Macauk^'s  History  ofEngkmd, 


401 


lade  to  the  triumphant  War  of  the 
Saccession,  abmptly  closed  by  the  dis- 
creditable peace  of  Utrecht  in  1714. 
ThatEngifliid  was  the  life  and  soul  <^ 
this  alUfluice,  and  that  Marlboroogh 
was  the  ri^t  arm  which  won  its 
glorious  Yictories,  is  universally  ac- 
Enowledged ;  but  it  is  not  equally 
known,  what  is  not  less  true,  that  it 
was  tne  system  of  managing  the 
House  oi  Commons  by  means  of 
loans,  good  places,  and  bribes,  whidi 
alone  provided  the  sinews  of  war,  and 
prepared  the  triumphs  of  Blenheim 
and  Ramilies.  It  Is  true  the  nation 
was,  at  first  at  least,  hear^  and  unani- 
mous in  the  contest,  both  firom  religi- 
ous zeal  for  the  Reformation  and 
national  rivalry  with  France  ;  but 
experience  had  shown  that,  when  the 
prospect  of  wivate  plunder,  as  in  the 
wars  of  the  Edwards  and  Heniys,  did 
not  arouse  the  national  strength,  it 
was  a  matter  of  absolute  impossibility 
to  get  the  House  of  Commons  to  vote 
the  necessanr  supplies  for  any  time 
together.  '!so  necessity,  however  ur- 
gent, no  danger,  however  pressing, — no 
claims  of  justice,  no  considerations  of 
expedience,  no  regard  for  their  chil- 
dren, no  coiisideration  for  themselves, 
oould  induce  the  English  of  those 
days  to  vote  anything  like  an  ade- 
quate amount  of  taxes.  As  this  was 
the  state  of  matters  in  this  country 
at  the  time  when  the  whole  resources 
of  the  neighbouring  kingdoms  were 
fiiUy  drawn  forth  by  despotic  power, 
and  Louis  XIV.  had  two  hundred 
thousand  gallant  soldiers  under 
arms,  and  sixty  sail  of  the  line 
afloat,  it  is  evident  that,  unless  some 
method  of  conquering  this  reluc- 
tance had  been  devised,  England  must 
speedily  have  been  conquered  and 
partitioned,  or  have  sunk  into  the 
rank  of  a  third-rate  power  like 
Sweden.  But  William  m.,  before 
the  Protestant  seal  cooled,  and 
the  old  love  of  money  returned,  pro- 
vided a  new  and  all-poweifnl  agent 
to  combat  it.  He  founded  the  national 
debt  I  He  and  Anne  raised  it,  be- 
tween 1688  and  1708,  from  £661,000 
to  £64,000,000.  He  tripled  the 
revenue,  and  gave  so  much  of  it  to 
the  House  of  Commons  that  th(^ 
cordially  agreed  to  the  tripling.  Bie 
^eatlarg^;  he cormptea  stm  more 
lai^g^.     He  no  longer  attacked  in 


front  the  battery;  he  tnmed  it,  got 
into  the  redoubt  by  the  gorge,  and 
directed  its  guns  upon  the  enemy. 
He  made  the  national  interests  in  sup- 
port of  taxation  more  powerful  than 
those  operating  to  resist  it.  Thence 
the  subsequent  greatness  and  glory  of 
England — for  by  no  other  possible 
method  could  the  impatience  of  taxa- 
tion, so  strongly  rooted  in  the  nation, 
have  been  overcome,  or  the  national 
armaments  have  been  placed  on  the 
footing  rendered  necessary,  either  for 
securing  the  national  defence,  or 
asserting  the  national  honour. 

The  whole  Whig  Ministers,  from  the 
Revolution  to  1762,  when  they  were 
dispossessed  of  power  by  Greorge 
ni.  and  Lord  Bute,  acted  on  this 
system  c^  government  by  influence 
and  oorrui^on.  Mr  Macaolay's 
aii4)le  acquaintance  with  the  memoirs, 
puUlshed  and  unpublished,  of  that 
period,  will  doubtless  enable  him  to 
give  numerous  anecdotes  on  the  sub- 
ject, as  true  and  as  amusing  as  Marl- 
borouffh^s  leaping  from  Ladv  Castle- 
maine^s  window,  or  James  IL^s  thral- 
dom to  Catherine  Sedlev.  The  me- 
moirs on  the  subject  that  have  recently 
come  out,  give  details  of  corruption 
so  barefaced  and  gross  that  they 
would  exceed  belief,  if  their  fre- 
quency, and  the  testimony  to  their 
anthenticity  from  differ^t  quarters, 
did  not  defy  disbelief.  It  is  now 
known  thiut,  when  Sir  Robert  Wal- 
pole^s  parliamentary  supporters  were 
mvited  to  his  ministerial  dinner,  each 
of  them  found  a  £500  note  under  his 
napkin. 

\Ve  do  not  blame  tbo  Whigs  for 
this  wholesale  system  of  influence  and 
corruption,  whioi  pervaded  every  class 
of  society,  and  regulated  the  diq>osal 
of  every  office,  from  the  humblest 
exciseman  to  the  prime  minister. 
There  was  no  other  way  of  doing. 
But  for  it,  government  would,  a  cen- 
tury and  a  half  ago,  have  been  brought 
to  a  stand,  and  the  nation  defoaied 
and  subjugated.  We  are  no  sup- 
porters of  corruption,  or  the  influence 
of  monev,  if  higher  and  nobler  prin- 
cq[^  of  action  can  be  brought  into 
pUy,  and  r^oice  that  it  has  now  for 
nearly  a  century  been  exchanged  for 
the  less  offlmsive  and  demoralising,  but 
not  less  effectual  mtem  of  influence 
and  patronage.     But,  though  mnoh 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


402 


Macauhy^s  History  of  England. ! 


[April, 


higher  moUves  are  sometimes  most 
powerM  on  extraordinary  occasions, 
all  experience  proyes  that,  at  ordi- 
nary times,  and  in  the  long  ran,  it  is 
in  vain  to  attempt  to  combat  one  inte« 
rest  bnt  by  another  interest.  If  any 
man  donbts  it,  let  him  try  to  persuade 
the  fVee-trade  audiences  at  Man- 
chester to  agree  to  a  dnty  on  cotton 
goods  to  uphold  the  navy,  or  the  Irish 
in  Ulster  to  agree  to  a  rate  to 
save  their  countiymen  in  Connaught 
fW)m  dying  of  famine,  or  the  Scotch 
lairds  to  agree  to  a  tax  for  a  rural 
police,  to  save  themselves  from  rob- 
bery and  murder.  We  should  rejoice 
if  men,  as  a  body,  could  be  brought  to 
act  only  from  pure  and  honourable 
motives;  but,  taldng  them  as  they 
are,  we  are  thanldhl  for  any  system 
which  brings  the  selfish  motives  round 
to  the  side  of  patriotism,  and  causes 
parliamentary  influence  to  save  ns 
mm  the  Russian  knout  or  IVench 
requisitions. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  and 
original  parts  of  Mr  Macaulay's  work 
is  the  account  he  has  given,  in  the 
first  volume,  of  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms, habits  of  the  people,  and  state 
of  sooiety  in  England,  prior  to  the 
Revolution,  compared  with  what  now 
exists.  In  doing  so,  he  has  only  ex- 
emplified what,  in  his  admlraUe  essay 
on  history  in  the  Edinburgh  Review^ 
he  has  described  as  a  leacung  object 
in  that  species  of  composition ;  audit 
must  be  confessed  that  his  example 
tends  greatly  to  show  the  truth  of  his 
precept.  This  part  of  his  work  is 
learned,  laborious,  elaborate,  and  in 
the  highest  degree  amusing.  It  is 
also  in  many  respects,  and  in  no  ordi- 
nary degree,  instructive.  Bnt  it  has 
the  same  fiMdt  as  the  other  parts  of 
bis  work— it  is  one-sided.  It  exhi- 
bits, in  the  highest  degree,  the  skill 
of  the  pleader,  the  brilliancy  of  the 
painter,  the  power  of  the  rhetorician ; 
bnt  it  does  not  equally  exhibit  the 
reflection  of  the  sage,  or  the  impar- 
tiality of  the  iudge.  It  savours  too 
much  of  a  brilliant  ^sutj  essay  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review.  Mr  Macaulay's 
object  is  to  wriu  ^  the  present  times, 
and  write  down  the  past;  and  we 
fully  admit  he  has  done  so  with  the 
greatest  ability.  Bnt  we  are  tho- 
roughly convinoed  his  picture,  how 
'**^hic  soever,  is  in  great  part  deoep^ 


tive.  It  tells  the  trath,  bnt  not  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  bnt  the 
truth.  It  represents  the  ludicrons  and 
extreme  features  of  society  as  its  real 
and  average  characteristics ;  it  bears, 
we  are  convinced,  the  same  relaUon, 
in  many  respects,  to  the  real  aspect 
of  times  of  which  it  treats,  which  the 
burlesques  of  Mrs  Trollope  do  to  the 
actual  and  entire  features  of  Trans- 
atlantic society.  These  bnrlesqnes 
are  very  amushig ;  they  fhmish  di- 
vcrtiog  drawing-room  reading;  bnt 
would  a  subsequent  historian  l^  justi- 
fied in  assuming  them  as  the  text- 
work  of  a  grave  and  serious  description 
of  America  in  the  nineteenth  century  ? 
We  have  no  doubt  Mr  Macaulaj 
could  produce  an  authority  firom  a 
comedy,  a  tract,  or  a  satire,  fbr  every 
floct  he  advances ;  but  we  have  just 
as  little  doubt  that  hundreds  of  other 
^ts,  equally  authentic  and  true, 
might  be  adduced  of  an  opposite  ten- 
dency, of  which  he  says  nothing;  and 
therefore  his  charge  to  the  juiy,  how 
able  soever,  is  all  on  one  side. 

His  object  is  to  show  that,  in  every 
respect,  the  present  age  is  incompara- 
bly happier  and  more  virtuous  than 
those  which  have  preceded  it— a  doc- 
trine which  has  descended  to'  him,  in 
common  with  the  whole  liberal  party 
of  the  world,  from  the  visions  of 
Rousseau.  We,  who  have  a  firm  be- 
lief in  human  corruption,  alike  from 
revelation  and  experience,  bc^eve  such 
visions  to  be  a  perfect  chimera,  and 
that,  after  a  certain  period  of  efflor- 
escence, decay  and  degradation  are  as 
inevitable  to  societies  as  to  individual 
men.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  in 
many  respects,  Mr  Macaulay  is  right. 
The  present  age  is  far  richer,  more 
refined,  and  more  luxurious  than  any 
which  has  preceded  it.  In  a  material 
view,  the  nigher  and  middle  classes 
enjoy  advantages,  and  are  habituated 
to  comforts,  unknown  in  amr  formef 
age.  The  chances  of  life  bave  in- 
creased over  the  whole  population 
twenty-five,  in  the  higher  classes  at 
least  forty  per  cent  Humanity  has 
made  a  most  cheering  progress :  the 
barbarity  of  fbrmer  aaifs  is  not  onJy 
unknown,  but  seems  mconceivable. 
A  British  tradesman  is  better  clothed, 
fed,  and  lodged,  than  a  Plantagenet 
baron.  So  far  all  is  true ;  bnt  audi 
alteram  patiem.    Are  we  equally  dis- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.} 


MacauUxy*$  History  of  England, 


403 


interested,  magnanimotis,  and  brave, 
with  the  nations  or  ages  which  have 
preceded  us?  Are  the  generous  affec- 
tions eqnaUj  victorious  over  the  self- 
ish? Are  the  love  of  ^ain,  the  thu-st 
for  pleasure,  the  passion  for  eiyoy- 
ment,  such  very  weak  passions  , 
amongst  us,  that  the^  could  be  readily 
supplanted  by  the  ardour  of  patriotism, 
the  self- denial  of  virtue,  the  heroism  of 
duty?  Woidd  modem  England  have 
engaged  in  a  crusade  for  As  deliver- 
ance of  the  holy  sepulchre  ?  Would  the 
merchants  of  London  set  fire  to  their 
stock-exchange  and  capital,  as  those 
of  Numantia  or  Saguntnm  did,  to  save 
k  from  the  spoiler?  Will  Free-trade 
Hall  ever  overflow  with  patriotic 
gifts,  as  the  Bourse  at  Moscow  did  in 
1812?  We  have  laid  out  a  hundred 
and  fif^  millions  on  railways,  in  the 
hope  of  getting  a  good  dividend  in 
this  world:  would  we  lay  out  one 
million  in  building  another  York 
Cathedral,  or  endowing  another 
Greenwidi  Hospital?  Have  we  no 
experience  of  an  age 


*WlMn  wcattb  aecamulatMand  i 


1  decay 


These  are  the  questions  an  impar- 
tial judge  will  ask  himself  after  read- 
ing Mr  Macaulay^s  brilliant  diatribe 
on  the  past,  in  his  first  volume. 

He  tells  us  that  the  country  gentle- 
men, before  the  Revolution  were  mere 
ignorant  country  bumpkins,  few  of 
Vhom  could  read  or  write,  and  who, 
when  they  for  once  in  their  lives  came 
np  to  London,  went  staring  about  on 
Holbom  or  Ludgate  HiU,  till  a  spout 
of  water  from  some  impending  roof 
fell  into  their  mouths,  while  a  thief 
was  fumbling  in  their  pockets,  or  a 
painted  denizen  from  some  of  the 
neighbouringpuriiens decoyed  him  into 
her  bower.  Be  it  so.  It  was  these  coun- 
tnr  bumpkins  who  gained  the  battles 
of  Cressy,  Poitiers,  Azincour,  and 
Flodden ;  they  built  York  Cathedral 
and  St  PauFs  ;  their  sons  gained  the 
^ctories  of  Sluvs  and  La  Hogue,  of 
Ramilles  and  Blenheim;  they  were 
ennobled  by  the  devotion  and  suffer- 
ings of  the  cavaliers.  We  hope  theh: 
well-fed,  long-lived,  and  luxurious 
descendants  would  rise  from  thehr 
beds  of  down  to  do  the  same.  He  tells 
ns  the  clergy  of  the  age  of  Charies  n. 
were  almost  all  drawn  from  the  very 
humblest  classes,  that  thour  education 


was  veryimpOTfect,  and  that  they  oc- 
cupied so  low  a  place  in  society  that 
no  lady*s-maid,  who  had  hopes  of  the 
steward,  would  look  at  them ;  and  that 
they  were  often  glad  to  take  up  with 
a  damsel  whose  character  had  been 
blown  upon  by  the  young  squire.  Be 
it  so :  that  age  produced  the  Clarkea 
and  the  Cudwoi*ths,  the  Barrows  and 
the  TRllotsons,  the  Taylors  and  tho 
Newtons,  the  Halls  and  the  Hookers, 
of  the  Church  of  England;  and  their 
efforts  stemmed  the  torrent  of  licen- 
tiousness which,  in  reaction  against 
the  cant  of  the  Covenanters,  deluged 
the  country  on  the  accession  of  Charles 
IL  The  schools  and  colleges  in  which 
they  were  bred  had  produced  Milton 
and  Spencer,  Shakspeare  and  Bacon, 
John  Locke  and  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 
We  hope  that  the  labours  of  their 
"honourable  and  reverend"  succes- 
sors, who  have  been  so  highly  educated 
at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  may  be 
equally  successful  in  ^eradicating  the 
prevailing  vices  of  the  present  age,  and 
that,  after  the  lapse  of  a  century  and 
a  half,  their  works  will  occupy  as  higfc 
place  in  general  estimation. 

To  illustrate  our  meaning,  we  shall 
extract  two  paragraphs  from  a  manu- 
script work  on  Contemporary  History, 
which  recently  passed  through  our 
hands,  and  ask  Mr  Macaulay  himself 
whether  he  can  gainsay  any  fact  it 
advances,  and  yet  whether  he  will 
admit  the  justice  of  the  picture  which 
it  draws. 

*'  The  British  empire,  from  1816  to 
1848,  exhibited  the  most  extraordi- 
nary social  and  political  fbatures  thai 
the  world  had  ever  seen.  No  former 
period  had  presented  so  complete  a 
commentary  on  the  maxim,  *  extremes 
meet.*  It  immediately  succeeded  the 
termination  of  a  desperate  and  costly 
war,  in  the  course  of  which  the  most 
herculean  efforts  for  the  national  de- 
fence and  the  interests  of  the  emphie 
had  been  made ;  and  it  witnessed  the 
abandonment  of  them  all.  Twenty 
years  of  desperate  hostility  had  be- 
queathed to  it  untouched  a  sinking 
nind  of  fifteen  millions  annually; 
thirty-five  years  of  unbroken  peace 
saw  that  sinking  fbnd  extinguished. 
Protection  to  indnstiy  —  support 
of  the  colonies  —  upholding  of 
the  naw,  had  been  the  watch- 
words of  the  nation  during  the  war. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


404 


Maeofday^i  Hiatory  qfEngkmd. 


[April, 


Free  trade,  disregard  of  the  colonies, 
cheap  freights,  became  the  ruling 
maxims  diffkff  the  peace  which  it  had 
purchased.  The  onlj  intelligible  prin- 
ciple of  action  in  the  people  seemed  to 
be  to  change  eyerythmg,  and  undo  all 
that  had  been  done.  The  different 
classes  of  society,  daring  this  diyer- 
gence,  became  as  far  separated  in  sta- 
5on  and  condition  as  in  opinion.  The 
rich  were  every  day  growing  richer, 
the  poor  poorer.  The  wealth  of  Lon- 
don, and  of  a  few  great  houses  in  the 
country,  exceeded  all  that  the  imagin- 
ation ii  the  East  had  conceived  in  the 
Arabian  Nights:  the  misery  of  Ireland, 
and  of  the  manufacturing  towns,  out- 
stripped all  that  the  imagination  of 
Dante  had  figured  of  the  terrible.  The 
first  daily  exhibited,  during  the  season, 
all  the  marvels  of  Aladdm's  palace ; 
the  last,  at  the  same  period,  presented 
all  the  horrors  of  Ugolino^s  prison. 
Undeniable  statistics  proved  the  reality 
and  universality  of  this  extraordinary 
state  of  things,  which  had  become  so 
common  as  to  cease  to  attract  atten- 
tion. The  income-tax  returns  estab- 
lished the  existence  of  £200,000,000 
annual  income  above  £150,  in  Great 
Britain  alone,  by  far  the  greater  part 
of  which  was  the  produce  of  realised 
wealth;  while  the  poor-law  returns 
exhibited,  in  the  two  islands,  four 
millions  of  paupers,  or  a  full  seventh 
of  the  population  subsisting  on  public 
charity.  The  burden  of  the  poor- 
rates  in  the  two  islands  rose,  before 
the  close  of  the  period,  to  £8,000,000 
a-year,  besides  £1,300,000  for  county 
rates.  Population  had  increased  fast, 
but  crime  far  faster:  it  had,  during 
forty  years,  advanced  ten  times  as  fast 
ms  the  numbers  of  the  people.  .Gene- 
ral distress  prevailed  during  the  period 
among  the  working  classes,  inter* 
rupted  only  by  occasional  and  decep- 
tive gleams  of  sunshine.  So  acute 
did  it  become  in  1847  that  a  noble 
grant  of  £10,000,000  from  the  British 
parliament  alone  prevented  two  mil- 
lions of  Irish  dying  of  fiunine ;  as  it 
was,  250,000  m  that  single  year  pe- 
rished from  starvation,  and  as  many, 
in  that  year  and  the  next,  were  driven 
into  exile  from  the  United  Kingdom. 
The  people  in  Liverpool  returned 
thanks  to  God  when  the  inundation 
of  Irish  paupers  sank  to  2000  a-week. 
*    "^gow,  for  two  years,  suffered  under 


an  infliction  of  above  a  thousand 
weekly,  which  in  that  short  time 
raised  its  poor-rates  from  £20,000  to 
£200,000  a-year.  During  this  pro- 
tracted period  of  suffering,  the  feelmgs 
of  the  different  classes  of  society  be* 
came  as  much  alienated  as  their  in- 
terests had  been.  Rebellion  broke 
out  in  Ireland ;  the  West  Indies  were 
ruined,  and  the  Chartists  numbered 
their  millions  in  England.  The  Trea- 
sury shared  in  tiie  general  distress* 
It  had  become  impossible  to  nuse 
funds  fit>m  the  nation  adequate  to  its 
necessary  expenses;  and,  at  length, 
so  pressing  did  the  clamour  for  a  re- 
duction 6f  taxation  become,  that  it 
was  seriously  proposed,  and  loudly 
approved  by  a  large  and  influential 
portion  of  the  community,  to  sell  our 
ships  of  war,  disband  our  troops,  and 
surrender  ourselves  unarmed  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  adjoining  na- 
tions, when  war  with  unwonted  fierce- 
ness was  raging  both  on  the  conti- 
nent of  Europe  and  in  our  Eastern  do- 
minions. 

"Nor  was  the  aspect  of  society 
more  satisfactory  in  its  social  condi- 
tion— the  manners  of  the  higher,  or 
the  habits  of  the  lower  orders.  In- 
toiucation,  seemingly  purposely  en- 
couraged by  government  by  a  large 
redaction  of  the  duties  on  spirits, 
spread  the  most  frightful  demoralisa- 
tion through  our  great  towns.  Licen- 
tiousness spread  to  an  unparalleled 
extent  in  the  metropolis,  and  all  the 
principal  towns;  and  the  amount  of 
female  corruption  on  the  streets,  and 
at  the  theatres,  exceeded  anjrthing- 
ever  witnessed  since  the  daysof  Mes- 
salina  or  Theodora.  The  drama  was 
ruined :  it  was  supplanted,  as  always 
occurs  in  the  decay  of  nations,  by  the 
melodrama ;  the  theatre  by  the  am- 
phitheatre. Drury  Lane  was  turned 
mto  an  arena  for  wild  beasts,  Covent 
Garden  into  an  Italian  Opera.  The 
magnificent  attractions  of  the  opera 
exceeded  anything  ever  witnessed  be- 
fore; the  warmth  of  its  scenes,  and 
the  liberal  display  of  the  charms  of 
the  danseuses,  did  not  prevent  it  from 
being  nightly  crowded  by  the  whole 
rank  and  fashion  of  the  metropolis. 
A  universal  thirst  tor  gain  or  excite- 
ment had  seized  the  nation.  No  dan- 
ger, however  great,  no  immorality, 
however  crying,  was  able   to  stop 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


MacoMiki^H  Ritlory  qf  England. 


405 


them,  when  there  was  the  prospect  of 
a  good  dividend.  At  one  period,  a 
hundred  and  fifty  millions  were  wasted 
in  loans  to  ^^  healthy  young  republics," 
as  the  Foreign  Secretary  himself 
admitted  in  parliament ;  at  another,  a 
still  larger  sum  was  laid  out  on  do- 
mestic railways,  not  one  h^  of  which 
could  ever  produce  anything.  Three 
guineas  a-night  were  habitually  giyen 
for  a  single  stall-seat  at  the  Opera, 
to  hear  a  Swedish  singer,  during 
the  railway  mania:  but  then  the 
occupant  was  indifferent — ^he  put  it 
down  to  the  railway,  and  came 
there,  reeling  firom  the  champa^e 
and  hock  dnmk  at  a  ndghbourmg 
hotel,  at  its  expense.  Most  of  these 
railways  were  mere  bubbles,  never 
meant  to  go  on;  when  the  fortu- 
nate projectors  had  sot  the  shares 
landed  at  a  premium  m  the  hands  of 
the  widow  and  the  orphan,  they  let  it 
go  to  the  bottom.  There  was  a  great 
talk  about  religion,  but  the  talkers 
were  not  always  exclusively  set  on 
things  above.  Fine  ladies  sometimes 
asked  a  sly  question  on  coming  out  of 
their  third  service  cm  Sunday,  or  their 
second  on  Friday,  what  was  the  price 
of  Great  Westerns,  or  whether  the 
broad  or  the  narrow  gauge  was  likely 
to  carr^  the  day.  The  raiding  (^  men 
was  chiefly  confined  to  the  newspapers ; 
of  women  to  novels,  or  occasional 
morsels  of  scandal  firom  scandalous 
trials.  There  was  great  talk  abont 
the  necessity  of  keeping  up  ;the  tone 
of  public  morality ;  but  it  was  appear- 
ances, not  realities,  which  were  chiefly 
aimed  at  ^  Not  to  leave  undone,  but 
to  keq)  unknown,*  was  the  maxun  of 
the  London,  as  it  had  been  of  the  Ve- 
netian dames ;  the  delinquents  who 
were  punished  were  chastised,  like  the 
Spartan  youths,  not  for  what  they  had 
done,  but  for  what  they  had  let  be  dis- 
covered. So  capricious  was  public 
opinion  in  this  particular,  in  the  very 
hi^est  circles,  that  it  was  stated  bj 
the  most  popular  author  of  the  day.  In 
the  Edmbwrgh  Review^  that  the  English 
women  wakened  every  seven  years, 


and  massacred  some  unfortunate  de- 
tected delinquent;  they  then  fell 
asleep,  satisfied  with  the  sacrifice  to 
propriety,  for  seven  years,  when  they 
slaughtered  another,  and  again  sunk 
into  a  thhrd  septennial  torpor.  Mean- 
while the  morals  of  the|mann&cturing 
districts  were  daily  getting  worse; 
millions  existed  there  who  did  not 
attend  divine  service  on  Sunday ;  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  who  had  never  been 
in  a  church ;  thousands  who  had  never 
heiurd  the  name  of  Jesus  but  in  an 
oath.  A  hideous  mass  of  heathen 
profligacy  had  arisen  in  the  heart  of  a 
Christian  land.  From  it  thousands  <^ 
both  sexes  were  annnallj^  sent  up  to 
the  metropolis  to  feed  its  insatiable 
passions,  or  sacrifice  their  souls  and 
bodies  on  the  altar  of  Moloch." 

So  far  our  unpublished  manuscript. 
Mr  Hacaulay  is  too  well  acquainted 
with  pas8ing[  events  not  to  know  that 
eveiy  word  m  the  preceding  picture  is 
true,  and  too  candid  not  to  admit  that 
all  these  observations  are  just.  But 
he  knows  there  is  something  to  be 
said  on  the  other  side.  Heisnmiliar 
with  a  counter  set  of  facts ;  and  he 
could  in  half-an-hour  write  two  para- 

nhs  on  the  state  of  the  country 
ig  the  same  period,  equally  true 
and  striking,  which  would  leave  on 
the  mind  of  the  reader  an  impression  of 
a  directly  opposite  character.  Where 
is  the  truth  to  be  found  between  such 
opposite  statements,  both  true  in  re- 
gard to  the  same  period?  In  the 
combmati<m  of  bothy  and  an  impartial 
summing  up  by  the  historian  of  the 
inf^nces  dedudble  firom  both  set$  of 
factBy  equally  clearly  and  forcibly 
given.  It  is  this  statement  of  the  facts 
on  both  sides  which,  amidst  all  our 
admiration  for  his  genius,  we  often 
desiderate  in  Mr  Macanlay ;  and  no- 
thing but  the  adoption  of  it,  and  taking 
his  seat  on  the  Bench  instead  of  the 
Bar  ofHisiarvy  is  required  to  render 
his  noble  work  as  wei^ty  as  it  is  able, 
and  asinfiuential  in  formingthe  opinion 
of  future  ages,  as  it  unquestionably 
will  be  in  interieeting  the  present. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


406 


Jokn$to9i^s  Phyiical  Geography. 


[Apra> 


johkston'8  physical  gbooeaphy. 


In  this  age  of  scientific  illastratioii, 
no  more  splendid  work  hsA  been  pro- 
duced than  the  one  of  which  we  now 
^ivesome  generalnoticeto  our  readers. 
It  is  not  our  purpose  to  panegyrise 
either  the  work  or  the  author;  but 
it  is  only  justice  to  say,  that  no  work 
more  distinguished  by  completeness 
of  knowledge  on  its  subject — ^by  the 
novelty,  variety,  and  depth  of  its 
researches — by  the  skill  of  its  arrange- 
ment, and  by  the  beauty  of  its  en- 
gravings and  tprpography-^has  ever 
appeared  in  this  country,  or  in  any 
other.  It  is  a  magnificent  tribute  to  the 
science  and  to  the  skill  of  England. 

The  author,  in  his  desire  to  ac- 
knowledge his  oMigations,  by  stating 
that  his  work  is  founded  on  the 
Physical  AUas  of  Professor  Bergfaaus, 
has  done  himself  injustice.  His 
volume,  though  natundlv  availing 
itself  of  all  c<mtemporary  laiowl^ge, 
exhibits  all  the  originality  which  can 
make  it  his  own. 

Of  all  modem  sciences,  the  science 
of  the  globe  has  made  the  most 
rapid,  the  most  remarkable,  and 
the  most  important  progress.  Ba- 
con makes  the  fine  remark,  that  while 
the  works  of  man  advance  by  suc- 
cessive additions,  the  works  of  Nature 
all  go  on  at  once:  thus  the  machinist 
adds  wheel  to  wheel,  and  spring  to 
spring,  but  the  earth  produces  the 
tree,  branch  and  bark,  trunk  and 
leaf,  together.  Hiere  is  something 
analogous  to  this  combuied  operation 
in  physical  geography :  a  whole 
crowd  of  remaricable  discoveries  seem 
to  have  burst  on  us  at  once,  expressly 
designed  to  invigorate  and  impel  our 
progress  in  geosraphical  science. 
Thus,  our  century  has  witnessed  new 
phenomena  of  magnetinn,  new  laws 
of  heat  and  refi:igeration,  new  laws' 
€ven  of  the  tempest,  new  rules  of 
the  tides,  new  exp^ients  for  the 
preservation  of  health  at  sea,  new 
arrangements  for  the  supply  of  ftesh 
food,  and  even  for  the  supply  of  fresh 
water  by  distillation,  and  all  tendhig 


to  the  same  object^-the  knowledge 
of  the  globe. 

The  use  of  steam,  to  which  modem 
medianism  has  given  almost  a  new 
existence,  and  certaiidy  a  new  power 
— the  conquest  of  wind  and  wave  by 
the  steam-ship,  and  the  almost 
miraculous  saving  of  time  and  i^ca 
by  the  steam-carriage ;  the  new  ne- 
cessity of  remote  enteiprise,  originju 
tmg  in  the  urgency  of  commerdal  and 
manufacturing  difficulties ;  the  open- 
ing of  the  thousand  islands  of  the* 
Indian  Archipelago,  till  now  known  to 
us  as  scarcely  more  than  the  seat  of 
savage  life,  or  the  scene  of  OrSestal 
fable ;  the  breaking  down  of  that 
old  and  colossal  barrier  of  restrictions 
and  prejudices,  which,  moro  than  the 
wall  of  China,  excluded  England  from 
intercourse  with  a  population  amount- 
ing to  a  third  of  mankind ;  and  most 
of  all,  those  vast  vi^tatlons  of  appa- 
rent eivil,  which  the  great  Disposer  of 
things  is  evidently  transmuting,  year 
by  year,  into  real  good,  by  propelling 
the  impoverished  multitudes  of  Eorope 
into  the  wildernesses  of  the  world-^all 
exhibiUng  a  stupendous  oomlnnation 
of  simile  means,  and  a  not  less 
astonishing  convergency  to  the  one 
high  purpose,  the  mastery  of  the 
globe— place  Physical  Geography  at 
the  head  of  the  sdences  essential  to 
the  happiness  and  power  of  human- 
kind. 

In  the  glance  which  we  shall  givo 
at  this  great  seienoe,  we  look  only  to 
the  external  structure  of  the  earth ; 
briefly  protesting  against  all  tiiose 
theones  whidi  refer  its  origin  to  an 
earlier  period,  or  a  longer  process, 
than  the  ''six  days"  of  Scriptkire. 
It  is  true,  that  Moses  may  not  havo 
been  a  philosopher,  though  the  man 
"learned  in  all  the  wisdom  of  the 
Egyptians  ^'  may  have  known  more  i 
than  many  a  philosopher  of  later 
days.  It  is  equally  true,  that  the 
ob|ectof  the  Book  of  Genesis  was  not 
to  give  a  treatise  on  geology.  But 
Moses  was  a  historian — it  is  the  ex- 


The  PhvHeal  Atlat :  A  terietof  Mapt  and  NoU$  on  the  Geographical DittribU' 
tion  of  Natural  Phenomena,  By  Alexakder  Keith  Johnston,  Geographer  in 
Ordinary  to  Her  Mi^Jesty,  &c.  Folio. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1S19.3 


JoknaiaH^s  Pfyska!  Geography, 


407 


press  office  of  a  historian  to  stateyctc/^ ; 
and  if  Moses  stated  the  **  heavens  and 
the  earth,  and  all  that  therein  is,**  to 
have  been  created  and  furnished  in 
**  six  days,"  we  most  either  receive  the 
statement  as  trne,  or  give  np  the  his- 
tcrian  as  a  fabricator.  Bnt  if  we 
believe,  in  oompliance  with  the  Divine 
word,  that  "all  Scripture  isb7ini^fa*a* 
tion  of  €U)d,"  by  what  snbtOTfage  can 
we  escape  the  condnsion,  that  the 
narrative  of  Genesis  is  ^vine?  Or  if, 
in  the  childish  scepticism  of  the  Ger- 
man school,  we'reqnire  a  more  posi- 
tive testimony,  what  can  be  more  posi- 
tive than  the  declaration  of  the  com- 
mandment of  the  Sabbath,  '"that  msix 
days  God  made  heaven  and  earth ;" 
founding  also  upon  this  decburation 
the  Sabbath — an  metitntion  meant  for 
every  age,  and  for  the  .veneration  and 
sanctification  of  every  race  of  man- 
kind ?  If  such  a  declaration  can  be 
false,  what  can  be  true  ?  If  ever  words 
were  idain,  those  are  the  words  of 
plainness.  The  law  of  Sinai  was  de- 
livered with  all  the  solemnities  of  a 
law  ftnrming  the  foundation  of  every 
futme  law  of  earth.  It  would  have 
been  as  majestic,  and  as  miraculous, 
to  have  fixed  the  creation  at  a  million 
of  years  before  the  being  of  Adam. 
But  we  can  discover  no  possible  rea- 
son fbr  the  history,  but  that  it  was  the 
truth.    That  truth  is  divine. 

If  the  geologist  shall  persist  in  re- 
peating, £at  the  phenomena  are  in- 
compatible witii  the  history,  our  r^ly 
b,  "  Your  science  is  stitt  in  its  infancy 
— a  sdence  of  a  day,  feebly  beginning 
to  collect  facts,  and  still  so  weak  as 
to  enjoy  the  indulgence  of  extravagant 
condusiona.  There  have  been  a  thou- 
sand theories  of  oreation--each  popular, 
anegaot,  and  self- satisfied,  in  its  own 
time;  each  swept  away  by  another 
equaMy  popular,  arrogant,  and  self- 
satisfied,  and  all  e^iaily  deserving  of 
refection  by  posterity.  You  must 
aoquife  aU  the  fiu^ts,  before  you  cmn  be 
qualified  to  theorise.  The  last  and 
meat  eonsummato  work  of  genius,  and 
of  centuries,  is  a  true  theory.*' 

Bat,  withovt  dweliiag  further  on 
this  high  Butgect,  we  must  observe, 
that  there  is  one  InevitaUe  Cact,  for 
which  the  modem  geologist  makes  no 
provision  whatever ;  and  that  fact  is, 
that  the  beginning  of  things  on  the 
globe  nm$t  have  b^n  totally  different 


from  the  processes  gomff  on  before  our 
eyes.  For  mstance,  Adam  must  have 
been  created  in  the  full  possession  of 
manhood ;  for,  if  he  had  been  formed  an 
infont,  he  must  haveperished  through 
mere  helplessness.  When  God  looked 
on  this  world,  and  pronounced  all  to 
be  "very  good**— which  implies  the 
completion  of  his  purpose,  and  the  per- 
fection of  his  work— is  it  possible  to  con- 
ceive, that  he  looked  only  on  the  germs 
of  production,  on  plains  covered  with 
eggs,  or  seas  filled  with  spawn,  or 
forests  still  buried  in  the  capsules  of 
seeds;  on  a  creation  utteriy  shape- 
less, lifeless,  and  silent,  instead  of  the 
myriads  of  delighted  existence,  all 
enjoying  the  first  sense  of  being  ? 

Bnt,  if  the  first  fbrmation  of  the 
world  of  life  mu^f  have  been  the  act  of 
a  vast  principle,  to  which  we  have  no 
resemblance  in  the  subsequent  increase 
and  continuance  of  being,  what 
ground  have  we  for  arguing,  that  the 
common  processes  of  material  exis- 
tence in  our  day  must  have  been  the 
same  in  the  origin  of  things  ?  On  the 
whole,  we  regiutl  the  d^aratlon — 
*'  In  six  days  God  made  the  heavens, 
and  the  earth,  the  sea,  and  all  that  in 
them  is,*'  as  an  insuperabU  ^ar  to  all 
the  modem  fantasies  of  the  geologist, 
as  a  direct  rebuke  to  his  profaneness, 
and  as  a  solemn  judgment  against  his  \ 
presumption. 

The  whole  surfhce  of  the  globe  gives 
striking  evidence  of  design,  and  of 
design  ooetemplating  the  service  of 
man.  Bnt  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able evidences  of  that  design  is  given 
in  the  Jdotmiain  Map  of  the  globe. 
Yarietv  of  temperature,  the  sup- 
ply of  water,  and  the  change  of 
level,  are  essential  to  variety  of  pro- 
duction, to  fertility  of  soil,  and  to 
the  vigour  and  health  of  the  hnman 
frame— the  expedient  to  meet  them  all 
is  provided  in  the  mountain  districts 
of  the  great  oontinents.  A  mountain 
chain  girdles  the  whole  of  the  mass  of 
land  firom  the  Atiantic  to  the  Sea  of 
Kamschatka.  Minor  chahis,  some 
parallel,  some  branching  fW>m  tiie 
great  northern  chahi,  and  some 
branches  of  those  branches,  hitersect 
eveiy  region  of  tiie  globe.  The  whole 
bears  a  remarkable  resemblance  to 
the  position  of  the  spine  in  the  human 
frame,  with  its  cmlateral  muscular 
and  venous  connexion  with  the  body. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


408 


Jokn&Um^B  Phftiad  Chogr^pk^, 


[April, 


An  ondine  view  of  the  monntams  of 
oar  hemisphere  would  be  strikingly 
like  a  sketch  of  the  human  anatomy. 
The  general  formation  of  the  eoontries 
north  and  south  of  those  chains  is 
nearly  the  same— yast  plains,  extend- 
ing to  the  sea,  or  traversed  and  closed 
in  by  a  bordering  chain.  The  great 
Tartarian  desert  is  a  plain  extending, 
under  various  names,  five  thousand 
miles  from  west  to  eart. 

I^sain  is  a  country  of  mountains,  or 
rather  a  vast  table-land,  intersecSted 
by  six  ranges  of  lofty,  rugged,  and 
barren  hills.  Northern  AMca  is  a 
basin  of  plains,  surrounded  by  vast 
ridges.  Morocco,  Algius,  and  Turns, 
find  in  those  hills  at  once  their  fron- 
tiers and  their  fertility.  The  Pyre- 
nees form  a  chain  of  nearly  three 
hundred  miles  lon^,  and  upwards  of 
fifty  broad — a  province  of  mountains, 
intersected  by  valleys  of  romantic 
beauty  and  ^  exuberant  fertility.  But 
the  Alps,  from  their  position  between 
the  two  most  brilliant  nations  of  the 
Continent— France  and  Italy — and 
from  the  extraordinary  series  of  me- 
morable events  of  which  they  have 
bera  the  theatre,  since  the  earliest  pe- 
riods of  European  history,  are  the 
most  celebrated  range  of  momitains 
in  the  worid.  The  highw  Alps,  be- 
ginning at  the  Grolf  (^  Genoa,  and  ex- 
tendhig  north  and  east  through  the 
Orisons  and  the  l^rol,  stretch  between 
four  and  five  hundred  miles.  They 
then  divide  into  two  branches,  one 
of  which  reaches  even  to  the  Euxine. 
The  breadth  of  the  great  range  is, 
on  an  average,  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles. 

Hie  Apennines,  another  memorable 
chain,  also  beginning  at  the  Gulf  of 
Genoa,  strike  direct  throng  the  heart 
<tf  Ita^,  and  end  in  Calabria— a  Vm 
of  eight  hundred  miles.  Dalmatii^and 
Albania  are  ibiote  of  hills;  Pindus,and 
the  aovntains  of  Northern  Greene, 
are  bold  oflbetsfrxKn  the  Eastern  Alps. 

Among  those  wonderful  arrange- 
ments, the  table-lands  are  perhaps  the 
most  wonderfd.  In  the  midst  of 
countries  where  everything  seemed 
to  tend  to  the  mountainous  form,  we 
find  vast  plains  raised  almost  to  a 
mowitabKHis  height,  yet  retainbg 
thenr  level.  This  form  pecaliariy  oo- 
CBTB  in  latitudes  of  high  tmnperatnre. 
!nte  centre  of  Spain  is  a  table-land  of 


more  than  ninety-two  thousand  square 
miles — (me  half  of  the  area  of  SjMdn. 

The  country  between  the  two  ranges 
of  the  Atks  is  a  taUe-land,  exhibit- 
ing the  richest  products,  and  possess- 
ing the  finest  climate,  of  Northern 
Africa.  Equatorial  Africa  is  one  hn- 
mense  taUe-land,  (^  which,  however, 
wecan  only coiyecture  the  advantages. 
Whether  from  the  difficulty  of  ap- 
proach, the  distance,  or  the  diversion 
of  the  current  of  adventure  to  other 
quarters  of  the  w<»rld,  this  chief  por- 
tion of  the  African  continent  continues 
almost  unknown  to  Eun^peans.  The 
central  region  is  a  blank  m  our  maps^ 
but  occasional  tales  reach  us  of  the 
pl^i^,  the  pomp,  and  even  of  the 
civilisation  and  industry  of  the  table- 
land. The  centre  of  India  is  a  taUe- 
land,  possessing,  in  that  region  of  fire 
and  fever,  a  bracing  air,  and  a  produc- 
tive, thon^  rugxed  soil. 

The  table-la^  of  Asia  partake  of 
the  characteristic  magnitude  which 
belongs  to  that  mighty  quarter  of  the 
g^obe.  That  of  Persia  has  an  area  of 
m<Mre  than  a  million  and  a  half  of 
square  miles.  That  of  Tibet  has  an 
area  of  six  tunes  the  extent,  with  n 
still  greater  elevation  above  the  level 
of  tlM  sea— its  general  altitude  being 
about  the  hd^t  of  Mont  Blanc,  and^ 
in  some  instanoes,  two  thousand  feet 
higher.  The  mean  altitude  of  the 
Persian  plateau  is  not  above  four 
thousand  feet. 

We  have  adverted  to  those  formn- 
tions  of  vast  elevated  plains  in  the 
ooidst  of  countries  necessarily  eiqposed 
to  extreme  heat, -as  one  of  the  remark- 
able instances  of  (Movidential  contriv- 
ance, if  we  must  ose  that  familiar 
w<ud  in  such  mighty  mstanoes  of  de- 
sign, for  the  coD^fort  of  animated  be- 
ing. We  thus  find,  m  the  latitudes 
exposed  to  the  fienest  heat  of  the  sunt 
aprovision  for  a  temperature  consistent 
with  the  health,  activity,  and  indus- 
try  of  man.  Persia,  which,  if  on  the 
level  of  the  sea,  would  be  a  furnace,  ia 
thnsredueed  to  comparative coobiess; 
Tibet,  which  would  be  a  boundless 
plaiif  of  fiery  sand,  exhibits  tiiat  stern- 
ness of  climate  which  makes  the  north- 
ern Astatic  bcOd,  healthy,  and  hardy. 

If  the  Tartar  ranger  over  those 
lofty  plains  is  not  a  model  of  Euro- 
pean vurtoe,  he  at  least  has  not  sank 
to  the  Asiatic  slave ;  he  is  bold,  active^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.3 


Jokuiom*§  PRgftnoa/  Gtogff^fky, 


409 


and  has  been,  and  nuij  be  again,  an 
nniyersal  oonqneror.  The  same  qna- 
nUes  hare  alwajrs  distingoished  the 
man  (^  the  tabie-land,  wherever  he 
has  fonnd  a  leader.  The  soldiery  of 
Mysore  no  sooner  appeared  in  the 
flcid,  than  they  swept  all  Hindostan 
before  them ;  the  Persians,  scarcely 
two  ceBtnriesnnoe,  raraged  the  sore- 
reignty  of  the  Mognl ;  and  the  tribes 
of  the  Atlas,  eren  in  our  own  day, 
made  a  more  daring  defence  of  their 
oonntry,  than  all  the  diadplined  forces 
of  the  Continent  against  Napoleon. 

The  two  most  remarkalie  ranges 
of  Asia  are,  the  Cancasns,  ex- 
tending seven  hundred  miles  from 
west  to  east,  witii  brandies  shootfaig 
north  and  sonth ;  and  the  Himalaya,  a 
motmtain  chain  of  neariy  three  thoosand 
miles  in  length,  nnhing  with  the 
Hindoo  Coosh  and  the  monntains  <^ 
Assam.  This  range  is  probably  the 
loftieston  theglobe,averaging  eighteen 
thousand  feet— several  of  the  sum- 
mits rismg  above  twenty-five  Aon- 
sand.  Miuny  oi  the  pataes  are  above 
the  summit  of  Mont  ^anc,  and  the 
whde  constitutes  a  scene  of  inde- 
scribable grandeur,  a  throne  of  the 
solitary  majesty  of  Nature. 

But,  another  essential  use  of  the 
mountain  chains  is  their  supply  of 
water— the  fluid  most  necessary  to 
the  existence  of  the  animal  and  vege- 
table worid, — and  this  is  done  by  an 
expedient'  the  most  simple,  but  the 
most  admirable.  If  the  siv^arge  of 
the  clouds,  dashing  against  the  moun- 
tahi  pinnacles,  were  to  be  poured 
down  at  once,  it  must  descend  with 
the  rapidity  of  a  torrent,  and  deluge 
the  plains.  But,  those  surcharges  fint 
take  a  form  by  which  their  deposit  is 
gradual  and  sidfe,  and  then  assume  a 
second  form,  by  whidi  their  trans- 
mission to  the  plains  Is  mdual  and 
unfaitermitthig.  They  descend  on 
tte  summits  hi  snow,  and  are  re- 
tained on  the  sides  in  ice.  The  snow 
feeds  the  glader;  the  glacier  feeds 
the  river.  It  is  calculated  that,  with- 
out reckoning  the  gladere  of  the  Gri- 
Bons,  there  are  fifteen  hun&ied  square 
miles  of  glacier  in  the  Alps  alone, 
from  a  hundred  to  six  hundred  feet 
deep.  The  glader  is  constantly  melt- 
faig,  finom  the  mere  temperature  of  the 
earth;  but,  as  if  this  process  were  too 
slow  for  fts  use,  it  is  ccmstantly  mov- 


ing downwards,  at  a  certann  numbor 
of  feet  a-year,  and  tiius  bringing  the 
great  body  of  ice  more  within  the  limit 
of  liquefection.  All  the  chief  rivers  of 
Europe  and  Asia  have  their  rise  in 
the  deposits  of  the  mountain  glaciers. 

In  addition  to  all  these  important 
uses,  the  mountahis  assist  in  forming 
the  character  of  man.  The  moun- 
taineer is  generally^oe  feom  the  vioea 
of  the  idam.  He  is  hardy  and  adven- 
turous, yet  attached  to  home ;  bold, 
and  yet  simple ;  independent,  and  yet 
unambitious  of  the  wealth  or  the 
distinctimis  oi  mankind.  Whether 
shepherd  or  hunter,  he  generally  dies 
as  he  lived ;  and,  though  daring  in  de- 
fence of  his  hills,  he  has  seldom  strayed 
beyond  them  for  the  disturbance  oi 
mankiad.  The  Swiss  may  form  an 
exception ;  but  their  hireling  warfare 
is  not  aml^tion,  but  trade.  Their  na- 
tion is  pacific,  while  the  individuals 
let  themselves  out  to  kill,  or  be  killed. 
The  trade  is  infamous  and  irreligiotts, 
ofl^nsive  to  human  feeling,  and  con- 
trary to  human  duty ;  but  it  has  no 
more  reference  to  tiie  habits  of  the 
mountaineer  than  the  emigration  to* 
Califoniia  has  to  the  hal^ts  of  the 
down  of  Massadiusets;  thesthnalaat 
only  is  the  same— the  love  of  gold. 

We  have  adverted  to  the  mountain 
system  of  the  globe,  from  its  giving 
a  remarkable  illustration  of  the  DivhM 
expediency.  We  judge  of  power  by 
the  magnitude  (^  its  effiscts,  and  of 
wisdom  by  the  simplicity  of  its  means^ 
In  this  instance  the  whole  of  the  re- 
enlts  seem  to  arise  from  the  sfanf^  and 
simple  act  of  raisuig  portions  of  the 
earth's  surface  above  the  general  level. 
Yet  firom  this  one  act,  what  a  multi- 
tude of  the  most  important  conditions 
follow ) — variety  of  cUmate,  variety  of 
production,  the  temperature  of  £urq[»e 
mtroduced  faito  the  tropics,  health  to 
man  and  the  inferior  animals,  the  ini- 
gation  of  the  gk>be,  the  defence  of  na- 
tions, and  the  actoalenlargement  of  the 
habitable  spaces  of  the  ^be,  by  the 
elevated  surihoe  of  the  hills— not 
to  mention  the  beaa^r  aad  eubttmity 
(rfthe  landscape,  whidi  depend  whoUy 
on  the  odours,  the  fecBM,  and  the  di- 
verdty  of  monntains. 

An  interestinf  note  on  this  subject 
says,  **It  appears  piotable,  that  a 
legitimate  way  is  now  opening  towards 
the  soliKion  of  the  ultimate  problem  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC  ' 


410 


JohmUm^s  Physical  Geography. 


[April, 


the  QDheaving  force.  The  agreement 
of  deductions  from  the  scienUfic  hy- 
pothesis goes  far  to  establish,  that  all 
dUocations  of  strata,  and  the  accom- 
panying moontaui  chains,  have  re- 
sulted from  the  upheaval  of  large 
portions  of  the  earth's  stufoce  by  a 
diffosed  and  eqnaUe  enwgy — an 
enersy  concentraied  in  one  point  or 
distnct,  only  when  it  has  produced 
craters  of  elevation.  Acoep^g  in- 
struction from  the  surface  of  the  moon, 
we  have  certain  lifffats  also  respecting 
the  history  of  the  development  of 
this  force ;  for,  while  its  concentrated 
action,  with  its  varied  and  remarkable 
cratgns,  has  evolved  nearly  all  the 
mountain  forms  in  that  luminary, 
even  as  we  find  it  among  the  almost 
obliterated  ancient  forms  of  the  earth, 
its  operation  in  raising  extensive 
zones,  now  so  frequently  and  charac- 
teristically exhibited  in  our  own 
planet,  has  yet  scarcely  appeared  in 
the  moon.  The  time  will  doubtless 
come,  when,  viewing  it  as  a  great 
cosmical  agency,  all  such  specialities 
belonging  to  this  yet  hidden  power 
^all  receive  their  solution.'* 

The  Oceak. — ^The  next  most  im- 
portant portion  of  the  globe  to  man 
is  that  mighty  reservoir  of  water  which 
surroonds  the  land,  penetrates  into 
every    large    portion    of    it,    sup- 

eiesthe  mdsture  without  which  all 
ie  must  rapidly  perish,  and  forms 
the  great  means  of  intercourse,  with- 
out which  one-hfdf  of  the  globe 
would  be  ignorant  of  the  existence  of 
the  other. 

In  the  ocean,  we  have  the  complete 
contrast  to  the  land,  the  whole 
giving  an  extraordfatary  evidence  of 
that  extreme  diversity  of  means, 
which  the  Creator  wills  to  exer- 
cise for  every  purpose  of  his  crea- 
tion. The  land  is  all  variety,  the 
ocean  is  a  plain  of  millions  of  square 
miles.  The  laad  never  moves,  the 
ocean  is  in  perpetoal  movement. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  land,  all  ani- 
mal life  dies ;  the  ocean  is  inhabited 
through  a  griMt  portion  of  its  deptii, 
and  perhaps  through  its  whole  depth. 
The  temperature  of  the  land  is  as 
varying  as  its  surfoce;  the  temperature 
of  the  ocean  is  conined  within  a  few 
degrees.  The  temperature  of  the 
earth  appears  to  increase  with  the 
depth  to  which  man  ccndescend;  the 


temperature  of  the  ocean,  at  a  certain 
depth,  seems  always  the  same. 

Even  in  that  relation  to  beauty  and 
grandeur,  which  evidentlv  forms  a 
part  of  the  providental  oesign,  the 
sources  of  enjoyment  to  the  human 
eye,  in  the  land  and  the  ocean,  are 
strikingly  different.  On  land,  the 
sublime  and  the  beau^hl  depend  on 
variety  of  form— the  mountahi  shoot- 
ing to  the  skies,  the  valley  deepening 
beneath  the  eye,  the  rush  of  the  cata- 
ract, the  sharp  and  lofty  precipice,  the 
broad  majesty  of  the  river,  the  rich 
and  coloured  culture  of  the  distant 
landscape.  In  the  ocean,  the  sublime 
arises  from  total  uiUformity.  An 
unbroken  surfkce,  stretching  round,  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  gaze,  forms  the 
grandeur ;  the  clouds  and  colours  of 
the  sky,  reflected  on  its  surface,  form 
the  beauty.  Even  when  the  pheno- 
mena are  most  simOar,  the  effect  Id 
different :  the  sunset  of  land  and  sea 
are  equally  magnificent ;  but  the  sun- 
set on  land  is  lovelier,  ih>m  its  inlaying 
of  gold  and  purple  light  on  the  diver- 
sities of  hill  and  valley,  forest  and 
field:  at  sea,  it  is  merely  one  gorgeous 
blaze — splendour  on  cloud  above  and 
wave  below.  But  moonfight  at  sea  is 
lovelier  than  on  land.  Beautif\il  as  it  is, 
even  on  the  imperfect  outlines  of  trees 
and  hills,  a  large  portion  of  the  lustre 
is  broken  and  lost  by  the  obstacles 
and  varieties  of  the  landscape.  But 
at  sea  there  is  no  obstruction ;  its 
lustre  fUls  on  a  mighty  mirror;  all 
around  is  light,  all  above  is  majesty : 
the  absence  of  all  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  life  deepens  the  sense  of  calm  ad* 
miration,  and  the  imprestion  almost 
amounts  to  a  feeling  (^  the  holy. 

The  ocean  covers  three-fourths  of 
the  globe,  yet  even  this  enormous  ex- 
tent has  not  been  sufilcient  for  the 
providential  object  of  human  inter- 
course. The  Divine  expedient  was  the 
formation  of  inland  seas.  Nothing 
in  the  distribution  of  land  and  sea  is 
more  remarkabte,  than  the  superi<nr 
magnitude  of  the  world  of  waters  to 
the  world  of  land,  in  a  globe  whose 
chi^  purpose  was  evidentlv  the  sup- 
port of  mui.  The  Faefflc  alone  is 
larger  than  all  tiieland.  From  the  west 
coast  of  America,  to  theeastem  coastof 
Africa,  spreads  one  sheet  of  water— a 
traverse  ofsixteen  thousand  miles.  The 
valley  of  the  Atlantio  has  a  breadth 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ia49.] 


J6hmtofC$  Fkyskdl  Geography. 


of  five  thonsaiid  mOes,  while  its  length 
reaches  from  pole  to  pole — ^its  sarmce 
is  an  area  of  more  than  twenty  mil- 
lions of  square  miles. 

Yet,  it  is  perfectly  possible  that 
this  proportion  was  once  of  a  differ* 
ent  order.  As  we  know  nothing  of 
the  antedilavian  world  bat  b^  the 
Mosaic  histonr,  and  as  that  history 
has  not  revealed  the  origmal  boun- 
daries of  the  land  and  sea^  no  positive 
condn^on  can  be  obtained.  Yet, 
from  the  deposits  of  marine  products 
in  the  existing  soil,  it  has  been 
conclusively  coiyectured,  that  the 
land  has  been  once  the  bed  of 
the  ocean,  while  the  present  bed  of 
the  ocean  has  been  the  land.  The 
almost  total  absence  of  the  human 
skeleton  among  fossils,  and  some  <dd 
and  dim  traditions  of  a  continent 
submerged,  who^o  the  waters  of  the 
Atlantic  now  roU,  may  add  to  the 
conjectura  The  ^be  then  would 
have  afforded  room  for  a  population 
threefdd  that  which  it  is  now  destined 
to  contain.  If  it  is  now  capable  of 
supporting  sisteea  times  its  present 
number,  as  has  been  calculated,  it 
would  then  have  been  equal  to  the 
sustenance  of  little  less  than  fifty 
thousand  millions.  Yet,  what  would 
be  even  that  space  to  the  magnitude 
of  Jupiter;  or  that  number  to  the 
beings  of  flesh  and  blood,  however 
differing  from  man^  whidi  may  at  this 
moment,  in  that  most  magnificent 
^aneL  be  eiyoying  the  bounty  of 
Providence,  and  replmushing  a  curcnm- 
ference  of  two  hundred  and  forty 
thousand  miles  I 

Uniform  as  the  ocean  is,  it  is  a  vast 
theatre  of  contrivances.  To  prevent 
the  impuri^  which  must  arise  from 
the  decay  of  the  millions  of  fish,  and 
peihi^  of  quadruped  and  reptile  life, 
constantly  qying  in  its  depths,— it  is 
saline.  To  prevent  the  stagnation  of 
its  waters,  which  would  remforoe  the 
corruption,  it  is  constantly  impelled 
by  currenta,  hf  tjie  trade-wina,  and 
l^  the  universal  tide.  Attheequator 
the  tide  moves  with  a  rapidity  which 
would  shatter  the  continoita ;  but  it 
is  met  by  shallows^  by  ridges  of  rook, 
and  by  ishuids;  a  vast  system  of 
natural  breakwaters  which  modify 
its  force,  and  reduce  it  to  an  impulse 
coDMiatible  with  safety. 

1^  water  of  the  sea  retains  its 


411 

fluidify  down  to  four  degrees  below 
thefreezingpointof  fresh  water;  the 
object  is,  porhMM,  the  preservation  of 
the  millions  of  animated  bemg  con- 
tained in  the  waters ;  but  as,  in 
the  tropic  latitudes,  its  exposure  to 
the  sun  might  engender  disease,  or 
create  tempests,  vast  refrigerato- 
ries are  provided  at  both  the  poles, 
which  are  constantly  sending  down 
huge  masses  of  ice  to  cool  the  ocean. 
Some  of  those  floating  masses  are 
from  ten  to  twelve  mBes  long,  and 
a  hundred  fbet  high  above  the  water, 
with  probably  three  hundred  feet  below. 
They  have  been  met  with  two  thou- 
sand mUes  on  their  way  to  the  equa- 
tor, and  have  sensibly  cooled  the  sea 
for  fifty  miles  round,  until  they  wholly 
dissolved.  Of  course,  on  subjects  of 
this  order,  human  observation  can  do 
little  more  than  note  the  principal 
effects — the  rest  can  be  only  probable 
conjecture.  It  may  be,  that  human 
sagacity  has  never  ascertahied  the 
hundredth  part  of  the  purposes  of  any 
one  of  the  great  agents  of  nature. 
Still,  it  is  the  business  of  science  to  in-* 
quire,  as  it  is  the  dictate  of  experience 
to  acknowledge,  that  every  addition  to 
discovery  gives  only  additional  proof 
of  the  sleepless  vigilance,  boundless 
resources,  and  practical  benevoknce  of 
the  great  Ruler  of  all. 

The  variety  of  uses  derived  from  a 
single  principle  is  a  constant,  and  a 
most  adminu^e,  characteristic  of  na- 
ture. The  primuy  purpose  of  the 
ocean  is  probably,  to  siq^ply  the  land 
with  the  moisture  necessary  to  pro-* 
duction*  But,  the  collateral  effects  of 
the  mighty  reservoir  are  feh  in  results 
of  the  first  importaooe,  yet  of  a  wholly 
distinct  order.  Ttie  ooeaa  refreshes 
the  atmosphere,  to  a  certain  degree 
renews  its  motion,  and  obviously  ex- 
erts a  powerful  iu;iBn<^  in  preventing 
alike  excessive  heat  and  exeesi^ve 
cold.  The  tides,  which  prevent  its 
stagnation— a  stagnation  ivriiich  would 
cover  the  earth  with  pestilence— also 
largdy  assist  navigation  in  the  estuar- 
ies4nthek>wer  parts  of  the  great  rivers, 
andinallapproaohestothe  shore.  The 
curroits,  aportion  of  this  great  agency, 
(still  perhaps  to  give  us  new  sources  of 
wonder,)fulfilat  least  thetripleoffioe  of 
agitiUingthe  massofocean,  of  speeding 
navigai^,  and  of  equaU^hig  or  soUu 
enhig  tlie  tenq[mratuie  of  w 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Johnston's  Pkj^siad  Qeoffraph^. 


412 

aUmgwhiohihe^  pass,  in  all  directions. 
They  aeem  equivalent  to  the  system  of 
bigh-roads  and  cross  roads  in  a  great 
country.  It  had  been  said  of  riyers, 
that  ^^  thev  are  roads  which  travel ;" 
bat  their  difficnlty  is,  that  they  travel 
only  one  wi^.  The  cnnents  of  the 
ocean  obviate  the  difficolty,  by  trav^- 
linff  all  ways.  And,  perhaps,  we  may 
look  ibrward  to  a»time  when,  by  the 
command  .of  wind  and  wave  given  by 
the  steamboat,  and  by  our  increased 
knowledge  of  *^  ocean  topography,"  if 
we  may  use  the  phrase ;  a  ship  may 
make  its  way  across  the  ocean  without 
ever  being  out  of  a  current;  a  result 
which  would  be  obviously  a  most 
important  accession,  if  not  to  the 
speed,  at  least  to  the  security  of 
navigation. 

Those  ocean  traversers  evidently 
belong  to  a  system.  Some  are  perma- 
nent, some  are  periodical,  and  some 
are  casual.  The  permanent  wise 
chiefly  ftom  the  effect  of  the  flow  from 
the  poles  to  the  equator.  Descend- 
ing from  the  poles  in  the  first  in- 
stance, th^  pour  north  and  south. 
They  gradually  feel  the  earth's  rota- 
tion ;  but  on  their  arrival  at  the  tro- 
pics, being  still  inferior  in  velocity  to 
the  equatorial  sea,  they  seem  to  roll 
backwards;  in  other  words,  they  form 
a  current  from  east  to  west.  This 
current  is  farther  impelled  by  the 
trade-winds. 

The  progress  of  this  great  perpetual 
current  includes  almost  every  part  of 
the  ocean.  In  going  westward,  it  ne- 
cessarily rushes  against  the  coast  of 
America,  whero  it  divides  into  two 
vast  branches,  one  running  south  with 
great  force,  and  the  other  north-west. 
A  succession  of  currents,  all  connect- 
ed, obviously  form  a  ^^movinff  power" 
to  prevent  the  stagnation  of  the  ocean, 
and,  by  their  branches,  visit  every 
shore  of  the  ^be. 

Some  of  those  currents  are  of  great 
breadth,  but  they  generally  move  slow. 
Humboldt  calculates  that  a  boat,  car- 
ried onhf  by  the  current  from  the 
Canaries  to  Caraocas,  would  take 
ihirtem  months  for  the  voyage.  Still 
there  would  be  obvious  advantages  to 
navigationin  moving  along  a  district  of 
ocean  in  which  all  the  speed,  such  as 
it  was,  farthered  the  movement  of  tiie 
vessel,  and  which  offered  none  of  the 
common  sources  of  hbidranoe. 


[April. 


But  aaotiier  carious  effioot  of  the 
Atlantic  currents  is  to  be  commem»- 
rated,  as  giving  us  probably  the 
first  knowledge  of  the  western  woricL 
^^  Two  corpses,  the  features  of  wfaidi 
indieated  a  raee  of  unknown  men. 
were  thrown  on  the  coast  of  the  Az- 
ores, towards  the  end  of  the  fif« 
teenth  century.  Neariy  at  the  same 
paiod  the  brother-in-law  of  Cdmn- 
bus,  Pedro  C<»rrea,  govermMr  of  Porto 
Santo,  found  on  the  strand  of  the 
island  pieces  of  bamboo  of  an  extra- 
ordinary size,  brought  thither  by  the 
western  currents." 

Those  coincidences  might  have  con- 
firmed the  idea  of  the  great  navigator. 
But  Columbus  still  deserves  all  the 
A  thousand  conjectures  naay 
formed,  and  a  thonsand  confir- 
mati<ms  given,  and  yet  all  be  lost  to 
theworid.  The  true  discoverer  is  the 
man  of  practice.  Columbus  was  Aat 
man ;  and  we  are  to  remember  also 
his  indefrutigable  labour  in  realising 
that  practice,  the  unexhausted  resoln* 
tion  with  whicfahestmggledagainst  the 
penmy  and  neg^t  of  the  Continental 
courts,  his  noUe  scorn  of  the  sneers 
of  European  Igncmmce,  and  the  heroie 
patience  with  which  he  sustained  the 
murmuring  of  his  crews,  and  asked 
^*  but  one  day  more."  The  world  has 
never  seen  a  man  more  equal  to  his 
great  purpose;  if  he  was  not  a  direct 
instrument  appointed  to  the  noblest 
discovery  of  man. 

But  those  evidences  of  connexion 
are  not  unfrequently  given  to  our 
more  observant  time.  *^  When  tiie 
wind  has  been  long  frtHn  the  west,  a 
branch  of  the  Gkilf  Stream  runs  with 
considerable  force  in  a  north-easteriy 
direction  towards  the  coasts  of  Europe. 
By  this  the  frruit  of  trees  belonging  to 
the  tCHTid  zone  of  America  is  anmmlly 
cast  ashore  on  the  western  coasts  of 
Ireland  and  Norway.  Pennant  ob- 
serves, that  the  seeds  of  plants  which 
crow  in  Jamaica,  Cuba,  and  the  ad- 
^M^ent  countries,  are  collected  on  the 
shores  of  the  Hebrides.  Thither  also 
barrds  of  French  wine,  the  remains 
of  vessels  wrecked  intiie  West  Indian 
seas,  have  be^  carried.  In  1809, 
H.M.S.  Little  Belt  was  dismasted  at 
Halifax,  NovaSootia,  andherbowq;»rit 
was  found,  eighteen  months  after,  in 
the  Basque  Roads.  The  mahimast  of 
thelilbuiy,  burned  off  Hispaniola,  in 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Jokn$tam*$  Physical  Otogrd^hjf, 


the  SeveD  Yean*  War,  was  brooght  to 
our  shores. 

^'  To  the  Golf  Stream,  En^^d  and 
Irelaad  are  partially  indebted  for  the 
mildnees  of  their  G&mate.  The  pre- 
yaUing  winds  are  the  south-west. 
Coining  oyer  a  vast  space  of  the 
comparatiyely  heated  ocean,  it  is  cal- 
colated,  that  if  those  winds  were  so 
constant  as  to  brine  ns  all  the  heat 
which  th^  are  capi£le  of  conyeyinff, 
they  would  raise  the  column  of  tar 
oyer  Great  Britain  and  France,  in 
winter,  at  once  to  the  temperature  of 
summer.'* 

But  interesting  as  it  might  be  thus 
to  range  through  the  great  phenomena 
of  the  globe,  and  demonstrate  its 
abundant  and  astonishing  adaptation 
to  the  purposes  of  Hying  existence, 
our  more  immediate  oli^t  is  to  mark 
to  the  reader  the  materials  of  this 
noble  yolume. 

The  especial  sdences  of  which  it 
treats  are,  geology,  hydroffnH[>hy,  me- 
teorology, and  natural  lustory,  with 
their  seyeral  subdiyisions :  the  whole 
deliyered  in  the  most  inteUigible  fbrm 
of  modem  knowledge,  and  with  the 
Ihllest  information  acquired  by  mo- 
dem research;  and  illustrated  by 
maps,  the  skill  of  whose  execution 
can  haye  been  equalled  only  by  the 
labour  of  their  formation. 

The  yolume  commences  with  the 
geological  structure  of  the  globe  in  all 
its  branches,  and  with  separate  ar- 
ticles giyen  to  the  mountain  chains  of 
Asia,  AfHca,  Europe,  and  America, 
all  illustrated  by  maps :  then  Mow 
the  gladers  and  glacial  phenomena, 
with  maps;  then  the  phenomena 
of  the  yolcanoes  and  yolcanic  re- 
gions, deyeloped  by  charts  and  de- 
scriptions,—this  department  closing 
with  that  most  curious,  most  dis- 
puted, and  still  most  obscure  of  all 
subjects,  the  Paleontology  of  the 
British  Isles. 

The  8ec<md  ^yision— hydrography, 
commences  with  charts  of  the  ocean, 
and  with  charts  of  those  wondrous, 
and  still  comparatiyely  obscure,  agen- 
cies, the  eleyen  currents  which  in  tersect 
it  in  all  quarters.  Then  follow  charts 
of  the  Pacific  and  Indian  Oceans,  now 
forming  such  new  and  interesting  ob- 
jects to  the  nayiffator  and  the  philan- 
thropist. We  then  haye  maps  of  the 
tides  and  riyer  systems. 


418 

The  Indian  Ocean,  now  scarcely 
more  than  beginning  to  be  the  subject 
ofscientificinqniry,willprobaMyas8ist 
ns  effectiyely  in  the  discoyeries  of 
those  most  important  agents,  the 
winds.  The  monsoon  and  the  typhoon 
of  those  seas  exhibit  characters  ap- 
parentiy  almost  exclnsiye.  To  ascer- 
tain their  general  direction,  and  their 
especial  limits,  must  be  a  great  boon 
to  the  commerce  which  is  now  direct- 
ing itself,  with  such  renewed  yiffour, 
to  those  temptuig  regions.  The  Sights 
which  haye  been  thrown  on  the  use  of 
the  barometer,  and  on  the  rise  and  direc- 
tion of  the  West  Indian  storms,  haye 
already  giyen  a  species  of  guidance  to 
this  imi^ant  inyestigation ;  and  if 
the  theory  of  the  hurricane  can  neyer 
render  its  power  harmlew,  it  may,  at 
least,  make  human  precaution  moreyi- 
gilant,  and,  of  course,  more  succeesfhl. 

Those  inyestigations  are  naturally 
followed  by  the  third  great  diyision 
ofthe  work— meteorology.  Theyalue 
of  exact  obseryations  on  wind  and 
weather  must  haye  been  folt  from  the 
beginning  of  the  worid ;  but,  until  om* 
day,  it  was  littie  more  than  the  Bcience 
of  the  shepherd,  who  foretold  a  high 
wind  or  a  shower,  generally  when  both 
had  ahready  come.  The  barometer  and 
thermometer,  though  both  well  known, 
andboth  admirable,  had  done  but  little 
for  a  science,  which,  without  exact- 
ness of  practice  and  connexion  of 
causes,  is  nothing. 

Humboldt,  by  his  attempt  to  trace 
lines  of  temperature  on  the  map  of  the 
globe,  first  nUsed  those  scattered  con- 
ceptions into  the  shape  of  a  science. 
Tet  Humboldt  was  not  the  original 
inyentor  of  the  inquiry  into  the  mean 
temperatures.  Meyer  of  Gotthngen 
ftrst  threw  the  obseryations  on  this 
important  and  eyasiye  subject  into 
the  well-known  formula,  which  made 
the  temperature  depend  on  tiie  square 
of  the  coehie  of  the  latitude.  Playfieur 
followed,  by  including  in  his  formula 
the  eleyation  of  the  place  and  the 
season.  The  object  of  Humboldt  was, 
to  determine,  by  a  series  of  curyes  on 
the  earth*s  surfoce, the  points  atwhich— 
howeyer  the  temperature  differed  from 
time  to  time— the  ayerage  annually 
was  the  same.  On  this  important 
subject  we  are  now  frumished  with  a 
map  of  striking  detail  and  execution. 

The  late  magnetic  researches  pur* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


JoJmsUnC$  I^ij^sicai  GeogreqJ^. 


4U 

sued  round  the  globe  maj,  at  no  remote 
.  period,  establish  a  connexion  between 
the  revolation  of  the  magnetic  poles 
and  the  isothermal  lines,  as  had  been 
long  ^ce  conjectured.  Bat,  as  practi* 
cal  science  advances,  we  shall  probably 
see  all  the  great  agencies  of  natnre 
combined, — if  not  all  shown  to  be  but 
the  modifications  of  one. 

The  Hyetographic  or  rain  chart 
of  this  volume  gives  a  most  complete 
and  minute  detail  of  a  most  important 
sulnect.  It  exhibits  the  rains  of  the 
globe,  in  their  constant  gradation  from 
the  equator  to  the  pole,  in  their  in- 
fluence on  the  seasons,  and  in  their 
degreed  ft-om  the  plains  to  the  summit 
of  the  hUls.  A  map  is  added,  on  the 
polarisation  of  the  atmosphere— almost 
a  new  science — with  an  explanatory 
article  by  Sir  David  Brewster. 

Thejfourth  division  is  Natural  His^ 
tory ;  itself  divided  into  Phytology, 
Zoology,  and  Ethnography.  This 
division  abounds  in  maps,  and  in  these 
departments  they  are  obviously  of  the 
most  necessary  use.  In  the  descrip- 
tion of  plants  and  animals,  the  pencil 
must  speak,  the  tongue  loses  its 
faculty;  a  sketch,  executed  at  the 
moment,  will  give  a  fuller  explana- 
tion than  any  dexterity  or  copious- 
ness of  language  can.  We  accordingly 
have  here  charts  of  all  the  geogra- 
phical positions  of  the  plants  im- 
portant to  the  food  of  man,  and  of 
the  geographical  distribution  of  plants 
on  the  surface  of  the  globe. 

The  Zoological  charts  give  the  re- 
gions, the  habitats,  and  the  characters 
of  all  the  diversities  of  animal  life  on 
the  land— from  the  mammalia  to  the 
birds  and  reptiles. 

The  Ethnographical  portion,  or  view 
of  the  general  position  and  races  of 
the  European  nations,  commences 
with  a  fine  map,  by  Kombst,  ex- 
hibiting a  view  of  all  its  varieties, 
with  reference  to  birth,  language, 
religion,  and  forms  of  government. 
Having  thus  glanced  at  tne  scientific 
contents  of  this  noble  volume,  we 
propjose  to  dve  some  sketches  of  those 
portions  of  the  globe  which,  within 
the  last  half  century,  have  become 
the  refuge  or  the  property  of  the  emi- 
gration from  the  British  shores. 

Aostralia,  the  Jifth  continent,  is 
nearly  as  large  as  Europe.  Divided 
by  the  tropic,  it  is  capable  of  produc- 


CAfuff, 


Ing  the  chief  plants  of  both  the  tem- 
perate and  the  tropical  zones.  Ita 
principal  geolo^^ical  feature  la  a  moun- 
tain chain,  which,  extending  throvgfa 
its  whole  length  on  its  eastern  coast, 
runs  on  the  north  into  New  Golnea, 
and  on  the  south  into  Van  Diemea'a 
Land.  From  its  immense  size,  (two 
thousand  fonr  hondred  miles  from 
east  to  west,  and  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  firom  north  to  sonth,)  and 
from  the  savage  state  of  ita  native 
population,  the  exact  nature  of  ita 
central  portion  is  yet  only  to  be  con- 
jectured. But  conjecture  haa  been 
busy ;  and  by  some  it  Is  held,  that 
the  centre  is  a  Mediteiranean,  firom 
the  direction  of  some  of  the  rivers ; 
by  others,  that  it  is  a  huge  Sahara, 
from  the  hot  winds  which  often  blow 
towards  the  coast.  But  two  late  ex- 
peditions, sent  from  Sydney,  have 
passed,  without  difiiculty,  the  one  as 
far  as  Torres  Strait,  and  the  other 
almost  to  the  head  of  the  Gulf  of  Car- 
pentaria. It  is  true,  that  neither  of 
those  was  towards  the  centre;  bnt 
they  had  the  wiser  practical  object, 
of  ascertaining  the  nature  of  the 
country  most  important  to  the  British 
sattler — that  great  tract  lying  between 
the  mountains  of  the  east  coast  and 
the  sea.  And  that  country  they  found 
to  be  fair  and  fertile,  temperate  and 
easily  accessible.  The  whole  expedition 
of  Colonel  Mitchel,  the  surveyor-ge- 
neral, has  almost  the  air  of  romance. 
He  describes  the  country,  in  the  latter 
half  of  his  advance  to  the  north,  as 
not  only  of  remarkable  richness,  bnt 
of  singularly  picturesque  beauty ;  the 
latter  a  quality  of  the  most  unusual 
order  in  Austndia.  To  the  customary 
complaint  of  want  of  water  in  the  in- 
terior. Colonel  Mitchel  answers,  that 
Austialia,  to  remedy  this  defect,  wants 
nothing  but  labour ;  that  it  has  rivers 
which  supply  water  hi  the  rainy  sea- 
son sufficient  for  the  use  of  the  year ; 
that  the  fbrmation  of  the  land  every- 
where suggests  the  idea  of  vast 
reservoirs ;  and  that  man  has  only  to 
complete  what  natnre  has  begun.  The 
British  settlements  in  the  south  and 
west  will  probably  soon  biing  these 
resources  into  action. 

Large  deposits  of  minerals  are 
already  begmning  to  bring  wealth  to 
the  settlers.  Coal  has  been  found.  The 
tide  of  emigration  which  some  yeara 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1W9.] 


Ji^miUnCs  Phfsioal  Q^gr<q>hy. 


■Ago  was  cheeked,  has  suddenly  flowed 
with  increased  force  to  Australia;  and 
theyigoorof  the  English  character, 
the  only  character  in  the  world  capable 
of  effectire  colonisation,  has  already 
made  Sidney  a  fionrishlng  metropolis, 
and  befbre  another  centnry  (amoment 
In  the  life  of  nations)  will  exhibit  to 
Europe  an  English  empire  at  the  an- 
tipodes! And  this  is  the  history  of  a 
land  wMch,  though  coasted  by  the  cele- 
brated Cook  in  1770,  was  never  trod 
V  a  colonist  till  nearly  twenty  years 
after.  This  wonder  has  been  wrought 
within  the  lifetime  of  one  generation. 
Van  Diemen's  Land  affords  a  striking 
evidence  of  the  variety  in  which  nature 
seems  to  delight.  It  forms  a  contrast 
in  everything  to  its  huge  neighbour: 
it  is  small,  it  is  a  mass  of  mountains, 
it  is  well  watered,  it  is  r^y,  it  is 
agricultural,  and  it  abounds  in  fine 
harbours.  On  the  whole,  it  bears  the 
same  relation  to  Australia  which 
Ireland  might  bear  to  England,  if 
England  were  united  to  the  Continent. 
It  is  also  about  the  size  of  Ireland — 
Tan  Diemen^s  Land  containing  nearly 
twenty-eight  thousand  square  miles, 
Ireland  perhaps  thirty  thousand. 

In  Europe,  the  continent  is  richer 
than  the  islands;  at  the  antipodes, 
the  islands  arc  richer  than  the  conti- 
nent. New  Zealand,  the  last  colony 
of  England,  promises  to  be  one  of  the 
noblest  of  the  British  possessions. 
It  may  either  be  regarded  as  one 
island,  fifteen  hundred  miles  long,  eras 
three,  divided  by  boisterous  channels, 
and  lashed  everywhere  by  a  roaring 
ocean.  It  has  remarkable  advantages 
for  colonisation — a  fertile  soil,  bound- 
less forests,  beds  of  minerals,  and  pic- 
turesque beauty.  The  mountains  in 
its  interior  have  all  the  grandeur 
of  the  Alps,  with  more  than  their 
forest  clothinff,  and  (more  pictur- 
e.sque  than  all)  with  the  volcano, 
which  is  wanting  to  the  supremacy  of 
the  Alps.  It  has  table-lands  for  the 
agriculturist,  sites  on  a  luxuriant 
coast  for  cities,  fine  harbours  for  com- 
merce, copious  rivers  for  communica- 
tion, and  mountains  of  from  twelve  to 
fourteen  thousand  feet  high,  to  irrigate 
the  soil,  and  supply  the  heated  re^Jons 
with  the  luxury  of  perpetual  ice.  The 
climate  seems  to  be  healthy ;  and  the 
country,  by  its  boldness,  storms,  varv- 
ing  temperature,  and    even  by  the 

VOL.  LXV.— KO.  CCCCII. 


416 

roughness  of  the  billows  which  toss  for 
ever  on  its  shore,  appears  destined  for 
the  school  of  Englishmen  and  Eng- 
lish constitutions. 

To  the  north  of  Australia,  and 
almost  within  sight— another  vast  and 
lovely  reckon,  and  another  contrast  to 
the  great  continent — ^lies  New  Gruinea, 
fourteen  hundred  miles  long,  and  two 
hundred  broad.  Its  appearance  from  the 
sea  is  magnificent — an  immense  undu- 
lation of  luxuriance  covering  the  coasts, 
and  rising  up  the  sides  of  mountain 
ranges  lomer  than  Mont  Blanc.  But 
the  tropical  excess  of  vegetation  may 
render  it  dangerous  to  European  life : 
at  all  events,  it  will  be  only  wisdom 
to  people  Australia  before  we  in- 
trude on  the  naked  foresters,  imd  do 
battle  agunst  the  more  fatal  enemy, 
the  swamps  of  New  Guinea. 

Borneo,  which  has  so  lately  become 
an  object  of  English  interest,  by  the 
settlement  of  Sir  James  Brooke,  is 
also  a  large  and  noble  island ;  it  has 
the  bold  mountam  interior,  the  table- 
lands, the  rivers,  and  the  harbours, 
which  belong  to  New  Guinea.  The 
English  settlement,  and  thepresenceof 
British  ships,  may  introduce  such  im- 
perfect civilisation  as  the  Oriented 
savage  can  ever  receive ;  piracy  may  be 
partially  put  down,  and  even  honesty 
may  be  partially  introduced.  But  there 
is  this  great  drawback  to  the  success  of 
English  colonisation— that  the  land  is 
already  peopled,  and  that  the  stranffcrs 
are  more  likely  to  fall  into  the  indolent 
habits  and  luxurious  vices  of  the 
native,  than  the  native  ever  to  rise  to 
the  manly  habits  of  the  Englishman. 

The  Indian  Archipelago  is  almost 
a  new  world  to  the  European.  Though 
known  to  the  Dutch  soon  after  the 
decay  of  that  empire  which  the  Por- 
tuguese secured  by  the  discoveries  of 
de  Gama,  ^and  occasionally  touched 
upon  by  English  commerce,  it  had 
been  almost  forgotten  among  the 
stirring  scenes  in  which  Europe  was 
involved  in  the  last  three  centuries. 
Our  conquests  in  Hindostan,  our  pos- 
session of  Ceylon,  the  capture  of  the 
Dutch  colonies  in  the  French  war, 
and,  later  stUl,  our  establishment  at 
Singapore,  and  the  opening  of  China, 
have  turned  the  eyes  of  England  to 
those  exuberant  countries;  and  we 
shall  now  probably  reunite  them  to 
the  world  of  Europe. 

2d 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


416 


Jolmakm^  PhffdDd  Geo^npky^ 


[April, 


Bat  W6  moBt  h(^  that,  beyond 
commeroe,  and  the  commimicatioii  of 
the  comferte  and  ifltelligenoe  of  Bug- 
lish  life,  our  ambitioa  wiU  not  ex- 
tend. Those  climates  are  generallj 
haaardons  to  Enix^taan  liM;  they 
are  not  leae  hasardons  to  the  manli- 
neas  and  vigoor  of  Enffliah  habita,  and 
even  to  the  force  of  we  English  char 
racter.  It  has  been  said  that,  if  the 
first  generation  of  col<nists  an  Eng- 
lish to  the  grave,  the  second  are 
Indian  from  the  cradle.  They  con- 
tract the  lassitude  of  the  tropics ;  they 
become  inca{>able  of  effort :  dissipation 
is  the  natml  resonroe  of  opulent 
idleness ;  they  linger  tSirongh  li^  from 
exoote  to  exoess ;  and,  unless  a  re- 
volution of  the  hardier  native  drives 
them  out*  or  an  emimtion  of  their 
hardier  oountfymen  keeps  them  in, 
the  colony  sinks  into  tiie  groond. 

The  new  impulse  reserved  I6r  oor 
oontury  is  Colonisation.  Always  exist- 
ing, even  from  the  earliest  ages  of 
mankind,  it  had  hitherto  s<»roelv 
deserved  the  name.  The  French 
colonisation  of  Canada  had  not  ad- 
vanoed,  in  a  centnry,  beyond  the  nook 
whore  they  first  nestled  themselves, 
and  where  the  most  absurd  of  all 
policies— -thatof  allowing  tiiem  to  plaoe 
their  language  on  a  footing  with  the 
manlier  tongue  of  their  conquerors — 
has  perpetuated  them  as  a  sepacate 
race,  with  all  their  absurdities,  all  theur 
pr^udioes,  and  even  with  aU  their 
hostility  to  the  British  name.  The 
Spanish  cctonisation  of  South  Ame- 
rica amounted  to  scarcely  more  than 
settling  the  descendants  of  the  Spanish 
garrisons,  of  the  Spanish  refugees,  and 
of  the  attendants  on  the  viceroys. 

The  01^  true  colonic  were  the 
English  of  North  America;  who,'  for 
a  hundred  yeare,  poured  a  leeble 
stream  towards  the  prairies  of  the 
Mississippi,  recmited  and  stained  by 
the  va^bondage  of  Europe.  But  no 
great  impulse  of  national  neoessity 

give  denth  and  force  to  the  current, 
ut  within  these  two  years  a  more 
powerfhl  ImproMion  has  been  made 
by  neoessK^r.  The  Irish  £Mnine  of 
1846,  and  the  following  year,  drove 
multitudes  to  seek  for  bread  on  the 
shores  of  America.  Some  hundred 
thousands  probity  have  left  Europe 
"  *  *  '  'or  ever,  and  are  now  delving 
^.uttingin  the  forests  of  the 


we^tem  would.  A  German  eodgra- 
tion,  thon^  of  a  more  tardy  order, 
has  Hi^owed,  from  a  pressure,  if  not  of 
direct  famine,  yet  of  difficulty.  And 
witlun  the  last  year  a  powerfU  im- 
pulse has  been  akK)  made  m  the  dtrect- 
tion  of  Australia,  of  all  countries  the 
one  which  offers  &e  frdrest  prospect 
for  the  Englishman.  The  sneeess  of 
these  emigrations  win  nataraUy  tend 
to  continue  the  outpourings  of  Eirc^e. 
Tlie  emigrsnts,  once  setttod  snd  sne- 
oessful,  will  encourage  the  movement 
of  tibose  whom  they  have  left  behmd, 
as  much  embarrassed  as  they  them- 
selves originaUy  were;  and  toe  com- 
forts willed  oome  into  tiie  possession 
of  industry,  in  a  land  of  cneap  {mr- 
chase— nnbmrthened  with  taxes,  and 
nnbnrthened  witii  the  still  heavier 
taxes  which  tiie  yanitiBS  of  old  coun- 
tries lay  on  the  myriads  of  middle  life 
— must  form  a  strong  temptation,  or 
racier  a  raticmal  inducement,  to  seek 
independence  at  the  antq)edes. 

But  the  sudden  discovery  of  the 
Califomian  gold-coontry  has  given  a 
still  m{ure  determined  urgoicy  to  emi- 
l^vtion.  That  a  vast  tenitory,  which, 
if  we  an  to  rely  cm  the  repcsts  of  its 
labourers,  is  a  sheet  of  gold,  idiould 
hanre  lain  for  three  hundred  yean  in 
the  hands  of  the  Spaniards,  wholly 
unknown  to  a  pei^  always  hungry 
for  gold,  is  among  the  wonders  whidk 
sometimes  strike  across  us  in  the  his- 
tory of  nations.  But  its  immediate 
effect  IS,  unquestionably,  to  aid  the 
j^eneral  tendency.  It  is  already  draw- 
ing thousands  from  eveir  part  of  the 
world  towards  Califomk.  Columns 
of  men,  followed  by  then*  trains  of 
oxen  and  wains  of  merohandisf,  are 
already  pouring  overovenr  track  of  the 
West  In  a  few  years,  the  desert  will 
probably  be  filled  with  population ;  and 
when  the  mines  are  exhausted,  or 
taken  into  the  possession  of  the  gov- 
ernment, the  more  valuable  mine  will 
remain,  in  the  existence  of  a  new  na- 
tion, in  the  commerce  of  the  Pacific,  > 
and  in  the  richness  of  a  soil  unploughed 
since  the  Deluge.  "^ 

The  effiect  of  this  emigrftticm,  fdr 
the  moment,  is  obviously  to  assist  the 
reception  c^  the  multitudes  from 
Europe.  It  is  thinning  the  popula- 
tion of  the  United  States,  carrying  off 
the  labourers,  and  turning  eveiy  un- 
occupied ey«  in  the  dhpectloiioftha 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


IB^.l 


fohmtmCe  Jiynbo/  Otogr^jphf. 


w«Bt.  Tbe  drudgery  of  Irelaiid,  the 
skiliad  labour  of  EogUiid,  md  the 
•  ptteit  aad  net  nniiiteUigeiit  toil  of 
OenBM^,  irfll  daOy  find  the  mert 
more  op^ ;  and  thus  eren  tin  manis 
of  gold-digging  will  have  its  effeet  on 
the  sdber  welfare  of  numkind. 

But  a  still  more  important  effect, 
tiiOQgh  more  remote,  nuij  follow  ftom 
the  Califbmian  minei.  The  ode- 
brated  Bnrke,  sixty  jean  ago,  pre- 
dieted  that  the  new  popnlation  on 
theplains  of  the  MIstisaippi  would  ex- 
tingol^  tiie  power,  if  not  ^e  exkt- 
ettee,of  thedtkaoBthecoast,  and  that 
when  those  ^'  Engiidh  TartatB,"*  aa  he 
imaginatlyely  described  them,  once 
poomL  down  on  the  New  Torks, 
Bostons,  and  Philadelphias,  tiiey 
would  torn  then  into  warehooses, 
and  tiieir  sites  into  watering-fdaces. 
They  woold  hare  foMIUed  his  prophecy 
loDg  since,  bat  for  tlie  bonndiess  ex- 
panse of  territorjrwUcfa  lay  behind  this 
*«  Tartar**  legion.  Theh-  discontents 
eraporatedhitotiiewfidemess;  thepro- 
vindalwho  looked  with  a  jealovseye  on 
the  man  of  cities,  fond  It  easier  to  tra- 
Tel  than  to  make  war ;  and  he  forthwith 
set  np  a  state  for  himself  in  tiie  bound- 
less prairie.  A  Ca^omian  republic 
may  erect  a  foimidafole  balance  to  the 
domination  ofthe<M  States.  Wash- 
ington wiH  no  longer  be  the  capital  of 
America,  and  tbe  nortii  of  the  Kew 
World  may  yeft  hare  a  strcmger  re- 
semblance to  Europe— 'With  its  great 
kingdoms,  its  little  princes,  and  its 
commerdaldties-^than  tfaeanomalous 
government  of  the  Stripes  and  Stan. 

But  ^  noMest  of  ul  the  projects 
which  haye  vnx  excited  the  curiosity 
of  tiie  world  is  still  to  be  eonsnmma* 
ted— the  communication  between  the 
Atlantic  imd  the  Padic  —  a  canal 
across  the  IstiBnus  of  Darien.  That 
Isthmw  is  but  twenty  mfles  broad, 
but  a  passage  across  it  would  shorten 
the  Toyage  to  China,  perhaps  to  six 
weeks,  instead  of  four  months ;  anni- 
hilate the  perils  of  tiM  nsTigation 
round  South  America,  and  bring 
Europe  into  n^id  contact  with  Aus- 
tralia, India,  and  tbe  unexplored  glo- 
ries and  exhaustless  opulence  of  the 
finest  archipelago  in  tiie  ocean. 

The  project  Is  so  natural  that  it  had 
been  a  huncbred  times  conceiTed;  but 
the  perpetual  wars  of  Europe,  the 
nngry  Jealousy  of  Spain,  and,  in  later 


417 

years,  the  disturi>ance8  of  the  native 
governments,  have  whdly  obstructed 
tin  mightiest  benefit  ever  oflfered  to 
tiie  progress  of  dvilisatEon.  Hie  en- 
terprise of  tiie  Americans  had  not 
oreriooked  Itis  key  to  botii  hemi- 
i^iheres,  and,  some  yean  since,  aoom- 
paet  was  entered  mto  with  a  company 
headed  by  tiie  American  Biddle.  But 
ft  was  snflfored  to  die  awi^ ;  otiier 
contracts  succeeded,  equally  abortiye, 
the  goyemmeot  on  the  spot  demand- 
faig  terms  of  such  exorbita&ce  tiiat  it 
was  impoadble  to  carry  the  work  into 
execution.  With  the  usual  short- 
sightedness of  the  foreigner,  they  had 
placed  an  their  profit  on  tin  rent  and 
toUs  of  the  canal,  fooKsliiy  forgetting 
that  tiielr  retd  profit  was  to  be  fooad 
in  the  wealth  which  the  intercourse 
of  all  nations  must  bring  into  tiiehr 
oountry. 

Two  projects  are  now  said  to  be 
under  condderation — a  rafiroad,  which 
would  be  exdasivdy  for  the  benefit  of 
tiie  Americans;  and  a  eanal  capable  of 
carrying  large  yesaeh  across  the  Isth- 
mus, and  w&ch  would  be  op^  to  all 
nations.  There  can  be  no  question  aa 
to  the  superior  benefits  of  tbe  latter  to 


Of  tlie  five  routes,  four  are  esposed 
to  obstacles  arising  from  eleration  of 
ground,  (tiie  track  to  Panama  rises  a 
tiioosand  foot,)  from  insalubrity,  and 
from  other  drcumstenoes  of  the  soil 
and  the  locality.  The  fifth,  by  the 
river  of  Kicaragna,  evidently  deserves 
the  preforence.  It  lies  tiirongh  a  fine 
river,  reaching  firom  the  Atlimtic  to  a 
central  lake,  and  thence  descaids 
through  a  second  river  to  the  Pacific. 
The  whole  distanoe  would  be  but  two 
hundred  and  seventy-eight  miles, 
whidi  would  require  locks  and  other 
works,  (the  liyers  bdng  at  iatervals 
interrupted  by  rapids,)  but  this  por- 
tion would  amount  to  but  d|^-two 
miles.  The  lake-sailing  womd  be  a 
hundred  and  twenly-five  miles.  The 
whde  enense,  estimating  it  at  the 
prices  of  Emx^e,  wcmld  be  less  than 
four  milHoDS  sterHng.  Sangidne  cal- 
oalatorB  value  the  profits  at  twdve 
p^  cent.  But  whatever  mi^t  be  the 
smalfaMfls  of  the  dividends  in  the  first 
instance,  there  can  be  no  imagfamble 
doubt  that,  with  foir  deaMng  on  the 
part  of  the  local  govennnent,  the  Isth- 
mus would  soon  be  worth  all  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


JohnsUnCs  Physical  Gtogrcqfihy. 


418 

mines  of  Pern,  with  all  the  gold- wash- 
ings of  Califonila  besides. 

The  next  great  enterprise  would  be 
the  jnnction  of  the  Mediterranean  and 
the  Ked  Sea,  by  a  passage  across  the 
Isthmus  of  Suez.  There  is  already  a 
road,  but  the  passage  is  slow  and  dif- 
ficult, from  the  heat,  the  soil,  and  the 
imperfect  conveyance.  Two  proposals 
faaye  been  long  since  made,  the  one 
for  a  Cfuial  and  the  other  for  a  railroad. 
To  the  canal  there  seem  to  be  insu- 
perable objections,  the  shallowness  of 
the  sea  at  Suez,  the  shifting  nature  of 
the  sands  on  the  way,  which  would 
soon  fill  up  the  canal,  and  the  difficulty 
of  water  for  its  supply.  It  has  been 
also  ascertained  by  thesuryey  ofthe 
French  engineers  that  the  Red  Sea 
is  about  thirty  feet  higher  than  the 
Mediterranean. 

The  raibx)ad  is  obviously  not  merely 
the  true  expedient,  but  the  only  one. 
But  it  is  almost  impossible  to  deal 
with  the  foreigner  on  any  subject  of 
prospective  profit.  The  habit  of 
living  but  for  the  day  deteriorates 
all  the  movements  of  national  pro- 
gress. Unless  he  can  grasp  his  profit 
at  once,  it  exists  no  longer  to  his  eye. 
With  the  man  of  the  East,  the  grasp 
is  eager  and  avaricious.  Mehemet 
AH  might  have  brought  millions 
of  wealtn  into  Egypt  by  a  raibt>adf 
while  he  was  wastmg  thousands  in 
paltry  contrivances  to  make  a  royal 
revenue  for  himself,  out  of  the  con- 
tendingbargains  of  English  and  French 
engineers.  The  result  is,  that  except 
a  miserable  canal  between  Alexandria 
and  the  Nile,  dry  half  the  year,  and 
scarcely  navigable  during  the  other 
half,  nothing  has  been  done ;  and  the 
journey  across  the  isthmus  occupies 
nearly  two  days,  gives  infinite  trouble, 
and  makes  money  only  for  donkey-boys 
and  tavern-keepers,  which,  bjr  a  rail- 
road, might  be  effected  luxuriously  in 
throe  hours. 

The  Ethnography  of  this  volume 
forms  the  material  of  a  treatise,  which 
might  itself  be  expanded  into  a  vo- 
lume. Some  years  ago  the  population 
of  the  globe  was  computed  at  860 
millions ;  but,  from  the  accelerated  ra- 
pidity of  increase,  year  by  year,  we 
Bhould  suppose  it  to  be  now  900  mil- 
lions :  ana  even  that,  a  number  which, 
"omc  great  human  catastrophe 
rive,  would  speedily  increase 


[Aprfl, 


to  1000  millions !  Tlie  laws  of  popn» 
lation  are  yet  imperfectly  compire*- 
bended ;  but,  like  all  the  other  great 
problems  of  nature,  they  are  g^ven  for 
our  inquiiy,  and  will  ultimately  ^dd 
toourinquirr. 

The  chie/^  obstacle  to  population 
is  evidently  neither  poverty,  nor 
general  discomfort  of  living,  nor 
inferiority  of  food.  Under  ail  these 
circumstances,  population  accumu- 
lates in  an  extraordinary  degree. 
The  population  of  Ireland  is  a  case  in 
point.  War  seems  to  exercise  but  a 
slight  check  on  population.  Barren- 
ness of  soil  must  nave  its  effect,  fbr 
where  men  cannot  eat,  they,  of  course, 
cannot  live ;  but  insecurity  of  property, 
implied  in  Irrannical  government, 
is  the  great  depopulator.  Hen  will 
not  labour,  where  they  cannot  be  cer^ 
tain  ofthe  fruits  of  their  labour ;  they 
sbk  into  lassitude,  indolence,  and 
beggary.  The  actual  power  of  Kfe  de- 
parts from  them,  and  they  either 
perish  by  the  first  pressure  of  famine, 
sink  under  the  first  attack  of  disease, 
or  emigrate,  to  make  the  experiment 
of  renewing  their  existence  in  a  freer 
soil.  But  the  subject  is  still  equdly 
obscure,  boundless,  and  interesthog. 

Till  withhx  these  few  years,  French 
and  German  scepticism,  always  hostSe 
to  the  Mosdc  revelation,  had  adopted 
the  opinion  that  the  races  of  maiudDd 
were  of  difilsrent  parentage,  and  thus 
that  the  scriptural  account  was  untrue. 
But  the  manlier  research  and  honester 
philosophy  of  Br  Pritchard,  and 
others,  in  this  country,  have  proved 
the  assertion  to  be  as  nnfiaithful  to 
facts,  as  the  argument  was  sophistical. 
Whatever  may  be  the  external  differ- 
ences in  the  five  great  races  of  the 
earth — the  Chrcassian,  the  Mongolian, 
the  Malayan,  the  Ethiopian,  and  the 
American — all  are  fully  capable  of 
being  accounted  for  by  the  accidents 
of  climate,  food,  temperature,  and  po- 
sition, while  the  internal  configuration 
of  all  is  the  same.  There  is  still  the 
more  convincing  similitude  in  their  fa- 
culties, affections,  intelligence,  pas- 
sions, and  language.  All  that  constitutes 
the  class  ^*  Mankmd**  is  the  same^  from 
the  mountaineer  of  Circassia,  the  finest, 
and  probably  the  original,  type  of  the 
human  form,  to  the  Esquimaux,  pro- 
bably the  most  degraded.  Even  evi- 
dences of  relationship  in  higher  thmga 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849,] 


JokmUnCs  Pky$ical  Geography, 


might  be  given.  All,  invarionsdegrees, 
acknowledge  a  Supreme  Baler  of 
«arth  and  hearen,  aomit  the  necessity 
of  worship,  retain  some  traditions  of 
paradise,  reco^pise  the  general  morals 
of  life,  have  impressions  of  Justice, 
iemperance,  and  truth,  however  often 
forgotten.  All  look  to  a  future  state 
of  being  I 

But  we  must  now  close  our  remarks 
on  the  volume,  which  Mr  Johnston 
has  thus  contributed  to  the  knowledge, 
and,  we  will  believe,  to  the  admiration 
of  his  time.  The  mere  circumstance 
of  its  appearing  under  the  auspices  of 
its  present  puUishers,  has  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  coloured  our  neces- 
sanly  rapid  and  cursory  criticism.  If 
we  had  round  the  volume  in  the  dust  of 
a  monkish  library,  we  should  have  pro- 
nounceditamasterly  performance;  u  we 
were  about  to  offer  a  gift  to  the  rising 
intelligence  of  our  affe,  thera  is  none 
which  we  should  offer  in  preference. 
So  ample,  so  definite,  and  yet  so 
comprehensive  are  the  stores  of  iil- 
formation  presented  by  this  admirable 
digest  of  physical  science— of  all  that 
we  know  regarding  the  structure  of  the 
great  globe  we  inhabit,  and  regarding 
whatever  lives  and  moves  on  its  sur- 
face, together  with  the  laws  that  regu- 
late the  whole — and,  at  the  same  time, 
soabsolutelvnecefearyis  that  infor- 
mation for  the  proper  culture  of  the 
mind,  that  we  must  confess  it  was 
with  a  sigh  of  regret,  while  turning 
aver  the  leaves  of  the  magnificent 
folio,  that  we  felt  that  such  a  work 
could  onlv  be  destined  for  the  wealthy 
and  for  the  privileged  class  who  have 
access  to  public  libraries,  but  that  it 
was  likely  to  remain  '^  a  book  sealed'* 
to  the  great  bnlk  of  general  inquirers. 
Onrfeiurs,  however^  on  this  subject, 
we  r^oice  to  be  informed,  are  ground- 
less;  and,  since   commencing    this 


419 

paper,  we  have  learned  that  a  reduced 
edition  is  on  the  eve  of  publication. 
As  was  also  to  have  been  desked,  this 
is  to  api>ear  in  a  serial  form,  so  as  to 
render  it  accessible  to  everv  class  of 
readers,  and  at  only  one-fifth  of  the 
original  cost. 

This  is  as  it  should.be.  To  the 
scholar,  to  the  student,  and  to  the 
already  large  yet  daily  increasing 
multitude  of  inquirers  who  cultivate 
natural  science,  the  Physical  Adas  ia 
a  treasure  of  incalculable  value.  It 
brings  before  the  mind's  eye,  in  one 
grand  panoramic  view,  and  in  a  form 
dear,  definite,  and  easily  comprehen* 
sible,  all  the  facts  at  present  known 
relative  to  the  great  subjects  of  which 
it  treats,  and  may  be  regarded  as  a 
lucid  epitome  of  a  thousand  scattered 
volumes,  more  or  less  intrinsically 
valuable,  of  which  it  contains  the 
heart  and  substance. 

From  this  time  henceforward  an 
acquaintance  with  physical  geography 
must  form  the  basis  of  educational 
knowledge,  and  on  no  basis  so  ade- 
quate can  the  superstructure  of  gene- 
nil  scholarship  be  reared.  History, 
without  such  an  acquirement  pre- 
viously made,  can  only  be  half  under- 
stood ;  and,  in  ignorance  of  it,  the 
works  of  creation  are,  at  best,  but  a 
maze  without  a  plan.  If  we  were 
called  on  to  give  proof  to  the  world  of 
the  combination  of  vigorous  diligence, 
manly  acquirement,  dear  reasoning, 
and  philosophical  conception  of  which 
the  British  mind  is  capable,  we  should 
\%j  on  the  table  this  noble  volume  of 
ALr  Johnston.  Indeed,  if  we  might 
hazard  a  prediction,  the  ftiture  is  not 
far  distant  when  such  a  work  must  be 
indispensably  requisite  to  every  edu- 
cational establishment,  and  be  found 
in  the  hands  of  every  scholar. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


420 


The  CmMtom^-^^wrt  XII. 


CAp* 


TBE  CAX10N6.—- »A»I  Xn. 


CHAFrEmtlX. 


The  Hegira  is  complete^t--we  hsfe 
all  taken  roost  in  the  old  tow«r»  My 
fiither^si  books  Itsve  aniyed  by  tm 
waggon,  and  have  settled  them- 
selves  quietly  ki  their  new  abode- 
filling  np  the  mrtment  dedicated  to 
theirewnery  hKladinffthe  bed-ebamber 
and  two  kHbMes.  The  dock  also  has 
arrived,  noder  wing  of  Mrs  PrimadBS, 
and  has  reeoodled  herself  to  the  c^ 
atewpond ;  by  the  sMe  of  which  my 
father  has  fovnd  a  walk  that  compen- 
sates for  the  peadi  wall^espedally  as 
he  has  made  aeqnaintanee  with  sm- 
dry  respectable  carps,  who  permit  him 
to  feed  them  after  he  has  M  the  dnek 
— a  privilege  of  which  (since,  if  any 
one  else  approaches,  the  carps  are  off 
in  an  uistaat)  mv  fiither  is  naturally 
Tain.  All  privikges  are  valnable  in 
pioportioB  to  the  exclosvenesB  of 
their  enjc^ment. 

Now,  mm  the  moment  the  first 
carp  had  eaten  the  bread  my  ftither 
threw  to  it,  Mr  Caxton  had  Ri«n- 
tally  resolved,  that  a  race  so  confid- 
ing Bhonld  never  be  sacrificed  to 
Ceres  and  Primmins.  But  all  the 
fishes  on  my  onde's  property  were 
nnder  the  ^Mcial  care  of  that  Protens 
Bolt— and  Bolt  was  not  a  man  likely 
to  suffer  the  carps  to  earn  their  bread 
without  contributing  theh*  full  share 
to  the  wants  of  the  community.  But, 
like  master,  like  man  I  Bdt  was  an 
aristocrat  fit  to  be  hung  h  h  kmteme, 
Heout-B<4anded  Roland  in  the  respect 
be  entertained  for  sounding  names 
and  oM  families;  and  by  that  bait 
my  father  caught  hhn  with  such  skill 
that  yon  might  see  that,  if  Austin 
Caxton  had  been  an  angler  of  fishes, 
he  could  have  filled  his  basket  fall  any 
day,  shine  or  rain. 

"You  observe,  Bolt,"  said  my 
father,  beginning  artfully,  "  that 
those  fishes,  dull  as  you  may  think 
them,  are  creatures  capable  of  a 
syllogism  ;  and  if  they  saw  that,  in 
proportion  to  their  civility  to  me,  they 
were  depopulated  by  you,  they  would 
put  two  and  two  together,  and  renounce 
my  acquaintance." 

^  Is  that  what  you  call  being  silly 


Jens,  sirt*'  said  Bolt;  ''Mlk,  there 
is  many  a  good  Chiistian  not  kira# 
wise!" 

""Man/'amnreredmyMhertiiaveht- 
ftdly,  ^  IS  an  animal  leas  synogMoid, 
or  mart  sitty-Jemnlcal  than  masy 
ereatms  popularly  esteemed  his  infe- 
riors. Yes,  let  bm  one  of  those  Cyprf- 
nidsB,with  hiBfinesense<tflogie,seeniat^ 
if  his  fellow<*fishes  eat  bread,  they  are 
suddenly  ierfced  out  of  tiieir  elem«rt, 
and  vaidsih  for  ever;  and  thoogh  you 
broke  a  quartern  loaf  into  crmbe, 
he  would  sai^  his  tail  at  ye«  with 
enlightened  contempt.  If,"*  said  ay 
£eUher  soliloquising,  ^I  had  been  aa 
syllogistie  as  those  scaly  togieiatts,  I 
should  nerver  have  swallowed  that 
hook,  whidi— hum !  there  foast  said 
soonest  mended.  But,  Mr  Boit,  to 
return  to  the  Cyprinidje." 

*'  What's  the  hard  name  you  call 
them  'ere  carp,  your  honour  ?"  asked 
Bolt. 

^*  Cyprinids&,  a  llMBily  of  the  section 
Malacoptergii  Abdominales,"  replied 
Mr  Caxton ;  ^^  thehrteeth  are  gencamlly 
confined  to  the  Pharyngeans,  and 
their  braachiostegous  rays  are  but 
few^Huarks  of  distinction  from  fishea 
vulgar  and  voracious." 

''Sir,"  said  Boh,  glancing  to  the 
stewpond,  ''  if  I  had  known  they  had 
been  a  family  of  sueh  importance,  I 
am  sure  I  should  have  treated  them 
with  more  respect." 

''They  areaveryotdfamily,Bolt,  and 
have  been  settled  in  England  since  the 
fourteenth  century.  A  younger  braaeh 
of  the  family  has  estaUished  itself  in  a 
pond  m  the  gardens  of  Peterhoff,  (tho 
celebrated  palace  of  Peter  the  Great, 
Bolt— an  emperor  highlv  respected  by 
my  brother,  for  he  killed  a  great  many 
people  very  gloriously  in  oattle,  be- 
sides those  whom  he  sabred  for  his 
own  private  amusement.)  And  there 
is  an  officer  or  servant  of  the  impe- 
rial household,  whose  task  it  is  to 
summon  those  Russian  Cyprinidse 
to  dinner  by  ringing  a  bell, 
shortly  after  which,  you  may  see  the 
emperor  and  empress,  with  all  their 
waiting  ladies  and  gentlemen,  coming 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


iBm.2 


Tie  CwttonB.'^Tmi  XR. 


iSi 


down  in  tiidr  ciRiages  to  iee  tie 
C jprinito  eat  in  state.  So  yon  per- 
ceive, Bolt»  that  it  wonld  be  a  repnb- 
licaa,  Jacobinieal  proceeding  to  stew 
xnemben  of  a  fMnilj  so  intimatdy 
aaaodated  with  royalty." 

'' Dear  HM,  idr  1 "  said  Belt, '' I  am 
▼ery  f^  yon  told  me.  I  oac^  to 
liaye  known  they  were  gentecA  fish, 
tiiev  are  so  mii^  8hy--ae  all  yonr 
leai  qnality  are." 

My  lazier  amUed,  and  robbed  his 
bands  gently;  he  had  earned  his 
point,  and  henceforth  the  CyrnrinidsB 
of  the  seetkm  Mala»q|>ter«i  iJbdom* 
inales  were  as  sacred  in  Bolf  s  eyee 
as  cats  and  ichnenmons  were  in  those 
of  a  priest  in  Thebes. 

My  poor  father !  with  what  true 
and  mnostentatioiis  philosophy  then 
didst  acconmodate  th^rself  to  the 
greatest  change  thy  qiiet,  harmless 
lifia  had  known,  since  it  had  passed 
€«t  of  the  brief  bnming  cycle  of  the 
passioBB.  Lostwas  the  hoBieyendeared 
to  thee  by  so  many  noiseless  victories  of 
the  mind — so  many  mnte  histories  of 
theheart— foronly  the  scholar knoweth 
how  deep  a  charm  lies  in  monotony, 
in  the  old  associations,  the  old  ways, 
and  habitual  clockwork  of  peaeefiil 
time.  Yet,  the  home  may  be  replaced 
— thy  heart  built  iU  home  round  it 
eyerywhere — and  the  old  tower  might 
Bnp]dy  the  loss  of  the  brick  hoose,  and 
the  walk  by  the  duck-pond  become  as 
dear  as  the  haunts  by  the  sunny  p^uih 
walL  But  what  shall  r^;>laee  to  thee 
the  bright  dream  of  thme  innocent 
ambition, — that  angel- wing  which  had 
glittered  across  thy  manhood,  in  the 
hour  between  its  noon  and  its  setting? 
What  replace  to  thee  the  Magnum 
Opus — the  Great  Book? — fair  and 
]ut>adspreading  treo-4one  amidst  the 
sameness  of  the  landscape — now 
plucked  up  by  the  roots  I  The  oxygen 
was  subtracted  from  the  air  of  thy  Ufe. 
For  be  it  known  to  ye,  O  my  compass- 
ionate readers,  that  with  the  death 
of  the  Anti-Publisher  Society  the 
Mood-streams  of  the  Great  Book  stood 
still— its  pulse  was  arrested— 4ts  full 
heart  beat  no  more.  Three  thousand 
copies  of  the  first  seven  sheets  in 
%narto,  with  sundry  unfinished  plates, 
anatomical,  architectural,  and  gra« 
phic,  depicting  various  developments 
of  the  human  skull,  (that  temple  of 
Human  Error),  from  the  Hottentot  to 


tiie    Ckreek :    riietches    of   ancient 
bufldfaigSv  Cydepean  and  Fda^ ; 
Pyramids,  and  Pur-tors,  aQ  signs  of  * 
races  whose  haadwritbhr  was  on  their 
walls;  landscapes  to  msufim^  the  in- 
flnence  of  Nature  upon  the  cnstoms, 
creedst  and  philosophy  of  men— here 
aiming  how  the  broad   Chaldean 
wastes  led  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
stars,  and  Ulnstetions  of  the  Zodiac, 
in  elucidation  of  the  mysteries  of  sym- 
bol-worsbip;    fantastic  vagaries   of 
earth  fresh  from  the  Ddnge,  tendrug 
to  imprees  on  early  supmtition  the 
awfrd  sense  of  the    ruoe  powers  of 
nature ;  views  of  the  rocky  defiles  of 
Laconia;  Sparta,  neighboured  by  the 
"silent  Amyclffi,"  ex|dianing,  as  it 
were,  geognq>hically,  the  uron  customs 
of  the  warrior  o^ny,  (arch  Tories, 
amidst  the  shift  and  roar  of  Hellenic 
democracies,)  contrasted  by  the  seas, 
and  coasts,  and  creeks  of  Athens  and 
Ionia,  tempting  to  adventure,  com- 
merce, and  change.    Tea,  my  father, 
in  his  suggestions  to  the  artist  of 
thosefew  imperfect  plates,  had  thrown 
as  much  light  on  the  inftuu^  of  earth 
audits  tribes  as  by  the  "  shimngwords" 
that   flowed   from   his  calm  starry 
knowledge  1    Plates  and  copies,  all 
rested  now  in  peace  and  dust — '*  housed 
with  da^ness  and  with  death"  on  the 
sepnlcfaral  shelves  of  the  kbby  to 
which  they  were  consigned— rays  in- 
tercepted—worids  incompleted.  The 
Prometheus  was  bound,  and  the  fire 
he  had  stolen  from  heaven  lay  eoi^ 
bedded  in  the  flints  of  his  rode.    For 
so  costly  was  the  moMd  in  which 
Undo  Jackand  Oie  Anti-Publisher  So- 
ciety had  contrived  to  cast  this  Expo- 
sitionof  Human  Error,  thateverybook- 
seller  shyed  at  its  vary  sight,  as  an 
owl  blinks  at  daylight,  or  human  error 
at  truth.    In  vain  Squills  and  I,  be- 
fore  we  left  London,  had   carried 
a  gigantic  q>ectmen  of  the  Magnum 
Opus    into    the    back  -  parlours   of 
flrms   the    most    opulent  and    ad- 
venturous.      Publisher    after  pub- 
lisher started,   as  if  we  had  held  a 
blnnderbnsB  to  his  ear.    All  Pater- 
noster Row  uttered  a  "Lord  deliver 
us."    Human  Error  found  no  man  so 
egregioasly  its  victhn  as  to  complete 
those  two  quartos,  with  the  pro^[>ect 
of  two  others,  at  his  own  expense. 
Now,  I  had  earnestly  hoped  that  my 
father,  for  the  sake  of  mankind,  would 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


422 


The  C(UBtw$.^Pttrt  XIL 


[April, 


be  persuaded  to  ride  some  portion, 
^und  that,  I  owq,  not  a  small  one— 
of  his  remaining  capital  on  the  conclu- 
sion of  an  undertaking  so  elaborately 
begun.  But  there  my  father  was  ob- 
durate. No  big  words  about  man- 
kind, and  the  advantage  to  unborn 
generations,  could  stir  bim  an  inch. 
''  Stuff  r'  said  Mr  Caxton  peevishly. 
^*A  man's  duties  to  mankind  luid 
posterity  begin  with  his  own  son ;  and 
having  wasted  half  your  patrimony,  I 
will  not  take  another  huge  slice  out  of 
the  poor  remainder  to  gratify  my  va- 
nity, for  that  is  the  plain  truth  of  it. 
Man  must  atone  for  sin  by  expiation. 
By  the  book  I  have  sinned,  and  the 
book  must  expiate  it.  File  the  ^eets 
up  in  the  loU)y,  so  that  at  least  one 
man  may  be  wiser  and  humbler  by  the*- 
sight  of  Human  Error,  every  time  he 
walks  by  so  stupendous  a  monument 
of  it." 

Verily,  I  know  not  how  my  father 
could  bear  to  look  at  those  dumb  frag-< 
menta  of  himself— sti*ata  of  the  Cax- 
tonian  conformation  lying  layer  upon 
layer,  as  if  packed  up  and  disposed  for 
the  inquisitive  genius  of  some  moral 


Mmxdilson  or  Mantell.  But,  Smt  aa^ 
part,  I  never  ^anoed  at  tketr  repoaa 
in  the  dark  lobby,  without  thinki]|g« 
*^  Courage,  Pisistratus,  courage ! 
there's  something  worth  living  for; 
work  hard,  grow  rich,  and  the  Great 
Book  shall  come  out  at  last." 

Meanwhile,  I  wandered  over  the 
country,  and  made  acquaintance  with 
the  farmers,  and  with  Trevanion's 
steward— an  able  man,  and  a  great 
a^cnltnrist — and  I  learned  from  them 
a  better  notion  of  the  nature  of  my 
uncle's  domains.  Those  domains  co- 
vered an  immense  acreage,  which,  save 
a  small  farm,  was  of  no  valne  at  pre- 
sent. But  land  of  the  same  kind  had 
been  lately  redeemed  by  a  simple  kind 
of  draining,  now  weU  known  in  Cum- 
beriand;  and  with  capital,  Roland's 
barren  moors  might  become  a  noble 
proper^.  But  capital,  where  was 
that  to  come  from?  Nature  gives  ua 
all  exc^t  the  means  to  turn  her  into 
marketable  account.  As  oldPlautaa 
saith  so  wittily,  **  Day,  night,  water, 
sun,  and  moon,  are  to  be  hieid  gratis ; 
for  everything  else — down  with  your 
dustr 


OBAetER  LX. 


Nothing  has  been  heard  of  Unde 
Jack.  When  we  moved  to  the  tower, 
the  Captain  gave  him  an  invitation'-* 
more,  1  suspect,  oat  of  compliment  to 
my  mother  than  from  the  unUdden 
impulse  of  his  own  indinations*  Bvt 
Mr  IBbets  politdy  declined  it. 
During  his  stay  at  the  briok  house, 
he  had  received  and  written  a  vast 
nnmbOT  of  letters  —  some  of  those 
he  received,  indeed,  were  left  at 
the  village  post-office,  under  the 
alphabetical  addresses  of  A  B  or 
X  Y.  For  no  mlsfortane  ever  para- 
lysed the  energies  of  Uncle  Jack.  In 
the  winter  of  advetaity  he  vanished, 
It  is  true,  but  even  in  vanishing  he 
vegetated  stfll.  He  resembled  wose 
al0iiB^  termed  the  Proheoeau  mvo&i, 
wliidi  give  a  rose^oohyur  to  the  Polar 
snows  that  conceal  them,  and  flouiiab 
unsuspected  amidst thegeaeral  ^tootn>* 
tionofNatore.  Uncle  Jack,  tiien,  was 
at  lively  and  sanguine  as  ever-»«thougfa 
he  began  to  let  Mrague  hhits  of  in- 
tentions  to  abandon  the  general -eanae 
of  his  Mlow  creatores,  and  to  set  up 
bnsincAa  henceforth  pQss\j  on  his  own 


account ;  wherewith  my  ladier — to 
the  great  shock  of  my  belief  in 
his  philanthropy— ^expressed  himself 
much  f^ased.  And  I  strong^  sns-' 
peot  thatv  when  Uncle  Jack  wrapped 
himsdf  up  in  his  new  double  Saxony, 
and  went  off  at  kst,  he  carried  with 
him  something  more  than  my  faflier'a 
good  wishes  in  aid  of  his  conversion 
to  egotistical  philosophy. 

^^That  man  will  do  yet,"  said  my 
father,  as  the  last  glimpse  was  caught 
of  Uncle  Jack  standing  up  on  the. 
stage-cotoh  box,  beside  the  driver— 
partly  to  wave  his  hand  to  ns  as  we 
stood  at  the  gate,  and  partly  to  amly 
himself  more  commodionaly  in  a  box 
coat,  with  six  eapes,  which  the  coach** 
man  had  lent  Mm. 

*^Do  yon  think  so,  sir!"  said  I, 
doobtfuUy.    ''Mkylaskwhy?*' 

Ma  Oaxton.— On  the  cat  prin- 
ciple—tiiat  he  tumbles  so  lightly* 
Ton  may  throw  him  down  from  fit 
Paul's,  and  the  next  time' you  see  him 
he  will  be  ecrambling  a^top  of  the 
Monument. 

PittSTRAxus.-^But  a  cat  the  most 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S49.] 


The  Caxtans.-^Part  Xlt. 


423 


Tlpariovs  is  limited  to  nine  liyes — 
^nd  XJnde  Jack  most  be  now  far  gone 
in  bis  eighth. 

Mb  Caxton  —  (noi  heedmg  that 
otnswer^foT  he  ha$  got  his  hand  m  hu 
uH9i9icoai.y— The  earth,  according  to 
Apaleins,  in  his  lYeatise  on  the  PhUo- 
sophy  ofi%ito,waspTodacedfh>mright- 
angled  triangles;  bat  fire  and  air  from 
the    scalene  triangle— the  angles  of 
which,  Ineed  not  say,  are  vei^difRurent 
from  those  of  a  right-angled  triangle. 
Now  I  think  there  are  people  in  the 
world  of  whom  one  can  only  judge 
lightly  according  to   those   mathe- 
matical  principles   applied  to  their 
original  constmction ;    for,  if  air  or 
fire  predominates  in  onr  natnres,  we 
are  scalene  triangles ; — ^if  earth,  right- 
angled.    Now,  as  abr  is  so  notably 
manifested  in  Jack's  conformation, 
he  is,  nolens  voUns^  prodaoed  in  con- 
formity with  his  preponderating  ele- 
ment.    He    is    a   scalene  triangle, 
and   mnst   be  jadged,    accordingly, 
npon  irregolar,  lop-sided  principles ; 
whereas  yon   and  I,  commonplace 
mortals,  are  produced,  like  the  earth, 
which    is    onr   preponderating   ele- 
ment, with  our  triangles  all  right- 
angled,  comfortable,  and  complete— 
for  which  blessing  let  ns  thank  Provi- 
dence, and  be  charitable  to  those 
who  are  necessarily  windy  and  gase- 
008^  from  that  mtlncky  scalene  tri- 
angle npon  which  they  have  had  the 
misfortune  to   be   constructed,  and 
which,  you  peroeiye,  is  quite  at  vart- 
ance  ¥dth  the  mathematical  constitu-* 
tion  of  tiie  earth  1 

PisiSTRATUs. — Sh*,  I  am  very  happy 
to  hear  so  simple,  easy,  and  intdligiMe 
an  explanation  of  Uncle  Jack^  pecu- 
liarities ;  and  I  only  hope  thiut,  for 
the  future,  the  sides  of  his  scalene 
triangle  may  never  be  prodneed  to 
our  reetangnfaur  conformations. 

Ma  CAXfOK— {descending  from  hk 
stilts,  untk  an  air  msmUdlg  r^^roaek* 
fid  as  if  I  had  been  oavdting  mt  the 
virtues  of  SocratesX-^Yoa  don'l  do 
yoturnncle  justice,  Pisislratus:  he  is  a 
very  clever  man ;  and  I  am  sure  that, 
in  spite  of  his  scalene  misfortune,  he 
would  be  an  honest  one->-that  is, 
(added  Mr  Caxten,  oorreotfaig  him- 
sdf,)  not  ronMBtically  or  heroically 
honest— but  honest  at  men  go— <if  he 
could  but  keep  his  head  long  enonffh 
above  water;  but,  you  see,  when  tne 


best  man  in  the  world  is  engaged  in 
the  process  of  sinking,  he  catches  hold 
of  whatever  comes  in  his  way^  and 
drowns  the  very  Mend  that  is  swim- 
ming to  save  him. 

PisisTRATus. — Perfectly  true,  sir; 
but  Uncle  Jack  makes  it  his  business 
to  be  aiways  sinking  I 

Mr  Caxtok — {with  naUvei^,) — ^And 
how  could  it  be  otherwise,  when  he 
has  been  carrying  all  his  fellow 
creatures  in  his  breeches*  pockets! 
Now  he  has  got  rid  of  that  dead 
weight,  I  should  not  be  suiprised  if 
he  swam  like  a  cork. 

PisiSTRATUS — (who^  sincs  the  Anti- 
Cc^alisi,  has  become  a  strong  Anti' 
Jaehian.) — But  if,  sir,  you  really 
think  Uncle  Jack's  love  for  his  fellow- 
creatures  is  genuine,  that  is  surely 
not  the  worst  part  of  him  I 

Mr  Caxtok.  —  O  literal  ratio- 
cinator,  and  dull  to  the  true  logic  of 
Attic  irony,  cant  yon  comprehend 
that  an  affection  maybe  genuine  as 
felt  by  the  man,  yet  its  nature  be 
spurious  in  relation  to  others.     A 
man  may  genuinely  bdieve  he  loves 
his  fellow  creatures,  iriien  he  roasts 
them  like  Torquemada,  or  guillotines 
them  like  St  Just  I     Happily  Jack's 
scalene  triangle,  being  more  produced 
from  air  than  from  fire,  does  not  give 
to  his  philanthropy  the  inflammatory 
character  which    distinguishes    the 
benevolence  of  inquisitors  and  revo- 
lutionists.   The  philanthropy,  there- 
fore, takes  a  more  flatulent  and  inno- 
cent form,  and  expends  its  strength 
in  mounting  paper  balloons,  out  of 
which  Jack  pitches  himself,  with  all 
the  fellow  creatures  he  can  eoax  into 
sailing  with  him.    No  doubt  Uncle 
Jack's  philanthropy  is  sincere,  when 
he  cuts  the  string  and  soars  up  out  of 
sight ;  but  the  sincerity  will  not  much 
mend  their  bruises  when  himself  and 
feBow  creatures  oome  tumbling  down, 
neck  and  heeb.    lit  mnst  be  a  verv 
wide  heart  that  can  ta 
kind— and  of  >  a  very  s 
bear  so  much  stretching 
there  are.  Heaven  be 
aU  praiae  to  them  1    J 
thatqnality.    He  is  as 
He  is  not  a  oirde  I    i 
woidd  but  let  it  rest 
heart— a  very  good  hei 
my  father,  wannmg  in( 
quite  infkntine,  aU  thii 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


434 


TU  QKrt0m.^Pmt  XU. 


[April, 


^Poor  JadLl  liuitirM  prettily  Mid  of 
hii»— ^Xkit  if  he  wore  %  dog,  and 
he  had  mo  home  b<^  a  dog-kanael, 
hewMldtmoiittogiTeme  the  beet 
ofthestrawP    Poor  brother  JadiT* 


60  the  dJBCTBtiwi  was 

iwhUe,  Uade 


5^ 


aad,  hi  the 

like  the  short-faced  gentleaia  im  the 

hj  a  pretand  ailcMse.** 


CBAFTER  LXI. 


Blanche  haa  contrired  to  associate 
hersdtff  if  sot  with  siy  nore  actire 
diTersioBs— in  nmniag  OTer  the  conn- 
try,  and  making  friends  with  the 
farmers — still  in  all  my  more  leianrely 
and  domestic  pnrsnits.  There  is  aibont 
her  a  silent  charm  that  it  is  veiy  hard 
to  define — but  it  seems  to  arise  Aom 
a  kind  of  innate  sympathy  with  the 
moods  and  hnmonrs  of  those  she  lores. 
If  one  is  gay,  there  is  a  eheerfnl  ring 
in  her  silver  langh  that  seems  glad- 
ness itself;  if  one  is  sad,  and  creeps 
away  into  a  c(»Ber  to  bnry  one's  head 
in  one's  hands,  and  muse— by-rad-by 
— and  jnst  at  the  right  moment — 
when  one  has  rnnsed  one's  fill,  and 
the  heart  wants  something  to  refresh 
and  restore  it,  one  fe^  two  innocent 
arms  ronnd  one's  neck — ^looks  op — and 
lo !  Blanche's  soft  eyes,  Adl  of  wistftil 
compassionate  kindness;  thon^  she 
has  the  tact  not  to  question — it  is 
enongfa  for  her  to  sorrow  with  yonr 
sorrow — she  cares  not  to  know  more. 
A  strange  child  1— fearless,  and  yet 
seemingfy^  i<md  of  things  that  inspire 
children  with  fear—fond  of  tales  of 
fky,  sprite,  and  ghost— which  Mrs 
Primmitts  draws  fresh  and  new  from 
her  memory,  as  a  conjuror  draws  pan- 
cakes hot  and  hot  fh>m  a  hat.  And 
Set  so  sure  is  Blanche  of  her  own 
mocence,  that  they  never  tronUe  htt 
dreams  in  her  lone  little  room,  fnll  of 
calfginoQs  comers  and  nooks,  with 
the  winds  moaning  roond  the  desolate 
ndns,  and  the  casements  rattling 
hoarse  in  the  dongeon-like  wall.  She 
wonld  have  no  dread  to  walk  through 
the  ghostly  keep  in  the  dark,  or  cross 
the  churchyard,  what  time, 

"  Bj  the   moon^i  doubtful   and  malinuunt 
ligfct/' 

the  grave-stones  look  so  spectral,  and 
the  shade  from  the  yew-trees  lies  so 
still  on  the  sward.  When  the  brows 
of  Roland  are  gloomiest,  and  the  com- 
pression of  his  lips  makes  sorrow  Uk^ 


stemasl,  be  sve  that  ISkuiOm  s 
coached  at  his  iset,  waiting  the  la- 
ment when,  with  some  leafy  si^  tiie 
mnsdes  r^ix,  and  she  ia  sore  of  the 
smile  if  she  dimbe  \»  his  knee.  It  m 
pretty  to  chance  on  her  lading  iq> 
broken  tnrret  stairs,  or  stsa&Dglnidied 
in  the  recess  of  sluittered  wiaiewiess 
easements,  and  you  wonder  what 
thoughts  of  vague  awe  and  noJfmii 
jdearare  eaa  be  at  work  under  that 
still  little  brow. 

She  haa  a  quidc  cottprehenaion  of 
all  that  is  tanglit  to  her;  she  already 
tasks  to  the  fhn  my  mother's  educa- 
tional arts.  My  father  has  had  \x> 
rummage  his  library  for  books,  to  feed 
(or  extinguish)  her  desire  for  ^^  far- 
ther infoimatioB ;"  and  has  promised 
lessons  ia  French  and  Italian — at 
some  golden  time  in  the  shadowy 
»«►  By-and-By,"— winch  are  recdved 
so  gratefully  that  one  migfat  think 
Blanche  mistook  Tekmuqm  and  Ab- 
jfdk  Morak  for  baby-houses  and  dolkk 
Heaven  send  her  throu^  French  and 
Italian  with  better  success  tium  at- 
tended Mr  Oaxton's  lessons  ia  Greek 
to  Pisistratus!  She  has  an  ear  for 
music,  which  my  mother,  wlio  is  no 
bad  judge,  deckres  to  be  esqaiaite. 
LiKskily  there  is  an  old  Italian  settled 
in  a  town  ten  miles  ofi",  who  is  said  to 
be  an  excellent  nrasic  mastor,  aad 
who  comes  the  round  of  the  neigh- 
bouring squirearchy  twice  a-we^  I 
have  taught  her  to  draw — an  aecom- 
plishmeut  in  whidi  I  am  not  without 
skill — and  she  has  already  taken  a 
sketch  from  nature,  whidi,  barring 
the  perspective,  is  not  so  amiss; 
indeed,  she  has  caught  the  notion  of 
♦idealising"  (which  promises  future 
(»riginality)  from  her  own  natural  in- 
stincts, and  given  to  the  old  wydt- 
elm,  that  han^  over  the  stream,  just 
the  bough  that  it  wanted  to  dip  into 
the  water,  and  soflen  off  the  hard 
lines.  My  only  fear  is,  that  Kancho 
shoukd    becoBie    too    dreamy    and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S4».J 


TJkOuiom.^'-DartXn. 


435 


tbcmgMM.    Paif  AM,  ate  kw  ae 

c«e  to|^i7witlir  SoIlookMl,«Dd 
get  her  a  dof^-fiririEj  and  j^oig,  wbo 
aOihcfB  •MtBttfjoccapatioaB^a  ap*- 
ttiel,  anon  md  coal-blacfc,  with  ean 
sweepiag  the  grovnd,  I  lM|»tiae  liim 
**  Juba,^'  in  hononrof  Addfeoa'a  Cato^ 
and  in  coaaldanitioa  of  his  aal^  earls 
andMaaiicaiilaacoiaplczioa.  iHaadia 
doea  not  aeaa  ao  eerie  aid  elf-like, 
wlrile  ^Hi^  tkioogh  the  rniaa,  when 
Jnba  Mriu  hf  her  aUe,  aad  aeares 
the  birds  froH  the  117. 

One  da^^  I  bad  beea  padsf  to  and 
fro  the  bdl,  whicb  was  oeaerted;  and 
theaightof  theamewraod  partn^ta 
— dmDb  eyicteneea  of  tba  aetive  aad 
•dventaraaa  li?«a  of  tba  eU  iababi- 
tania,  wbieh  seened  to  reprove  my 
owninaetiyeobacBi^y — badaetmeoff 
on  oae  ef  tboee  Pegaa^an  bobbies  on 
wbicb  yoiitb  moanU  to  the  akiea— 
deliverbig  Btaidensoa  roeka,  and  kill- 
ing Gorsona  aiidmooaten'--wheaJaba 
bonnded  in,  and  Blaaebe  ^eame  alter 
bim,  ber  atraw  bat  in  ber  band. 

Blajxcbm, — I  tbooght  joa  were 
here,  Siatj :  maj  I  stay  9 

PiafevBATim.— Why,  my  dearth^, 
the  day  is  so  fine,  that  inatead  of 
loein|^  it  in-docnv,  yon  oaght  to  be 
rtinnmg  in  the  ii^dswith  Juba« 

JuBiA. — Bow^— wow ! 

:^juicHn.— Will  yon  eome  too? 
If  Sisty  ataya  in,  Blaaebe  dees  not  care 
for  the  batterfliee  I 

Pieiatratiia,  aeeing  that  the  thread  of 
bis  day-dreana  is  broken,  conaenta 
with  an  air  of  realgnation.  Joat  as 
they  gafai  the  do<^,  Blanche  paoaea, 
and  looks  ae  if  there  were  somethiag 
onberttiod. 

PisiflmATua.  —  What  now, 
Blanehe?  Why  are  yon  making 
knots  in  that  ribbon,  and  writing  in- 
TisiMe  (Aaracters  on  the  fio<M'  with 
the  point  of  that  busy  Mttle  foot? 

BhAMcam-^mfiienouify), — ^I  hare 
foand  a  new  room,  Sisty.  Do  yon 
think  we  may  lock  into  it  ? 

PisisniATus.  —  Certainly,  nnleae 
any  Blnebeard  of  yonr  acquaintance 
toW  yon  net.    Where  is  it  ? 

Blaiichb.  —  Up  stairs  —  to  the 
left. 

PisiSTRATUS.  —  That  little  old 
door,  ^ing  down  two  stone  stqia, 
which  IS  always  kept  locked  ? 

BuuffCHB.— Tea !  it  is  not  locked 
to>day.    The  door  was  lyar,  and  I 


peeped  is;  botlwenld  not  doHor& 
till  I  eame  and  aiked  yon  if  yon 
thought  it  wonld  not  be  wran^. 

PieismaTva.— Tery  good  in  yon, 
my  diacreei  little  eonsin.  I  have  no 
doubt  it  ia  a  ghost-trap;  however, 
with  Jnba'a 'protection,  I  think  we 
mi^t  yenture  together. 

Piaiatratua,  Blandie,  and  Jaba^ 
aaeead  the  stairs,  and  turn  off  down 
a  dark  paaaage  to  the  left,  away  from 
the  rooms  in  use.  We  reach  the  arch- 
pointed  door  of  oak  planks  nailed 
roughly  together;  we  posh  it  open, 
and  perceive  that  a  amatt  stair  wiada 
down  from  the  room :  it  is  just  over 
Rolaad's  chamber. 

The  room  has  a  daaap  smell,  and 
has  probably  been  left  open  to  be 
aired,  fcMr  the  wind  cornea  through  the 
unbari^  casement,  and  a  billet  bums 
on  the  hearth.  The  place  has  that 
attractive,  fascinating  air  whicb  be- 
longs to  a  lumber  room,  than  which 
I  Imow  nothing  that  so  d^vates  the 
interest  and  &ncy  of  young  people. 
What  treaanres,  to  them,  often  lie  hidin 
those  quaint  odds  and  ends  whidi  the 
elder  generations  have  diaearded  aa 
rubbish  I  All  children  are  by  nature 
antiquarians  and  relic-bnnters.  Still 
there  is  an  order  and  precision  with 
which  the  articles  in  that  room  are 
stowed  away  that  belies  the  true  no- 
tion of  lumbw — ^none  of  the  mildew 
and  dust  which  give  such  mournful 
interest  to  things  abandoned  to  de* 
cay. 

In  one  comer  are  piled  up  cases^ 
and  militaiy-looking  trunks  of  oat- 
landisb  aspect,  with  B.  D.  C.  in  brass 
naOs  on  their  aidea.  From  these  we 
turn  with  involuntary  respect,  and 
call  off  Jnba,  who  has  wedged  him- 
self behind  in  pursuit  of  some  imagi- 
nary mouae.  But  in  the  other  comer 
is  what  seems  to  me  a  child^s  cradle — 
not  an  English  one  evidently— it  is  of 
wood,  seemingly  Spanish  rosewood, 
with  a  rMl-work  at  ^e  back,  of  twisted 
columns ;  and  I  should  scarcely  have 
known  it  to  be  a  cradle  but  for  the 
fairy-like  quilt  and  the  tiny  pillows, 
which  proclaimed  its  uses. 

On  the  wall  above  the  cradle  were 
arranged  sundry  little  articles,  that 
had,  perhaps,  once  made  the  joy  of  a 
child's  heart — broken  toys  with  the 
paint  rubbed  c^  a  tha  aword  and 
trumpet,  and  a  few  tattered  books^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


426 


L 


mostly  in  Spanish— by  their  shape 
and  look,  doubtless,  children's  books. 
Near  these  stood,  on  the  floor,  a  pic- 
ture with  its  face  to  the  wall.  Juba 
had  chased  the  mouse  that  his  fancy 
still  insisted  on  creating,  behind  this 
picture,  and,  as  he  abruptly  drew 
back,  it  fell  into  the  hands  I  stretched 
forth  to  receive  it.  I  turned  the  face  to 
the  light,  and  was  surprised  to  see 
merely  an  old  family  portrait :  it  was 
that  of  a  gentleman  m  the  flowered 
vest  and  stiff  ruff  which  referred  the 
date  of  his  existence  to  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth — a  man  with  a  bold  and 
noble  countenance.  On  the  comer 
was  placed  a  faded  coat  of  aims,  be- 
neath which  was  inscribed,  ^^  Herbert 
DB  Caxton,  Eq  :  AuR  :  iExAx  :  36." 

On  the  back  of  the  canvass  I  ob- 
served, as  I  now  replaced  the  picture 
against  the  wall,  a  label  in  Boland's 
handwriting,  though  in  a  younger 
and  more  running  hand  than  he  now 
wrote.  The  words  were  these: — 
"  The  best  and  bravest  of  our  line. 
He  charged  by  Sidney's  side  on  the 
field  of  Zutphen ;  he  fought  in  Drake's 
ship  against  the  armament  of  Spain. 

If  ever  I  have  a "     The  rest  of 

the  label  seemed  to  have  been  torn  off. 

I  turned  away,  and  felt  a  remorse- 
ful shame  that  I  had  so  far  gratified 
my  curiosity, — if  by  so  harsh  a  name 
the  powerful  interest  that  had  ab- 
sorbed me  must  be  called.  I  looked 
round  for  Blanche;  she  had  retreated 
from  my  side  to  the  door,  and,  with 
her  hands  before  her  eyes,  was  weep- 
ing. As  I  stole  towards  her,  my  glance 
fell  on  a  book  that  lay  on  a  chair  near 
the  casement,  and  beside  those  relics  of 
an  infancy  once  pure  and  serene. 
By  the  old-fashioned  silver  clasps 
I  recognised  Boland's  bible.  I  felt 
almost  as  if  I  had  been  guilty  of  pro- 
fanation in  my  thoughtless  intrusion. 
I  drew  away  Blandie,  and  we  de- 
scended the  stairs  noiselessly,  and 
not  till  we  were  on  our  favourite 
spot,  amidst  a  heap  of  ruins  on  the 
feudal  justice- hill,  did  I  seek  to  kiss 
away  her  tears  and  ask  the  cause. 

"My    poor     brother,"    sobbed 
Blanche  ;  »♦  they  must  have  been  his 


The  Caxttm.-'Part  XII.  [April, 

—  and   we  shall  never,  never   see 


him  again! — and  poor  papa's  bible, 
which  he  reads  when  he  is  very,  very 
sad  I  I  did  not  weep  enough  when 
my  brother  died.  I  know  better  what 
death  is  now  I  Poor  papa,  poor  papa  I 
Don'tdie,  too,  Sistyl" 

There  was  no  running  after  butter- 
flies that  morning ;  and  it  was  long 
before  I  could  soothe  Blanche.  Indeed, 
she  bore  the  traces  of  dejection  in  her 
soft  looks  for  many,  many  days  ;  and 
she  often  asked  me,  sighingly,  '*  Don't 
you  think  it  was  very  wrong  in  me 
to  take  you  there?"  Poor  little 
Blanche,  true  daughter  of  Eve,  she 
would  not  let  me  bear  my  due  sharo 
of  the  blame ;  she  would  have  it  all 
in  Adam's  primitive  way  of  justice, — 
"  The  woman  tempted  me,  and  I  did 
eat."  And  since  then  Blanche  has 
seemed  more  fond  than  ever  of  Bo- 
land,  and  comparatively  deserts  me, 
to  nestle  close  to  him,  and  closer,  till  he 
looks  up  and  says,  "My  child,  you  are 
pale ;  go  and  run  after  the  butterflies  \  '* 
and  she  says  now  to  him,  not  to  me, — 
"Come  tool"  drawing  him  out  into 
the  sunshine  with  a  hand  that  will 
not  loose  its  hold. 

Of  all  Boland's  line  this  Herbert  de 
Caxton  was  "  the  best  and  bravest ! " 
yet  he  had  never  named  that  ancestor 
to  me — ^never  put  any  forefather  in 
comparison  with  the  dubious  and 
mythical  Sir  William.  I  now  remem- 
bered once,  that,  in  goingover  the  pedi- 
gree, I  had  been  struck  by  the  name 
of  Herbert— the  only  Herbert  in  the 
scroll— and  had  asked,  "Whatofhim, 
uncle?"  and  Boland  had  muttered 
something  inaudible  and  turned  away. 
And  I  remembered  also,  that  in  Ro- 
land's room  there  was  the  mark  in  the 
wall  where  a  picture  of  that  size  had 
once  hung.  It  had  been  removed  thence 
before  we  first  came,  but  must  have 
hung  there  for  years  to  have  left  that 
mark  on  the  wall ;— perhaps  suspended 
by  Bolt,  during  Boland's  long  Conti- 
nentad  absence.  "If  ever  I  have 
a  — ."  What  were  the  missins;  words? 
Alas,  did  they  not  relate  to  the  son — 
missed  for  ever,  evidently  not  for- 
gotten still? 


CHAFTEB  T.Xn. 


My  uncle  sate  on  one  side  the  fire- 
place, n  ;  audi, 


at  a  small  table  between  them,  j 
pared  to  note  down  the  results  oft 


leir 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  CaxtofU.^Part  XIL 


1849.] 

conference ;  for  tbey  bad  mefc  in  high 
conncil,  to  assess  their  joint  fortunes 
*— determine  what  shonldbe  brought 
into  the  common  stock,  and  set  apart 
for  the  civil  list,  and  what  should 
be  laid  aside  as  a  shxking  ftind.  Kow 
my  mother,  true  woman  as  she  was, 
had  a  womanly  love  of  show  in  her 
own  quiet  way— of  making  "  a  gen- 
teel figure  "  in  the  eyes  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood—of seeing  that  sixpence  not 
only  went  as  far  assixpence  ought  to  go, 
but  that,  in  the  going,  it  should  emit 
a  mUd  but  imposinj?  splendour^not, 
indeed,  a  gaudy  flash— a  startling 
Boreallan  coruscation,  which  is  scarce- 
ly within  the  modest  and  placid  idio- 
syncrasies of  sixpence — ^but  a  gleam 
of  gentle  and  benign  light.  Just  to 
show  where  a  sixpence  had  been,  and 
allow  you  time  to  say,  **  Behold,** 
before 
*♦  The  j»wg  of  darkness  did  derour  It  ttp.** 
Thus,  as  I  once  before  took  occa- 
sion to  apprise  the  reader,  we  had  al- 
ways held  a  very  respectable  position 
in  the  neighbourhood  round  our 
square  brick  house ;  been  as  sociable 
as  my  father's  habits  would  permit; 
given  our  little  tea-parties,  and  our 
occasional  dinners,  and,  without  at- 
tempting to  vie  with  our  richer  asso- 
ciates, there  had  always  been  so 
exquisite  a  neatness,  so  notable  a 
house-keepinff,  so  thoughtfhl  a  dis- 
position, in  snort,  of  all  the  properties 
indigenous  to  a  well-spent  six- 
pence, in  my  mother's  management, 
ttuit  there  was  not  an  old  maid  within 
seven  miles  of  us  who  did  not  pro- 
nounce our  tea-parties  to  be  perfect ; 
and  the  great  Mrs  Eollick,  who  gave 
fortv  guineas  a-year  to  a  professed 
coot  and  housekeeper,  used  regularlv, 
whenever  wo  dined  at  Rollick  HaU, 
to  call  across  the  table  to  my  mother, 
(who  therewith  blushed  up  to  her  cars,) 
to  apologise  for  the  strawberry  jelly. 
It  is  true  that  when,  on  returning 
home,  my  mother  adverted  to  that 
flattering  and  dblicate  compliment,  in 
a  tone  that  revealed  the  self-conceit 
of  the  human  heart,  my  fether^ 
whether  to  sober  bis  Kitty's  vanity 
into  a  proper  and  Christian  mortifica- 
tion of  spirit,  or  fh>m  that  strange 
shrewdness  which  belonged  to  him — 
would  remark  that  Mrs  Rollick  was 
of  a  querulous  nature  ;  that  the  com- 
pliment was  meant  not  to  please  my 


427 


mother,  but  to  spite  the  professed 
cook  and  housekeeper,  to  whom  the 
butler  would  be  sure  to  repeat  the 
Invidious  apology. 

In  settling  at  the  tower,  and  as- 
suming the  head  of  its  establishment, 
my  mother  was  naturally  anxious 
that,  poor  battered  invalid  though  the 
tower  was,  it  should  still  put  its  best 
leg  foremost.  Sundry  cards,  despite 
the  thinness  of  the  neighbourhood, 
had  been  left  at  the  door;  various 
invitations,  which  my  uncle  had 
hitherto  declined,  had  greeted  his  oc- 
cupation of  the  ancestral  ruin,  and 
had  become  more  numerous  since  the 
news  of  our  arrival  had  ^ne  abroad ; 
so  that  my  mother  saw  before  her  a 
very  suitable  field  for  her  hospitable 
accomplishments — ^areasonable  ground 
for  her  ambition  that  the  tower 
should  hold  up  its  head,  as  became  a 
tower  that  held  the  head  of  the  family. 

But  not  to  wrong  thee,  O  dear 
mother,  as  thou  sittest  there,  opposite 
the  grim  captain,  so  fair  and  so  neat, 
— with  thine  apron  as  white,  and  thy 
hair  as  trim  and  as  sheen,  and  thy 
morning  cap,  with  its  ribbons  of  blue, 
as  coquettishly  arranged  as  if  thou 
hadst  a  fear  that  the  least  negligence 
on  thy  part  might  lose  thee  the  heart 
of  thine  Austin— not  to  wrong  thee 
by  setting  down  to  frivolous  motives 
alone  thy  feminine  visions  of  the 
social  amenities  of  life,  I  know  that 
thine  heart,  in  its  providentitendemess, 
was  quite  as  much  interested  as  ever 
thy  vanities  could  be,  in  the  hospitable 
thoughts  on  which  thou  wert  Intent. 
For,  first  and  foremost,  it  was  the 
wish  of  thy  soul  that  thine  Austin 
might,  as  little  as  possible,  be  remind- 
ed of  the  change  in  his  fbrtunes,  — 
might  miss  as  little  as  possible  those 
interruptions  to  his  abstracted  schol- 
ariy  moods,  at  which,  it  is  true,  he 
used  to  iVet  and  to  pshaw  and  to  cry 
Pap»!  but  which  nevertheless  always 
did  him  good,  imd  freshened  up  the 
stream  of  his  thoughts.  And,  next,  it 
was  the  conviction  of  thine  under- 
standing that  a  little  society,  and  boon 
companionship,  and  the  proud  plea- 
sure of  showing  his  ruins,  and  presid- 
ing at  the  hall  of  his  forefathers,  would 
take  Roland  out  of  those  gloomy 
reveries  into  which  he  still  fell  at 
times.  And,  thirdly,  for  us  youuff 
people,  ought  not  Blanche  to  find 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


428 


ne  CaxUmi^^Pmrt  XIL 


lAfAi 


OMiptnions  in  ehildrai  of  her  own 
sexaadage?  Alreadj  in  those  large 
black  ejes  there  was  eomething 
melancholj  and  broodiBS,  as  Aere  ia 
in  the  eyes  of  all  diil£eii  who  five 
obIj  wkh  their  elders ;  and  for  Flats- 
tratns,  witli  his  altcffod  prospects, 
and  the  one  great  gnawing  memory 
at  his  heart— whidi  he  tried  to  eoBoeal 
from  himsdf,  bat  which  a  sMther 
(and  a  mother  who  had  lored)  saw 
at  a  glaaee — what  conld  be  better 
than  siieh  nnion  and  interchange  with 
the  world  around  as,  small  as  that 
world  might  be,  which  woman,  sweet 


hinder  and  Uender  of  nil  social  Mnks, 
might  artfally  effect?— 60  that  tfaoa 
didst  not  go  like  Ae  nwM  Flooeotiney 

**  Sopxm  lor  ^mnita  dit  pw  junona^ 

^  over  thin  shadows  that  nookad  the 
sttbitanoe  of  real  ferma,*  bit  inther  it 
was  ^e  real  forms  that  appeared  as 
shadows  or  tMSMki. 

What  a  digression  1  — can  I  never 
tell  my  stonr  in  a  i^ain  atraightfor- 
ward  way?  Certainly  I  was  bom 
nnder  the  Cancer^  and  aU  mr  move- 
ments are  dommlocBtoiy,  aMteways, 
and  cmb-like. 


OHAFTBB  Umi. 


*'  I  thmk,  Roland,^  said  my  mother, 
^*'  that  the  estabUshment  is  settled. 
Bolt,  who  is  eqaal  to  tiiree  men  at 
least;  Primmins,  cook  and  hoase* 
keeper;  Molly  a  good  starring  giri — 
and  wiling,  (thoogfa  Pve  had  some 
difBcalty  m  persoading  her,  poor 
thing,  to  submit  not  to  be  called 
Anna  Maria!)  Their  wages  are  bat 
a  small  item,  my  dear  Roland." 

*^ Hem!"  said  Roland,  ^smce  we 
can*t  do  with  fewer  servants  at  less 
wages,  I  suppose  we  most  call  it 
smaU— ** 

"  It  is  so,"  said  my  mother  with 
mild  positlvenese.  ^^  And,  indeed, 
what  wiUi  the  game  and  fish,  and  the 
garden  and  poaltry-yard,  and  yoar 
own  mntton,  onr  hcmsekeeinng  wiU 
be  next  to  nothing." 

^  Hem ! "  again  said  the  thrifity 
Roland,  with  a  slight  inflection  of  the 
beetle  brows.  ^^  It  may  be  next  to 
nothmg,  ma'am  — sister— jost  as  a 
butcher's  shop  may  be  next  to  Nor- 
thomberland  Hoase,  but  there  is  a 
vast  deal  between  notfahig  and  that 
next  neighbour  you  have  given  it." 

This  i^>eech  was  so  like  one  of  my 
father's; — so  ntOve  an  imitation  of  tiiat 
subtle  reasoner's  use  of  the  rhetorical 
figure  called  antakaolasis,  (or  repe- 
tition of  the  same  words  in  a  dine- 
rent  sense,)  that  I  laughed  and  my 
mother  smiled.  But  she  smiled  re- 
verently, uot  thinking  of  the  amta- 
NACT.Asm,  as,  laying  her  hand  on  Ro- 
land's arm,  she  replied  In  the  yet 
more  fonnidable  Moore  of  speech 
called  zpiPBOKSMA,  ^r  exclamation,  j 
'*  Yet,witiiall  youreconomy,  you  would 
have  had  as  — " 


i^Tnt !"  cried  my  uncle,  panyingthe 
BPiPHOMEMA  wilii  a  mastoriy  aposi- 
0PX8IS  (or  breaking  off;)  '*  tut!  if  you 
had  done  what  I  wished,  I  should  have 
had  more  pleasure  for  my  money ! " 

My  poor  mother's  xhetorical  armoury 
supplied  no  weapon  to  meet  thftt  artful 
APOOoraaiB,  so  she  droppedthe  rheto- 
ric altogether,  and  weaton  with  that 
^mudemed  ebquenoe"  natoral  to  her, 
as  to  other  great^nancialreformers : — 
^  Well,  R(^d,  bat  I  am  a  ffood  house- 
wife, I  assnre  you,  and— don't  scold ; 
but  iitMt  you  never  do,— I  mean  don't 
look  as  if  you  woold  like  to  scold ; 
the  foct  is,  that,  even  after  setting 
aside  £100  a-year  for  our  littia 
parties—" 

^  Little  parties! — n  hondred  a- 
year!"   cried   the   0«ptain   aghast. 

My  mother  pursued  her  way  re- 
morselessly,—  "Which  we  can  well 
afford;  and  without  counting  your 
half-pay,  which  yon  must  keep  for 
pocket-money  and  your  wardrobe 
and  Blanche's,  I  calcnlate  that  we 
can  aUow  Pisistratus  £150  a-year, 
which,  with  the  sdKdarshq)  m  is 
to  get,  will  keep  hhn  at  Cambridge," 
(at  that,  sedng  tl»  sdiolarsfaip 
was  as  yet  amidst  tiie  Pleasures 
of  Hope,  I  shook  my  head  doubt- 
fully ;)  ^  and,"  eontmued  my  mother, 
not  heeding  that  sign  of  dissent,  "we 
shall  still  have  something  to  lay  by." 

The  Captain's  face  assomed  a  Indi- 
cnms  expression  of  oompassion  and 
hornnr;  he  evidently  thought  mv mo- 
ther's misfortunes  had  turned  her 
head. 

His  tormentor  continued. 

"  For,"  said  my  moiher,  with  m 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1B49.] 


2%e  a»A»M.-^Ao<  XII. 


429 


pretty  calcnlitiiig  ihake  of  faer  head, 
aada  movemeit  of  Um  rigfai  forefinger 
towards  the  five  fiagera  of  the  left  hand, 
*Hhree  htmdred  aad  aeyeitty  potindB 
— the  interest  of  Austin's  fortune— 
and  fifty  pojonds  that  we  may  reckon 
for  the  rent  of  our  house,  make  £420 
a-jear.  Add  your  £330  a-year  from 
the  farm,  afaeep-walk,  and  cottages 
that  yon  let,  and  the  total  is  £750. 
Now  with  aU  we  get  for  nothing  for 
oar  honsekeeping,  as  I  said  before, 
we  can  do  Tery  well  with  five  hundred 
a-yaar,  and  indeed  make  a  hattdsome 
Agim.  So,  after  allowing  SIsty  £160, 
we  still  hs?e  £100  to  lay  by  for 
Blanche.** 

^^  St<^  stop,  stop  !**  cried  the  €ap- 
tahl^  in  neat  agitation ;  "  who  told 
you  that  I  had  £330  a-year?** 

^  Why,  Bolt— don't  be  angry  with 
him.** 

''Bdt  is  a  blockhead.  From£330 
a-year  take  £200,  aad  the  remainder 
is  all  my  income,  besides  my  half- 
pay.** 

My  mother  opened  her  eyes,  and 
so  did  L 

<'  To  that  £130  add,  if  yon  please, 
£130  of  your  own.  All  that  you  have 
orer,  my  dear  sister,  is  yours  or 
Austin's,  or  your  boy's;  but  not  a 
shilling  can  go  to  ffive  luxuries  to  a 
miserly,  battered  old  soldier.  Do 
you  understand  me  ?" 

"  No,  R^^and,**  said  my  mother^ 
«^  I  don't  mdentand  yon  at  all. 
Does  not  your  property  bring  in  £330 
a-year? 

''  Yes,  but  it  has  a  debt  of  £200 
a-year  on  it,"  said  the  Captain,  gloom- 
ily and  reluctantly. 

'*0h,  Bolandl"  cried  my  mother 
tenderly,  and  approaching  so  near 
that,  had  my  father  been  in  the  room, 
I  am  sure  she  would  hare  been  bold 
enough  to  kiss  the  stem  Captain, 
though  I  nerer  saw  him  look  sterner 
and  less  kissaUe.  '*0h,  Bdandl** 
cried  my  mother,  concluding  that 
funons  KPiPHONEMA  which  my  uncle's 
AP06I0PBSIS  had  before  nipped  in  the 
bud,  *^  and  yet  you  would  have 
made  us,  who  are  twice  as  rich,  rob 
you  of  this  little  aUl" 

"Ah!"  saidBoland,  trying  to  smile, 
**  but  I  should  have  had  my  own  wa^ 
then,  and  starved  you  shodun^y.  No 
talk  then  of  '  little  parties,'  andsiich- 
Uke.    But  you  must  not  now  turn 


the  tables  against  me,  aor  htmg 
your  £420  a-year  as  a  set-off  to  my 
£130.** 

""Why,**  said  mr  mother  gener- 
ously, "  you  forget  tie  money's  worth 
that  you  contribute— all  that  your 
grounds  supply,  and  all  that  we  save 
by  it.  I  am  sure  that  that's  worth 
a  yearly  £300  at  the  least.^ 

^(  Madam-Hsister,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, ^*rm  sure  you  don't  want  to 
hurt  my  feddngs.  All  I  have  to  say 
is,  that,  if  you  add  to  what  I  bring  an 
equal  sum — to  keep  iw  the  poor  old 
ruin— It  is  the  utmost  uat  I  can  allow, 
and  the  rest  is  not  more  than  Fisis- 
tratas  can  spend.** 

Bo  saying,  the  Captain  rose,  bowed, 
and  before  eitiier  of  ns  ooidd  atop  him, 
hoU>led  out  of  the  room. 

^Dearme,Sistyr*  saidmymother, 
wringing  her  hands,  ^^  I  bave  oer- 
tamly  dkpleased  him*  How  oould  I 
guess  he  had  so  large  a  ddl)t  on  the 
piq)ertv?** 

"  Did  not  he  pay  his  son's  debts  ? 
Is  not  that  the  reason  that—'* 

^  Ah,**  intermpted  my  mother,  al- 
most Ciying,  ^^  and  it  was  that  which 
ruffled  him,  and  I  not  to  guess  it? 
WhatshaUIdo?" 

^^  Set  to  woric  at  a  new  calculation, 
dear  mother,  and  let  him  have  his 
own  way." 

'« But  then,"  said  my  motiier,  ^your 
uncle  mH  mope  himself  to  death,  and 
your  fathtf  will  have  no  relaxation, 
while  yon  see  ^at  he  has  lost  his  for- 
mer o^ect  in  his  books.  AndBlanche 
— and  you  too.  If  we  were  only  to 
contribute  what  dear  Roland  does,  I 
do  not  see  how,  with  £260  a-year,  we 
could  ever  bring  our  neighbours  round 
us  I  I  wonder  what  Austin  would 
say  1  I  have  half  a  mind— no.  Til  go 
and  look  over  the  week-books  with 
Primmins." 

My  mother  went  her  way  sorrow- 
fulhr,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

Then  I  looked  on  the  stately  old 
hall,  grand  in  its  forlom  decay.  And 
the  dreams  I  had  begun  to  cherish  at 
my  heart  swept  over  me,  and  hurried 
me  along,  far,  far  away  into  the  golden 
land,  wmther  Hope  beckons  YonUi.  To 
restore  my  father's  fortunes— ^eweave 
the  Imks  of  that  broken  ambition  which 
had  knit  his  genius  with  the  world — 
rebuild  these  fallen  walls— cultivate 
thosebarrenmoors— revive  the  aacifittt 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


4d0 


The  Caxtans.'^I\urt  XTT. 


lAprU, 


name— glad  the  old  soldier's  age— and 
be  to  both  the  brothers  what  Roland 
had  lost — a  son  I  These  were  my 
dreams;  and  when  I  woke  finom  them, 


k)  1  th^  had  left  behind  an  intense 
porpose,  a  resolate  object.  Dream^ 
O  yontii— dream  manfolly  tnd  nobl j» 
and  thy  dreams  shall  be  prophets ! 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 
LSTTBR  PROM  PZ8I8TRATU8  CAXTON,  TO  ALBSRT  TRSVaNION,  BSQ.,  M.P. 

{The  con/mion  of  a  youik  who,  in  the  Old  World,  findt  hmtelfone  too  many.) 


"My  dear  Mr  Trevanion, —  I 
thank  yon  cordially,  and  so  we  do  all, 
for  yonr  reply  to  my  letter,  informing 
you  of  the  vilianons  traps  throngh 
whichwehavepassed-— not  indeed  with 
whole  skins,  but  still  whole  in  life  and 
limb— which  considering  that  the 
traps  were  three,  and  the  teeth  sharp, 
was  more  than  we  coold  reasonably 
expect  We  have  taken  to  the  wastes, 
like  wise  foxes  as  we  arc,  and  I  do 
not  think  a  bait  can  be  found  that 
will  again  snare  the  fox  paternal.  As 
for  the  fox  filial,  it  is  ditlTerent,  and  I 
am  about  to  prove  to  yon  that  he  is 
boming  to  redeem  the  family  disgrace. 
Ah!  my  dear  Mr  Trevanion,  if  yon 
are  busy  with  *  blue  l)ooks '  when  this 
letter  reaches  you,  stop  here,  and  put 
it  aside  for  some  rare  moment  of 
leisure.  I  am  about  to  open  my 
heart  to  you,  and  ask  you,  who  know 
the  world  so  well,  to  aid  me  in  an 
escape  from  those  flammanHa  moenia, 
wherewith  I  find  that  world  begirt 
and  enclosed.  For  look  you,  sir,  you 
and  my  father  were  right  when  you 
both  agreed  that  the  mere  book  life 
was  not  meant  for  me.  And  yet 
what  is  not  book  life,  to  a  young  man 
who  would  make  his  way  through  the 
ordinary  and  conventional  paths  to 
fortune  t  All  the  professions  are  so 
book-lmed,  book -hemmed,  book- 
choked,  that  wherever  these  strong 
hands  of  mine  stretch  towards  action, 
they  find  themselves  met  by  octavo 
ramparts,  flanked  with  quarto  crenel- 
lations.  For  first,  this  coUege  life, 
opening  to  scholarships,  and  ending, 
perchance,  as  you  political  economists 
would  desire,  in  Malthusian  fellow- 
ships—premiums for  celibacy — con- 
sider what  manner  of  thing  it  is ! 

"Three  years,  book  upon  book, — a 
great  Dead  Sea  before  one,  three  years 
long,  and  all  the  apples  that  grow  on 
the  shore  full  of  the  ashes  of  pica  and 
primer!    Those  three  years  ended, 


the  fellowship,  it  may  be,  won, — stiU 
books — books — if  the  whole  world 
does  not  dose  at  the  college  gates. 
Do  I,  from  scholar,  effloresce  into 
literary  man,  author  by  profession? 
— ^books— books  1  Do  I  go  into  the 
law  ?—^book8— books.  Ars  longa,  vita 
brevis^  which,  paraphrased,  means 
that  it  is  slow  work  before  one  fags 
one^s  way  to  a  brief  1  Do  I  turn 
doctor  ?  Why,  what  bnt  books  can 
kUl  time,  until,  at  the  a^  of  forty,  a 
lucky  chance  may  permit  me  to  kill 
something  else?  The  church?  (for 
which,  indeed,  I  don't  profess  to  be 
good  enough,) — that  is  book  life  jdot 
excellence^  whether,  inglorious  and 
poor,  I  wander  through  long  lines  of 
divines  and  fathers ;  or,  ambitious  of 
bishopricks,  I  amend  the  corruptions, 
not  of  the  human  heart,  but  of  a  Greek 
text,  and  through  defiles  of  scholiasts 
and  commentators  win  my  way  to 
the  See.  In  short,  barring  the  noble 
profession  of  arms — ^which  you  know, 
after  all,  is  not  precisely  the  road  to 
fortune— can  you  tell  me  any  means 
by  which  one  may  escape  these 
eternal  books,  this  mental  clock- 
work, and  corporeal  lethargy.  Where 
can  this  passion  for  life  that  runs 
riot  through  my  veins  find  its  vent  ? 
Where  can  these  stalwart  limbs,  and 
this  broad  chest,  grow  of  value  and 
worth,  in  this  hot-bed  of  cerebral 
inflammation  and  dyspeptic  intellect  ? 
I  know  what  is  in  me ;  I  know  I  have 
the  qualities  that  should  go  with 
stalwart  limbs  and  broad  chest.  I 
have  some  plain  common  sense,  some 
promptitude  and  keenness,  some  plea- 
sure m  hard^  danger,  some  fortitude 
in  bearing  pam— qualities  for  which  I 
bless  Heaven,  for  thev  are  qualities 
good  and  useful  in  pnvate  life.  But 
in  the  forum  of  men,  in  the  market 
of  fortune,  are  they  not  Jhcct,  nauci^ 
mhiHf 
"  In  a  word,  dear  sir  and  IHend,  in 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


ne  Caxions.— Peart  XII. 


431 


this  crowded  Old  Woild,  there  is  not 
the  same  room  that  our  bold  fore- 
fiathers  foand  for  men  to  walk  about, 
and  jostle  their  neiffhbonrs.  No;  they 
most  sit  down  like  boys  at  their 
form,  and  work  out  their  tasks,  with 
rounded  shoulders  and  aching  fingers. 
There  has  been  a  pastoral  age,  and  a 
hunting  age,  and  a  fighting  age.  Now 
we  have  arrived  at  the  age  sedentary. 
Men  who  sit  lon^^est  carry  all  before 
them:  puny  delicate  fellows,  with 
hands  just  strong  enough  to  wield  a 
pen,  eyes  so  bleared  by  the  midnight 
lamp  that  they  see  no  joy  in  that 
buxom  sun,  (which  draws  me  forth 
into  the  fields,  as  life  draws  the  liv- 
ing,) and  digestive  organs  worn  and 
macerated  by  the  relentless  fiagella- 
tion  of  the  brain.  Certainly,  if  this 
is  to  be  the  Reign  of  Mind,  it  is  idle 
to  repine,  and  kick  against  the  pricks ; 
but  is  it  true  that  alT  these  qualities 
of  action  that  are  within  me  are  to  go 
for  nothing!  If  I  were  rich,  and 
happy  in  mind  and  circumstance, 
well  and  good ;  I  should  shoot,  hunt, 
farm,  travel,  enjoy  life,  and  snap  my 
fingers  at  ambition.  If  I  were  so  poor 
and  so  humbly  bred  that  I  could  turn 
gamekeeper  or  whipper-in,  as  pauper 
gentlemen  virtually  did  of  old,  well 
and  good  too ;  I  should  exhaust  this 
troublesome  vitalitv  of  mine,  by 
nightly  battles  with  poachers,  and 
leaps  over  double  dykes  and  stone 
walls.  If  I  were  so  depressed  of  spirit 
that  I  could  Uve  without  remorse  on 
my  father's  small  means,  and  exclaim 
with  Claudian, '  The  earth  gives  me 
feasts  that  cost  nothing,*  well  and 
good  too;  it  were  a  lir^  to  suit  a 
vegetable,  or  a  very  minor  poet,  fiut 
as  it  is ! — here  I  open  another  leaf  of 
my  heart  to  you !  To  say  that,  being 
poor,  I  want  to  make  a  fortune,  is  to 
say  that  I  am  an  Englishman.  To 
attach  ourselves  to  a  thing  positive, 
belongs  to  our  practical  race.  Even 
in  our  dreams,  if  we  build  castles  in 
the  air,  they  are  not  Castles  of  In- 
dolence^— indeed  they  have  very  little 
of  the  castle  about  them,  and  look 
much  more  like  Hearers  Bank  on  the 
east  side  of  Temple  Bar !  I  desire, 
then,  to  make  a  fortune.  But  I  differ 
firom  my  countrymen,  first,  by 
desiring  only  what  you  rich  men 
would  call  but  a  small  fortune; 
secondly,  in  wishing  that  I  may  not 
VOL.  Lxv.— NO.  ccccn. 


spend  my  whole  life  in  that  said  for- 
tune-maldng.  Just  see,  now,  how  I 
am  placed. 

'' Under  ordinary  circumstances,  I 
must  begin  by  taking  firom  my  father 
a  large  slice  of  an  income  that  will  ill 
spare  paring.  According  to  my  cal- 
culation, my  parents  and  my  uncle 
want  all  they  have  got — and  the  sub- 
traction of  the  yearly  sum  on  which 
Pisistratus  is  to  uve,  till  he  can  live  by 
his  own  labours,  would  be  so  much 
taken  fix>m  the  decent  comforts  of  his 
kindred.  If  I  return  to  Cambridge, 
with  all  economy,  I  must  thus  narrow 
still  more  the  res  angusta  domi — 
and  when  Cambridge  is  over,  and  I 
am  turned  loose  upon  the  world — 
failing,  as  is  likely  enough,  of  the  sup- 
port of  a  fellowship — how  many  years 
must  I  work,  or  rather,  alas  I  not  work, 
at  the  bar  (which,  after  all,  seems  my 
best  calling)  before  I  can  in  my  turn 
provide  for  those  who,  till  then,  rob 
themselves  for  me? — till  I  have  arrived 
at  middle  life,  and  they  are  old  and 
worn  out — ^tUl  the  chink  of  the  golden 
bowl  sounds  but  hoUow  at  the  ebbing 
well  1  I  would  wish  that,  if  I  can  make 
money,  tfcose  I  love  best  may  enioy  it 
while  enjoyment  is  yet  left  to  them ; 
that  my  father  shall  see  The  History 
of  Human  Error ^  complete,  bound  in 
russia  on  his  shelves;  that  my 
mother  shall  have  the  innocent  plea- 
sures that  content  her,  before  age  steals 
the  light  firom  her  happy  smile ;  that 
before  Roland's  hair  is  snow-white, 
(alasl  the  snows  there  thicken  fast,)  he 
shall  lean  on  my  arm,  while  we  settle 
together  where  the  ruin  shall  be  repaired 
or  where  left  to  the  owls ;  and  where 
the  dreary  bleak  waste  around  shall 
laugh  with  the  gleam  of  com : — for  you 
know  the  nature  of  this  Cumberland 
soil— you,  who  possess  much  of  it, 
and  have  won  so  many  fair  acres 
from  the  wild  ;— -you  know  that  my 
uncle's  land,  now  (save  a  single  farm) 
scarce  worth  a  shilling  an  acre,  needs 
but  capital  to  become  an  estate  more 
lucrative  than  ever  his  ancestors 
owned.  You  know  that,  for  you  have 
applied  your  capital  to  the  same  kind 
of  land,  and,  in  doing  so,  what  blessings 
— ^which  you  scarcely  think  of  in  your 
London  Library — ^you  have  effected  I 
— what  mouths  you  feed,  what  hands 
you  employ  I  I  have  calculated  that 
my  nude's  moors,  which  now  scarce 
2b 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


483 


ju  cbc*MM.— Are  xn. 


[Ai»a, 


Bttinttk  tfiroor  fturoeshepherdg,  ooald, 
mMHffed  by  moaey,  mafattaia  two 
hundred  funilies  by  their  kbonr. 
All  tins  is  worth  ttyuigilor!  terefore 
PiMflftralas  wmtB  to  Bftka  noaey. 
Not  flo  mch!  he  doee  sot  vegnira 
milMoiiA— A  fewtpave  thooatnd  powidt 
wooM  ge  a  ftenf  way;  and  with  a 
modest  eapital  lo  begin  with,  Rolaad 
ahoold  beoaaM  a  tme  arjidre,  a  reai 
landawMf,  mot  the  mare  lord  of  a 
ieeert.  Now  then,  dear  rir,  adviae 
me  how  I  may,  with  anoh  qualities  as 
I  possess,  arriye  at  that  coital — ay, 
and  before  it  is  too  late-HSO  that 
money-makiBg  may  not  laat  tili  my 
grave. 

'^Tnndni  in  deqMiir  from  this  ciri- 
lised  world  of  oms,  I  have  cast  my 
eyes  to  a  worid  far  <dder,— and  yet 
more  lo  a  world  in  its  giant  child- 
hood. India  here, — ^Aastralialiierel — 
what  say  you,  sir — yon  iHio  will  see 
dispassionately  those  tidngs  that  float 
before  my  eyes  thrangh  a  gdden 
base,  looming  large  in  the  Stance  ? 
Such  is  my  confidenoe  in  yonr  judg- 
ment that  you  hare  but  to  say, 
*  Fod,  eivB  up  thine  El  Dorados  and 
stay  at  home, — stick  to  the  books  and 
the  desk— dmnihilate  that  redundance 
of  animal  life  that  is  in  thee— grow  a 
mental  madwne.  Thy  physical  gifts 
are  of  no  avail  to  thee ;  take  ^ 
place  among  the  dsves  of  the  Lamp," 
and  I  wiU  obey  without  a  murmur. 
But  if  I  am  right  —  if  I  have  in  me 
attributes  that  here  find  no  mariLct; 
if  my  repinings  are  but  the  instincts 


of  natmns,  thai,  oat  of  thk  4eerepid 

dvilisatioa,  desire  vent  for  growth  io 
the  young  stir  of  some  more  nide  aad 
▼igorons  social  system  theagifieaMiy 
I  pray,  that  advice  whidi  may  datka 
my  idea  in  aoau  practical  and  taa- 
g^Ue  embodimflBts.  Hav«  I  aMde 
myself  undecstaod  ? 

^  Aaie^do  we  seeaaew^M^ben, 
bat  occaaioBally  one  fiads  Ks  way 
firom  the  parsonage;  andlhsrelatdy 
rejoiced  at  a  paragraph  that  spoke  of 
yonr  speedy  entrance  intone  adad- 
niatratKm  as  a  tiling  certain.  I  write 
ta  you  before  yon  are  a  minisfeer;  and 
yoa  see  what  I  seek  is  not  in  the  way 
of  ofkial  patronage  :  A  niche  in  an 
ottcel — oh,  tome  tlutt  were  wocae  than 
alL  Yet  I  did  labour  hard  with  you, 
bot-^yto  was  differeirtl  I  write  to 
yon  thus  fieai^y,  knowiag  yom*  warm 
neble  heart  —  and  as  if  yon  were  my 
iktiier.  Allow  me  to  add  my  humble 
but  eaniest  coagratulations  on  Miss 
Trevanion*s  approaching  marriage 
with  one  worthy,  if  not  of  lier,  at 
least  of  her  station.  I  do  so  as  be- 
comes one  whom  yon  hare  aMowed  to 
retain  the  right  to  pray  for  the  hap- 
piness of  you  and  yours. 

^My  dear  Mr  Trevanioa,  tids  is  a 
long  letter,  and  I  dare  not  even  read 
it  over,  lest  if  I  do,  I  shonld  not  send 
it.  Take  it  witii  aU  its  fhults,  and 
judge  of  it  with  that  Idndaess  with 
which  you  have  Judged  ever 

Tour  grat^l  Mid  oevoted  servant, 


Limii  num  albvrt  tiwtanion,  bsq.,  m.p.  to  PiemniATUB  caxtok. 

LAiwy  qftke  Bmm  vfOmumm,  Tmrndagf  Ni^kL 


"My  dear  Pislstratus,—  •  *  •  ♦  ♦ 
is  up  I  we  are  in  for  it  for  two 
mortal  hoars.  I  take  flight  to  the 
library,  and  devote  those  hoars  to 
you.  Don*t  be  conceited,  but  that 
picture  of  yourself  which  you  have 
placed  before  me  has  struck  me 
with  allthelbroeofanoririnaL  The 
state  of  mind  whidi  you  describe  so 
vividly  must  be  a  very  common  one, 
in  our  era  of  dvilisation,  yet  I  have 
never  before  seen  it  made  so  prominent 
and  ttfe-Uke.  Ton  have  been  in  my 
thoughts  all  day.  Yes,  how  many 
young  men  must  tkere  be  Ifte  you,  in 
this  Old  Worid,abie,  intenigent,active, 
and  perseveringenough,  yet  not  adapt- 


ed for  suocesB  in  any  of  our  conven- 
tional professions— '  mute,  inglorious 
Raleigfas.*  Your  letter,  young  artist, 
is  an  illustration  of  the  philoMphy  of 
colonising.  I  cmnprehend  better,  alter 
reading  it,  the  old  Greek  colonisation, 
— tiie  sending  out  not  only  the  pau- 
pers, the  refose  of  an  over-populated 
state,  but  a  large  proportion  of  a  better 
dass— follows  foil  of  pith  and  sap, 
and  exuberant  vitalitv,  like  yom^lf, 
blending  in  those  wise  dentdda  a 
certain  portion  of  the  aristocratic  with 
the  more  democratic  elemeat ;  not 
turning  a  rabble  loose  upoB  a  new  soil, 
but  planting  in  the  foreign  allotments 
all  tiie  mcuments  of  a  harmonious 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18^.] 


T%e  CkuBUnu.'^Pari  XIL 


433 


Btate,  aoalofons  to  that  in  the  s&other 
ooimtey— not  onljgettiog  rid  of  hnngiy 
cranDg  months,  bat  famishing  vent 
for  a  waate  anrphia  of  intelligence  and 
ooorage,  which  at  home  is  reallj  not 
needed,  and  more  often  comes  to  ill 
than  to  good;— here  only  menaces  oar 
artificial  embankmenta,  bnt  there, 
carried  off  in  an  aqnednct,  might  give 
life  to  a  desert. 

"  For  mj  part,  in  my  ideal  of  colo- 
nisation, I  shonld  like  that  each  ex- 
portation of  haman  beings  had,  as  of 
old,  its  leaders  and  chiefi9--not  so  ap- 
pointed from  the  mere  qoalit j  of 
rank,  often,  indeed,  taken  from  the 
hombler  classes— bat  still  men  to 
whom  a  certain  decree  of  edncation 
shonld  give  promptitade,  qoickness, 
Qdcqi>t9bUitjf--mai  in  whom  their  fol- 
lowers can  confide.  The  Greeks 
nnderstood  that.  Ni^,  as  the  colony 
makes  progress^-- as  its  principal  town 
rises  into  the  dignity  (^  a  capital— a 
po^  that  needs  a  polity— I  sometimes 
think  it  might  be  wise  to  go  still  frur- 
ther,  and  not  <hi1^  transplant  to  it  a 
high  standard  of  ciTilisation,  bat  draw 
it  more  dosely  into  connexion  with 
the  parent  state,  and  render  the  pas- 
sage of  spare  intellect,  edaeation,  and 
cMHty^  to  and  fro,  more  fru^e,  by 
draaghting  off  thither  the  spare  scions 
of  royalty  itsdf.  I  know  that  many 
of  my  more  ^  liberal '  friends  wonld 
pooh-pooh  this  notion ;  bat  I  am 
sare  that  the  colonr  altogether,  when 
arrived  to  a  state  that  wonld  bear  the 
importation,  wonld  thrive  all  the 
better  for  it.  And  when  the  day  shall 
come  (as  to  all  heakhM  codonies  it 
mnst  come  sooner  or  later)  in  which 
the  settl^nent  has  grown  an  indepen- 
dent state,  we  may  thereby  have  laid 
the  seeds  of  a  constitntion  and  a  civi- 
lisation similar  to  oar  own— with  self- 
developed  forms  of  monarchy  and 
aristocracy,  tiiongh  of  a  ampler  growth 
than  old  societies  acc^t,  and  not  left 
a  strange  motley  chaos  of  straggling 
democracy— an  nnconth  Uvid  giant, 
at  which  the  Frankenstein  may  well 
tremble-*not  because  it  is  a  giant,  bat 
because  it  is  a  giant  half  completed.* 


Depend  on  it,  the  New  Worid  will  be 
fii^dly  or  hostile  to  the  Old,  not  m 
proportion  to  the  hmihip  qf  raety  but 
m  proportion  to  the  nmUeaitu  ofman^ 
nsn  and  in$tiiution§ — a  mighty  trnth, 
to  which  we  colonisers  have  been 
blind. 

^^  Passing  from  these  more  distant 
speculations  to  this  positive  present 
bef<»e  as,  yon  see  already,  from 
what  I  have  said,  that  I  sympathise 
with  your  aspiraticms— that  I  construe 
them  as  yon  wonld  have  me ;— looking 
to  your  nature  and  to  your  objects, 
I  give  yon  my  advice  in  a  word — 
Emioratx  1 

«« My  advice  is,  however,  founded 
on  one  hypothesis— vis.,  that  yon  are 
perfectly  sincere — yom  will  be  con- 
tented with  a  rough  life,  and  with  a 
moderate  fortune  at  the  end  of  your 
probation.  Pon*t  dream  of  emigrat- 
ing if  you  want  to  make  a  million,  or 
the  tenth  part  of  a  million.  Don't 
dream  of  emigrating,  unless  you  can 
enjojf  its  hardships,^-to  bear  them  is 
not  enough  I 

^^  Australia  is  the  land  for  yon,  as 
you  seem  to  surmise.  Australia  is  the 
land  for  two  classes  of  emigrants:  1st, 
The  man  who  has  notibmg  but  his 
wits,  and  plenty  of  them ;  2dly,  The 
man  who  has  a  small  capital,  and  who 
is  contented  to  spend  ten  years  in 
trebling  it  I  assome  that  you  be- 
long to  the  latter  dass.  Take  oat 
£8000,  and  heiore  yon  are  thirty  years 
old,  yon  may  return  with  £10,000  or 
£12,000.  If  that  satisfies  yon,  think 
seriously  of  Australia.  Bv  coach,  to- 
morrow, I  will  send  you  down  all  the 
best  books  and  reports  on  the  subject; 
and  I  will  get  you  what  detailed  in- 
formation I  can  fi^m  the  Cdonial 
Office.  Having  read  these,  and 
thought  over  them  dispassionately, 
Bfend  some  months  vet  among  the 
sneep-walks  of  Comoerland;  learn 
all  you  can,  fnm.  all  the  shepherds 
yon  can  find— from  Thyiais  to  Men- 
alcas.  Do  more;  fit  yourself  in  every 
way  for  a  life  in  the  Bosh,  where 
the  philosophy  of  the  division  of 
labour  is  not  yet  arrived  at    Learn  to 


*  These  pages  were  sent  to  press  before  the  aathor  had  seen  Mr  Wakefield's  recent 
work  on  Colonisation,  wherein  the  riews  here  ezpreased  are  enfoioed  with  great 
earnestness  and  oonq^ionoos  sanoiiy.  The  aathor  is  not  the  lass  pleased  at  this  coin- 
cidence of  opinion,  because  he  has  tiie  misfortune  to  dissent  from  certain  other  parts 
of  Mr  Wakefield's  elaborate  theory. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


434 


The  Caxtons.^Part  XIL 


[April, 


tarn  your  hand  to  everything.  Be 
something  of  a  smith,  something  of  a 
carpenter— do  the  best  you  can  with 
the  fewest  tools ;  make  yonrself  an 
excellent  shot ;  break  in  all  the  wild 
horses  and  ponies  you  can  borrow 
and  beg.  Even  if  yon  want  to  do  none 
of  these  things  when  in  yonr  settle- 
ment, the  haying  learned  to  do  them 
will  fit  yon  for  many  other  things  not 
now  foreseen.  De-ftne-gentlemaniie 
yourself  from  the  crown  of  your  head  to 
the  sole  of  your  foot,  and  become  the 
greater  aristocrat  for  so  doing;  for  he 
is  more  than  an  aristocrat,  he  is  a  king, 
who  suffices  in  all  things  for  himself 
— who  13  bis  own  masted,  because  he 
wants  no  vaieUdUe.  I  think  Seneca 
has  expressed  that  thought  before 
me ;  and  I  would  quote  the  passage, 
but  the  book,  I  fear,  is  not  in  the 
library  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
But  now — (cheers,  by  Jove.  I  suppose 
♦  *  *  *  ♦  is  down  1    Ah  I  it  ia  so;  and 

C is  up,  and  that  cheer  followed 

a  sharp  hit  at  me.  How  I  wish  I 
were  your  age,  and  going  to  Austra- 
lia with  you !)  But  now — to  resume 
my  suspended  period — but  now  to 
the  important  point— capital.  You 
must  take  that,  unless  you  go  as  a 
shepherd,  and  then  goodbye  to  the 
idea  of  £10,000  in  ten  years.  So, 
you  see,  it  appears  at  the  first  blush 
that  you  must  still  come  to  your  fa- 
ther ;  but,  you  will  say,  with  this  dif- 
ference, that  you  borrow  the  capital, 
with  every  chance  of  repaying  it,  in- 
stead of  frittering  away  the  income 
year  after  year  till  you  are  eight- and- 
thhrty  or  forty  at  least.  Still,  Pisis- 
tratus,  you  don't,  in  this,  gain  your 
object  at  a  leap;  and  my  dear  old 
fiiend  ought  not  to  lose  his  son  and 
his  money  too.  You  say  you  write 
to  me  as  to  your  own  father.  You 
know  I  hate  professions ;  and  if  yon 
did  not  mean  what  you  say,  you  have 
ofiended  me  mortally.  As  a  father, 
then,  I  take  a  father's  rights,  and 
speak  plainly.  A  friend  of  mine,  Mr 
Boldmg,  a  clergyman,  has  a  son — a 
wild  fellow,  who  is  likely  to  get  into 
all  sorts  of  scrapes  in  England,  but 
with  plenty  of  good  in  him,  notwith- 
standing—frank, bold— not  wanting 
in  talent,  but  rather  in  prudence — 
easily  tempted  and  led  away  into  ex- 
travagance.   He  would  make  a  capi- 


tal colonist,  (no  such  temptations  in 
the  Bush,)  if  tied  to  a  youth  like  you. 
Now  I  propose,  with  your  leave, 
that  his  father  shall  advance  him 
£1500— which  shall  not,  however, 
be  placed  in  his  bands,  but  in 
yours,  as  head  partner  in  the  firm. 
You,  on  your  side,  shall  advance 
the  same  sum  of  £1500,  which  you 
shall  borrow  from  me,  for  three 
years  without  interest.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  interest  shaU  com- 
mence, and  the  capital,  with  the  in- 
terest on  the  said  first  three  years, 
shall  be  repaid  to  me,  or  my  executors, 
on  your  return.  After  you  have  been 
a  year  or  two  in  the  Bosh,  and  felt 
your  way,  and  learned  your  business, 
you  may  then  safely  borrow  £1500 
more  from  your  father ;  and,  in  the 
meanwhile,  you  and  your  partner  will 
have  had  together  the  full  sum  of 
£3000  to  commence  with.  You  see 
in  this  proposal  I  make  you  no  gift, 
and  I  run  no  risk,  even  by  your  death. 
If  you  die,  insolvent,  I  will  promise 
to  come  on  your  father,  poor  fellow ! 
— for  small  joy  and  small  care  will  he 
have  then  in  what  may  be  left  of  hid 
fortune.  There — I  have  said  all ;  and 
I  will  never  forgive  you  if  you  reject 
an  aid  that  wiU  serve  you  so  much, 
and  cost  me  so  little. 

^^  I  accept  your  congratulations  on 
Fanny's  engagement  with  Lord 
Castleton.  When  you  return  from 
Australia  you  will  still  be  a  young 
man,  she  (though  about  your  own 
years)  almost  a  middle-aged  wo- 
man, with  her  head  full  of  pomps 
and  vanities.  All  girls  have  a  short 
period  of  girlhood  in  common;  but 
when  they  enter  womanhood,  the 
woman  becomes  the  woman  of  her 
class.  As  for  mc,  and  the  office 
assigned  to  me  by  report,  you  know 
what  I  said  when  we  parted,  and 

— but  here  J comes,  and  tells 

me  that  ^  I  am  expected  to  speak,  and 
answer  N ,  who  is  just  up,  brim- 
ful of  malice,'— the  House  crowded, 
*  and  hungering  for  personalities.  S9 1, 
the  man  of  the  Old  World,  gird  up 
my  loins,  and  leave  you  with  a  sigh, 
to  the  fresh  youth  of  the  New— 

'  Ne  tibi  sit  duros  acuisso  in  proelia  denies.* 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  Albert  Trkvanion." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Caxtons.^Part  XIL 


435 


CHAPTER  LXV. 


So,  reader,  thou  art  now  at  the 
secret  of  my  heart. 

Wonder  not  that  I,  a  bookman^s 
son,  and,  at  certain  periods  of  my  life, 
a  bookman  myself,  though  of  lowly 
grade  in  that  venerable  dass, — ^won- 
der not  that  I  should  thus,  in  that 
transition  stage  between  youth  and 
manhood,  have   turned   impatiently 
from  books. — ^Most  students,  at  one 
time  or  other  in  their  existence,  have 
felt  the  imperious  demand  of  that 
restless   principle  in  man^s   nature, 
which  calls  upon  each  son  of  Adam  to 
contribute  his  share  to  the  vast  trea- 
sury of  human  deeds.    And  though 
great  scholars  are  not  necessarily,  nor 
usually,  men  of  action, — ^yet  the  men 
of  action  whom  History  presents  to 
our  survey,  have  rarely  been  without 
a  certain  degree  of  scholarly  nurture. 
For  the  ideas  which  books  quicken, 
books  cannot  always  satisfy.    And 
though  the  royal  pupil  of  Aristotle 
slept  with  Homer  under  his  pillow,  it 
was  not  that  he  might  dream  of  com- 
posing epics,  but  of  conquering  new 
Ilions  in  the  East.    Many  a  man, 
how  little  soever  resembling  Alexan- 
der, may  still  have  the  conqueror's 
aim  in  an  object  that  action  only  can 
achieve,  and  the  book  under  his  pil- 
low may  be  the  strongest  antidote  to 
his  repose.    And  how  the  ^tem  Des- 
tinies that  shall  govern  the  man  weave 
their  first  delicate  tissues  amidst  the 
earliest  associations  of  the  child ! — 
Those  idle  tales  with  which  the  old 
credulous   nurse  had   beguiled   my 
ihfancy — tales  of  wonder,  knight- 
errantry,  and  adventure,  had  left  be- 
hind them  seeds  long  latent— seeds 
that  might  never  have  sprune  up 
above  the  soil— but  that  my  boyhood 
was  80  early  put  under  the  burning- 
glass,  and  in  the  quick  forcing-house, 
of  the  London  worid.     There,  even 
amidst  books  and  study, — lively  obseri 
vation,  and  petulant  ambition,  broke 
forth  from  the  lush  foliage  of  romance 
— ^that   fhiitless   leafiness  of  poetic 
youth  I   And  there  passion,  which  is  a 
revolution  in  all  the  elements  of  indi- 
vidual man,  had  called  a  new  state  of 


being,  turbulent  and  ea^,  out  of  the 
old  habits  and  conventional  forms  it 
had  buried, — ashes  that  speak  where 
the  fire  has  been.  Far  from  me,  as 
from  any  mind  of  some  manliness, 
be  the  attempt  to  create  interest  by 
dwelling  at  length  on  the  struggles 
against  a  rash  and  mbplaced  attach- 
ment, which  it  was  my  duty  to  over- 
come ;  but  all.  such  love,  as  I  have 
before  impUed,  is  a  terrible  unsettler : — 

*'  NVhere  once  such  fairies  dance,  no  grass  doth 
eTer  grow." 

To  re-enter  boyhood,  go  with  meek 
docility  through  its  disciplined  routine, 
— how  hard  had  I  found  that  return, 
amidst  the  cloistered,  monotony  of 
college  I  My  love  for  my  father,  and 
my  submission  to  his  wish,  had  in- 
deed given  some  animation  to  objects 
otherwise  distasteful;  but,  now  that 
my  return  to  the  University  must  be  at- 
tended with  positive  privation  to  those 
at  home,  the  idea  became  utterly  hate- 
ful and  repugnant.  Under  pretence 
that  I  found  myself,  on  trial,  not  yet 
sufficiently  prepared  to  do  credit  to 
my  father's  name,  I  had  easily  ob- 
tained leave  to  lose  the  ensuing  col- 
lege term,  and  pursue  my  studies  at 
home.  This  gave  me  time  to  prepare 
my  plans,  and  bring  round — how 
shall  I  ever  bring  round  to  my  ad- 
venturous views  those  whom  I  pro- 
pose to  desert?  Hard  it  is  to  get  on 
m  the  worid— very  hard!  But  the 
most  painful  step  in  the  way  is  that 
which  starts  from  the  threshold  of  a 
beloved  home. 

How — ^ah,  how,  indeed!  "No, 
Blanche,  you  cannot  join  me  to-day ; 
I  am  ffoing  out  for  many  hours.  So 
it  will  be  late  before  I  can  be  home." 

Home! — the  word  chokes  met 
Juba  slinks  back  to  his  young  mis- 
tress, disconsolate ;  Blanche  gazes  at 
me  ruefully  from  our  favourite  hill- 
top, and  the  flowers  she  has  been 
gathering  fall  unheeded  from  her 
basket  I  hear  my  mother's  voice 
singing  low,  as  she  sits  at  work  by  her 
open  casement  How— ah,  how,  in- 
deed! 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


436 


Ancient  Practice  of  Painting, 


[April, 


ANCIENT  PRACTICE  OF  PAINTING. 


We  are  beginning  to  find  ont  that 
the  "  dark  ages"  were  not  so  ntterly 
dark  as  they  have  been  represented. 
We  ascertain  that  there  was  not  that 
universal  blight  npon  the  hnman  mind 
which  it  has  been  the  practice  of  his- 
torians to  contrast  with  the  flourishing 
condition  of  their  own  times.  Kay, 
if  we  are  now  to  take  that  measnre 
which  those  historians  adopted,  we 
should  estimate  their  own  era  with  as 
disparaging  a  comparison  with  the 
present.  But  the  inventions  of  our 
own  days — ^the  great  advance  of  arts 
and  sciences — so  far  from  having  a 
tendency  to  depreciate,  throw  a  light 
upon,  and  acknowledge  the  vahie  of, 
those  of  the  middle  ages.  The  appro* 
elation  is  becoming  general.  We  are 
old  enough  to  remember  the  time  when 
it  was  thought  of  little  moment  to 
block  up  with  low  unseemly  edifices, 
or  mutilate  for  any  purpose,  those 
amazing  works  of  mediasval  genius, 
our  Grothic  religious  structures.  We 
need  but  refer  to  the  dates  on  the 
mured  deformities  In  most  of  our  old 
churches  and  cathedrals.  Who,  that 
will  turn  his  eye  in  disgust  from  such 
monstrosities  of  taste,  to  the  decora- 
tions Uiey  have  misplaced  and  muti- 
lated, and  to  the  general  aspect,  of  an 
indestructible  character,  of  our  min- 
sters, will  not  rather  ask,  which  were 
the  dark  ages — those  of  the  builders 
and  founders,  or  those  of  the  oblitera- 
tors  and  defilers?  It  is  astonishing 
that  such  wondrous  magnificence 
should  ever  have  been  viewed  with 
indifierence,  and  still  more  astonish- 
ing that  disfigurement  and  dese- 
cration should  have  been  sufifered; 
yet  men  thought  themselves  wise  in 
those  days,  and  learned,  and  ingeni- 
ous. And  so  they  were ;  but  in  re- 
spect of  arts  they  were  dark  enough — 
and  the  spbrit  of  Puritanism  was  in- 
deed a  blight  infecting  that  darkness ; 
and  the  effects  of  that  blight  have  not 
yet  passed  away.  It  may  appear 
strange  that,  after  a  long  period  of 
worse  than  neglect,  we  not  only  appre- 
ciate, but  such  is  our  admiration  of 
those  works  of  past  genius,  that  we 


imitate  them,  and  study  them  for  a 
discovery  of  the  canons  of  the  art 
which  we  think  we  cannot  with  im- 
punity set  aside.  We  here  speak  of 
those  large  and  conspicuous  monu- 
ments of  the  mind  of  the  middle  ages, 
but  the  increasing  admiration  leads  to 
discoveries  of  yet  more  hidden  trea- 
sures. The  genius  that  designed  the 
structures  was  as  busily  and  as  devo- 
tionally  employed  in  every  kind  of  de- 
coration ;  and  with  a  surprising  unity 
of  feeling ;  and  as  if  with  one  sole 
object,  to  carry  out  the  new  Christian 
principle  —  to  make  significant  a 
•'  beauty  of  holiness"  in  all  outward 
things,  that  men  might  look  to  with 
an  awe  and  reverence — and  learn. 
The  sanctity  of  that  one  religious  art — 
architecture— demanded  that  nothing 
without  or  within  should  be  left 
"common"  or  "unclean,"  but  that 
in  the  whole  and  minutest  parts  this 
precept  should  be  legible  and  mani- 
fest—" Do  aU  to  the  glory  of  God." 
All  art  was  significant  of  the  religion 
for  which  all  art,  all  science  was  pur- 
sued. The  workers  of  those  days 
laboured  with  a  loving  and  pious  toil, 
and  lifted  up  their  works  to  an  unseen 
and  all-seeing  eye,  and  not  to  the 
applause  of  men ;  for  who  was  there 
to  value,  or  to  understand,  even  when 
in  some  degree  they  felt  the  influence 
of  the  skill  which  designed  and  ex- 
ecuted such  infinite  variety  of  parts, 
to  the  manifestation  of  one  great  pur- 
pose? 

We  must  no  longer  speak  of  the 
middle  ages  as  a  period  of  universal 
intellectual  darkness.  If  it  were  so, 
it  would  be  a  miracle,  contraiy  to  the 
intention  of  miracle ;  and  the  thought 
has  in  it  a  kind  of  blasphemy,  which 
would  weaken  the  sustaining  arm  of 
Providence,  and  imply  an  unholy 
rest.  We  do  not  believe  in  the  pos- 
sibility of  the  human  race  univer- 
sally retrograding.  We  trust  that 
there  is  always  something  doing  for 
the  future  as  well  as  for  the  present ; 
something  for  progression,  neither  ac- 
ceptable nor  perceived  by  the  present 
generation — from  whose  sight  it  is,  as 


Original  Treaii$es  onthe  Arti  of  Painting,    Preceded  by  a  General  IntrodaoUoD, 
with  Tranalations^  Prefaces,  and  Kotea.    B/  Mas  Ms&rifikld.    2  toIs. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


AmckntPnctkeof2^tmtm0. 


it  were,  hidden— buried  as  seed  in  the 
€«rth,  to  spring  op  in  its  proper  abund- 
ance, and  in  ha  dne  time.  We  want 
a  liiistory  of  the  homan  mind,  sifted 
from  the  large  doinga->from  events 
which  fascinate  as  to  read  of,  bom  as 
we  are  to  be  active,  taking  interest  in 
things  of  a  bold  vic^ence,  that  have 
reallj  benetted  the  world  bat  little,  at 
least  in  the  sense  in  which  we  have 
accq)ted  them.  The  rise  of  (Ae  na- 
tion, the  sabjngation  of  another; 
dynasties,  the  doininion  of  the  sword — 
these  are  the  themes  of  histories. 
Bat  in  reality  all  these  historical  ao» 
tioDS,  viewed  for  their  own  purpose, 
are  of  little  valoe;  while  ont  of  all 
the  turbidence  an  nninteaded  good 
has  been  the  result.  There  has  been 
throoghoot  some  quiet  and  unobserved 
work  gofflg  on,  whose  inflaence,  felt 
more  and  more  by  degrees,  has  at 
length  become  predominant,  showing 
that  the  stirring  ev^ta  and  characters 
which  had  figured  the  scenes  and 
amnsed  specMon^  were  but  the  un- 
derplots and  subordinate  persomm  of  a 
greater  and  more  serious  drama. 
Since  the  overthrow  of  heatheniam, 
the  world's  drama,  still  ^;oing  on,  ia 
the  developoMnt  of  Christianity ;  and 
doubtless  even  now,  however  some- 
times with  a  seeming  contrary  action, 
every  invention,  every  extension  of 
knowledge— all  arts,  all  sciences,  are 
working  to  that  end.  It  is  strange, 
but  true,  that  our  very  wars  have  fur- 
thered civilisatioB.  The  Crusades, 
w<Mrthles8  and  fruitless  as  regards  their 
ostensible  object,  have  ameliorated  the 
condition  and  softened  the  manners 
of  our  own  and  other  nations. 

In  the  fall  of  heathenism,  fell  the 
arts  of  heathenism ;  not,  indeed,  to  be 
entirely  obliterated — not  for  ever,  but 
for  a  time.  Their  continuance  would 
have  been  one  of  imitation :  snch  imi- 
tation would  have  little  suited  the 
new  condition  of  mankind ;  they  were 
therefore  removed,  and  hidden  fbr 
awhile,  that  the  new  principle  should 
develop  itself  unshackled.  The  arts 
had  to  arise  ih>m,  and  to  be  rebuilt 
upon,  this  new  {Mrindple :  all  in  them 
that  woukl  have  interfered  with  this 
great  purpose  was  allowed  to  be  set 
a»de,  to  be  resumed  only  in  after 
times,  when  that  new  principle  should 
be  safely  and  permanently  established. 
It  was  <«]y  by  degrees  that  the  oM 


437 

buried  art  showed  itself,  and  timt  the 
new  was  permitted  to  resume  some  of 
the  did  perfection.  It  may  be  that 
even  yet  the  two  streams,  from 
such  diflsimiiar  sources,  have  not, 
in  their  fdlness  and  ploiitude, 
united:  the  characteristic  beauty  whidi 
they  bear  is  of  body  and  of  soul;  but 
th^  bear  them  separatelv,  severally. 
What  will  tiie  meeting  of  the  waters 
be  ?  and  may  we  yet  hope  to  see  it? 
If  it  was  required  that  there  should 
be  a  kind  of  submerged  world  of 
heathenism,  the  g^ms  of  the  true  and 
beautiful  would  not  necessarily  perish. 
The  church  was,  in  frtct,  the  uk  of 
safety,  to  which  all  that  inteUect  had 
effected,  all  arts,  all  sciences,  all  learn- 
ing, ied  for  refuge.  And  as  was  the 
ark  among  the  daric  waters,  so  was 
the  church  and  the  treasures  it  bore 
providentially  preserved  amid  the 
storms  without  that  darkened  and 
howled  around  it.  What  heathenism 
was  to  the  middle  ages,  in  respect  of 
the  hidden  treasures,  the  middfe  ages 
are  or  have  been  to  us.  Their  arts, 
their  sciences,  in  their  real  beauty,  have 
been  hidden  ;  they  have  had,  indeed, 
invisible  but  effective  virtues — the 
darimess,  the  l^iadness,  has  been  ours. 
We  have  been  doing  the  wotk  of  our 
age,  and  are  now  discovering  the  ffood 
that  was  in  theirs,  and  how  mudn  we 
are  indebted  to  them  fbr  oiir  own  ad- 
vancement. Let  us  Imagine  for  a 
moment  all  that  was  then  done  ob- 
literated, never  to  have  been  done, 
we  should  now  have  to  do  the  work 
of  the  so-called  ''dark  ages.*'  It 
would  be  impossible  to  start  up  what 
we  are  without  them.  As  we  reflect, 
their  works  present  themselves  to  us 
in  every  direction.  Look  where  we 
will,  we  shall  see  that  the  church  has 
been  the  school  of  mankind,  in  which 
all  knowledge  was  preserved,  and  frt>m 
which  new  sources  of  knowledge  have 
arisen.  She  was  the  salt  of  the  earth, 
to  rescue  it  from  rankness.  The  ram 
of  life  was  in  her  in  the  winter  of  the 
times.  When  the  wars  of  the  Roses 
would  have  made  our  England  a 
bowUng  wilderness,  there  were  places 
and  persons  unprofaned  and  respected 
by  the  murderer,  the  ravii^er,  the 
spoiler.  When  the  nobles,  the  mat 
barons  throughout  Europe,  w«re  little 
better  than  plunderers,  and  robbers 
even  on  the  highway— Robhi  HoodSi 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


438 


Ancient  Practice  of  Painting. 


[April, 


-without  that  ontlaw^s  labnlons  virtue 
aud  honest  humanitj — what  was  then 
doing  within  the  walls  of  convents 
and  monasteries?  What  were  then 
the  monks  about?  Embodying  laws 
of  peace,  and,  with  a  faith  m  the 
foture  improvement  of  mankind,  cul- 
tivating sciences ;  planning  and  build- 
ing up  in  idea  new  society,  foreseeing 
its  wants,  and  for  its  sake  pursuing 
the  useful  arts ;  inventing,  contriving, 
constructing,  and  decorating  all,  and 
preparing  even  the  outwanl  face  of 
the  world,  bj  their  wondrous  struc- 
tures, their  practical  application  of 
their  knowledge,  more  worthily  to  re- 
ceive a  people  whom  it  was  their 
hope,  their  faith,  to  bring  out  of  a 
state  of  turbulence  into  peace.  So 
far  as  the  church  was  concerned  in 
governments,  it  is  astonishing  how, 
when  the  body  of  the  state  was  mu- 
tilated and  dislocated,  she  kept  the 
heart  sound ;  so  that  where  it  might 
seem  tyranny  would  have  overwhelm- 
ed all,  she  made,  and  she  preserved 
those  wholesome  laws  to  which  we 
now  owe  our  liberty  and  every  social 
advancement.  But  it  is  in  the  light  of 
the  arts  and  sciences  our  present  pur- 
pose durects  us  to  view  their  doings. 
Let  us  take  one  fact — ^walk  the  streets 
of  even  our  inferior  provincial  towns, 
see  not  only  the  comforts  which,  in 
their  dwellings,  surround  the  inhabi- 
tants, but  the  magnificence  of  the  shops 
with  their  glass  fronts.  Whence  are 
they?  The  first  skill,  the  first  inven- 
tion, arose  from  the  study  of  ecclesi- 
astics, and  was  practised  by  cloistered 
monks.  Monastic  institutions  grew  out 
of  the  church ;  we  speak  of  them  as 
one.  It  would  not  be  very  difficult,  in 
fact,  to  trace  every  useful  invention, 
in  its  first  principle,  to  the  same  source. 
But  with  a  great  portion  of  mankind 
it  would  not  be  pleasing  so  to  trace 
their  means  of  enjoyment.  They 
have  been  habituated  to  think,  or  at 
least  to  feel,  otherwise.  History  has 
been  too  often  written  by  men  either 
averse  to  religion  itself,  or  inimical  to 
churchmen.  History,  such  as  it  has 
been  put  hito  the  hands  of  children, 
for  the  rudiments  of  their  education, 
has  taught  them  to  lisp  falsehoods 
against  the  church,  the  priesthood. 
The  "rapacity"  of  churchmen  is  an 
early  lesson.  Nor  can  we  wonder  if 
men  so  educated  grow  up  with  a  pre- 


judice, and,  when  they  begin  to 
scramble  themselves  for  what  thej 
can  get  in  the  world's  active  concemS) 
and  know  something  of  their  own 
natures,  are  little  inclined  to  cast  the 
film  from  their  eyes,  and  more  fairly 
to  unravel  the  mysteries  of  historical 
events.  Were  they  in  candour 
to  make  the  attempt,  they  would  sea 
rapacity  elsewhere;  and  that,  in  times 
more  irreverent  than  the  middle  ages, 
the  churchmen  have  not  been  the 
plunderers,  but  the  plundered.  The 
church  has  been  the  nurse  of  art,  of 
knowledge,  of  science.  Let  those  who 
are  accustomed  to  see  light  but  a  lit- 
tle way  beyond  them,  and  to  think  all 
a  blank  darkness  out  of  the  illumina- 
tion of  their  own  day,  consider  how 
they  have  often  seen,  in  many  a  dark 
and  stormy  night,  little  lights  shining 
through  a  great  distance,  and  hailea 
them  as  notices  of  a  warm  and  living 
virtue  of  domestic  and  industrial 
peace ;  and  then  let  them  see,  if  they 
will  have  it  that  the  middle  ages  were 
so  dark,  the  sunilitude;  when  the 
light  in  many  a  monastic  cell  shone 
brightly  upon  the  depth  of  that  night, 
and  dotted  the  general  gloom  with  as 
living  a  light;  when  monks,  when 
churchmen,  were  making  plans  for  the 
minsters  that  we  now  gaze  at  with 
so  much  astonishment— were  trans* 
cribing,  were  illuminating  works  of 
sacred  use,  were  registering  their  dis- 
coveries in  art,  their  "secreti"— and 
.  at  the  same  time,  were  not  unobser- 
vant of  the  highest  office  to  watch  and 
keep  alive  in  their  own  and  others* 
hearts  the  sacred^  fire,  which  still  we 
trust  bums,  and  will  bum  more  and 
more,  sendhog  forth  its  light  into  sur- 
rounding darkness.  We  would  speak 
of  a  general  character,  as  we  from  our 
hearts  believe  it  to  be  the  trae  one — 
not  asserting  that  there  were  no  in- 
stances, as  examples  from  which  hos- 
tile writers  might  draw  plausible  in« 
ferences  to  justify  their  prejudice. 
The  fairest  spots  are  overshadowed 
by  the  passing  clouds  of  a  general 
storm,  though  there  may  yet  be  li^ts 
of  safety  in  many  a  dwelling.  The 
history  of  the  arts  is  the  history  of 
civilisation,  and  these  arts  were  pre- 
served or  originated  in  monastic  in- 
stitutions. If  the  monks  were  legisla- 
tors, were  physicians,  were  architects, 
painters,  sculptors,  it  was  because  all 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Ancient  Practice  of  Painting, 


439 


the  learning  of  the  age  was  centered  in 
them.  ^^Neither  Frederic Barbarossa, 
John  king  of  Bavaria,  nor  Philip  the 
Hardy  of  France,  conld  read ;  nor  coold 
Theodoric  or  Charlemagne  write.  Of 
the  barons  whose  names  are  affixed  to 
Magna  Charta,  veir  few  could  write." 

We  suspect  that  Mrs  Merrifield  has 
fallen  into  a  common  error,  propa- 
gated by  historians  such  as  Robertson, 
with  regard  to  this  ignorance  of  letters. 
It  was  not  only  *'  usual  for  persons 
who  could  not  write  to  make  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  in  confirmation  of  a  charter," 
but  for  those  who  could.  If  a  little 
more  had  been  accurately  ascertained 
of  the  feelings  and  manners  of  the 
periods  in  question,  it  would  have  been 
seen  that  the  signature  of  the  cross, 
instead  of  thename,  was  more  accord- 
ing to  the  dignity  of  the  signing  person 
and  the  sanctity  of  the  act— in  fact,  a 
better  security  for  the  full  performance 
of  the  contract.  We  are  not  quite  sure 
that  "  pro  ignoratlone  literarum" 
implies  so  much  as  an  inability  to 
?rrite  a  name ;  for,  writing  being  then 
not  the  kind  of  clerkship  which  it  now 
is,  but  in  documents  of  moment, 
especially  an  artistic  aifalr,  it  may  not 
be  very  wonderful  if  **  persons  of  the 
highest  rank"  were  unable  to  compete 
with  the  practised  hands,  and  were 
nnwillinff  to  show,  and  to  the  deterio- 
ration of  the  outward  beauty  of  the 
documents,  their  inferiority  in  cali- 
graphy.  But,  after  all,  the  *^  innume- 
rable prooft,"  between  the  eight  and 
twelfth  centuries,  amount  only  to  four. 

That  of  Tassilo  duke  of  Bavaria, 
by  its  wording,  may  express  the  orna- 
mental character,  **  Quod  manu  pro- 
pria, ut  potui,  characteres  chiroffraphe 
mchoando  dei^nxi  coram  jndicibus 
atque  optimatibns  meis."  If,  how- 
ever, this  Duke  of  Bkvaria  was  so 
poor  a  scribe,  he  was  at  least  the 
founder  of  a  convent  that  made  full 
amends  for  hisdefidency—oneof  whose 
nuns,  Diemndis,  was  the  most  inde- 
fatigable transcriber  of  any  age.  An 
amazing  list  of  her  calignq>hic  handi- 
craft is  extant,  almost  incredible,  if 
we  did  not  know  the  patient  zeal  of 
those  days  of  fervent  piety.  Those 
who  are  desurous  to  obtain  better  in- 
formation than  is  commonly  received 
on  the  subject  of  the  learning,  as  well 
as  Uie  piety  of  the  middle  ages,  will  be 
amply  repaid  by  consulting  Mr  Mait- 


land's  ''  Dark  Ages,"  in  which  the  his- 
torians are  refuted  to  their  shame,  and 
the  charge  of  ignorance  is  most  fairly 
retorted.  In  his  very  interesting 
volume,  this  list  of  Diemndis  may  be 
seen.  The  works  copied  are  indeed 
religious  works,  which  some  of  our  his- 
torians may  have  looked  upon  with  a 
prejudice,  and  as  proofs  of  the  dark- 
ness of  the  times.  Mr  Maitlaud*s 
book  will  undeceive  any  who  are  of 
that  opinion,  containing,  as  it  does, 
so  many  proofs,  in  original  letters  and 
discourses,  of  erudition,  perfect  ac- 
quaintance with  the  sacred  Scriptures, 
of  eloquence  and  intellectual  acuteness. 
Whatever  books  these  *'  ignorant" 
monks  and  ecclesiastics  possessed,  there 
is  one  invention  of  a  time  included  by 
most  censurers  of  the  *^  dark  ages"  in 
that  invidious  term,  the  absence  of 
which  would  have  deprived  this  **  en- 
lightened" age  of  half  the  books  it 
possesses,  of  half  the  knowledge  of  the 
**  reading  public,"  and  of  we  know  not 
how  many  other  inventions  to  which  it 
may  have  been  the  unacknowledged 
parent:  we  are  grateful  enough  to 
acknowledge  that,  without  it,  we  should 
not  be  now  writing  these  remarks,  and 
should  certainly  lose  many  readers — 
the  invention  of  spectacles.  There 
are  notices  of  them  in  A.  D.  1299.  It 
is  said  on  a  monument  in  the  church 
of  Sta.  Maria  Maggiore,  at  Florence, 
that  Salvino  degli  Armati,  who  died 
in  1317,  invented  them.  "Indeed, 
P.  Marahese  attributes  the  inviention 
of  spectacles  to  Padre  Alesandro," 
(a  Dominican  and  miniature  painter;) 
"  but  the  memorial  of  him  in  flie  Chro- 
nicle of  St  Katherine,  at  Pisa,  proves 
that  he  had  seen  spectacles  made 
before  he  made  them  himself;  and 
that,  with  a  cheerful  and  willing  heart, 
he  communicated  all  he  knew." 

"The  proof,"  says  Mrs  Merrifield, 
"  that  Europe  is  indebted  to  religious 
communities  for  the  preservation  of 
the  arts  during  the  dark  ages,  rests 
on  the  fact  that  the  most  ancient 
examples  of  Christian  art  consist  of 
the  remains  of  mural  pictures  in 
churches,  of  illun^inations  in  sacred 
books,  and  of  vessels  for  the  use  of 
the  church  and  the  altar,  and  on  the 
absence  of  all  similar  decorations  on 
buildings  and  utensils  devotedto secular 
uses  du^ig  the  same  period— to  which 
may  be  added,  that  many  of  the  early 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


440 


AMdemtPrQciiceqfPBtmtm^. 


[Apail, 


treatisee  on  paintiiig  were  the  woik  of 
eodeoastics,  aa  well  is  the  pamtings 
tbemBelTes.  A  limilar  remark  maj 
be  made  with  regard  to  architectm^, 
manj  of  the  earliest  professors  of  whidi 
were  monks.'*  We  believe  Mrs  Mer- 
rifield  here  is  short  of  the  £aet ;  and 
that,  where  the  monks  were  not  the 
builders,  they  were  in  almost  all  in- 
fltanoes  the  designers.  Their  architec- 
ture, indeed,  and  all  that  pertained  to 
it,  was  a  Christian  book  to  teach; 
their  designs  contained  Christian  les- 
sons, which  the  knowledge  of  ecclesi- 
astics could  alone  siq>ply.  ^^  Painting 
was  essentialij  a  rehgious  occupiUion ; 
the  eariy  professors  of  the  art  beUered 
that  they  had  an  especial  mission  to 
make  known  the  works  and  miracles 
4>f  Grod  to  the  common  people  who 
were  unacquainted  '  with  letters: — 
*Ag)i  nomini  grossi  che  non  sanno 
lettere.*  ActuiUed  by  this  sentiment, 
it  is  not  surprising  that  so  many  of 
the  Italian  painters  should  hare  been 
members  of  monastic  establishments. 
It  has  been  observed  that  the  different 
religious  orders  selected  some  particu- 
lar branch  of  the  art,  which  they  prac- 
tised with  great  success  in  the  con- 
vents of  their  respective  orders.  Thus 
the  Gesuati  and  UmHiati  attached 
themselves  to  painting  on  glass  and 
architecture,  the  Olivetani  to  tarsia 
work,  the  Benedictines  and  Camaldo- 
lites  to  painting  generally;  and  the 
skonks  of  Monte  Casino  to  miniature 
painting;  while theDominicansappear 
to  have  practised  all  the  various 
branches  of  the  fine  arts,  (with  the 
exception  of  mosaic,)  and  to  have 
produced  artists  who  excelled  in  each." 
Their  devotion  to  the  arts  was,  indeed, 
«  religious  devotion;  their  treatises 
commence  with  most  earnest  prayers, 
and  solemn  dedication  of  themselves 
and  their  woiks  to  the  Holy  Trinity ; 
and  not  nnfirequently  with  a  long  ex- 
ordiom,  introdudng  the  creation  and 
fall  of  man,  as  we  see  in  the  prefaces 
of  Theophilus  and  Cennino  CenninL 

Whilst  the  eleventh,  twelfth,  and 
thirteenth  centuries  saw  the  erection 
of  magnificent  cathedrals,  (our  own 
York,  Salisbuiy,  and  Westminster 
were  built  in  the  thirteenth,)  the 
manners  of  the  people  were  yet  rude : 
one  plate  aerved  ror  man  and  wife; 
there  were  no  wooden-handled  knives ; 
a  house  did  not  contain  more  tluui 


two  driaking-cnps.  There  were  nei- 
ther wax  nor  tallow  cancBes ;  dothea 
were  of  leather,  unlined.  Had  tho 
middle  and  lower  classes,  in  our  day, 
no  better  dwdlingi  than  were  the 
houses  belonging  to  those  conditlona 
so  late  as  the  thirteenth  and  four- 
teenth centuries,  we  dare  not  to  con- 
jecture how  much  worse  would  be 
their  moral  condition.  *^  In  the  thir- 
teenth and  fourteenth  centuries,  the 
houses  of  the  English,  of  the  ndddle 
and  lower  classes,  consisted  in  general 
of  a  ground-floor  only,  divided  into 
two  apartments— namely  a  hall,  into 
which  the  principal  door  opened,  and 
which  was  their  room  for  coc^g, 
eating,  and  receiving  visitors ;  and  a 
diambOT  adjoining  the  hall,  and  open« 
ing  out  of  it,  which  was  tiie  private 
apartment  of  the  females  of  the 
family,  and  the  bed-room  at  night. 
The  greater  part  of  the  houses  in  Lon- 
don were  bmlt  after  this  plan."  The 
nuMre  wealthy  classes  were  not  very 
muchbetterlodged;  theprmdpaldifiBBr- 
ence  being  an  upper  floor,  the  access  to 
which  was  by  a  flight  of  steps  oat- 
ude.  As  arts  advanced,  manners  re- 
fined :  the  Crusades  had  their  domestio 
as  well  as  warlike  effects ;  they  in- 
duced a  taste  for  dress,  and  general 
luxury;  and  the  Saracens  were  ready 
examples  for  imitation.  It  was  then, 
and  when  commercial  enterprise 
enriched  a  few  dties,  the  arts  of  the 
moi^  began  to  be  appreciated ;  bnt 
ihey  did  not  readily  assume  a  secular 
character — panting  smd  other  decora- 
tions were  m  design  either  religious, 
or  historical  with  a  religkras  r^(»^ence 
or  moraL  It  is  curious  that  dotta 
were  not  found  in  omvents  after  they 
had  been  among  the  articles  of  domes- 
tic ftimiture  in  castles  and  palaces. 
Perhaps,  this  may  be  an  instance  of  a 
devotional  sinrit  of  the  monks,  who 
may  have  ttionght  it  an  impiety  to  re- 
lax the  disdi^ine  of  reckoning  time  by 
the  repetition  of  Ave  Marias,  Pater- 
nosters and  Mis^eres.  Hiey  were, 
however,  generally  adopted  about  the 
latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

To  those  who  are  at  all  advanced 
in  life,  and  who  must  themselves 
remember  a  very  different  state  of 
society  fi^m  the  present,  and  the  in- 
troduction of  our  present  luxuries  and 
comf(H*ts  into  houses,  and  alteration  <^ 
habits  and  mannen,  it  must  seem  bnt 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Ande^U  Practice  ofPamtmg. 


a  step  backwards  into  comparative 
barbansm.  A  rery  few  ceBtories  take 
as  back  to  paper  windows ;  and  even 
they  were  removable  aff  famitu^  not 
attached  to  tlie  house.  Wehaveonr- 
selves  heard  an  old  person  say,  that 
he  remembered  the  time  when  there 
were  only  two  carriages  kq)t  in  a  dty, 
the  second  in  importance  in  England 
— ^who  now  in  that  city  would  task 
himself  to  connt  the  number?  Nor 
was  our  own  conntrv  sin^ar  in  the 
deficiencies  of  the  loxuries  of  life. 
The  changes  were  general  and  shnul- 
taneous ;  aild  tliis  is  extraordinaiy, 
that  the  revival  of  arts  and  Uterature 
was  not  confined  to  one  country  or  one 
place,  but  arose  as  it  were  from  one 
geneial  impuhie,  and  simultaneously, 
among  people  under  varieties  of  cli- 
mate, circumstances,  and  manners. 

It  is  time  we  should  sav  something 
of  the  book  which  has  led  us  to  make 
this  somewhat  long  introdoction.  It 
consists  of  two  volumes,  containing 
original  treatises,  dating  from  the 
twelfth  to  the  eighteenth  centuries,  <»i 
the  arts  of  painting  in  oil,  minlatiire, 
mosaic,  and  on  glass ;  of  gilding,  dve- 
ing,  the  preparation  of  coioars  and  of 
artificial  gems,  by  Mrs  Merrifield, 
whose  valuable  translation  of  Cennino 
Oennini  has  been  reviewed  in  the 
pages  of  Maga.  Mm  Merrifleld  is  like- 
wise the  authcMress  of  an  excellent  little 
Tolume  on  fresco  painting,  very 
opportunely  puMished.  The  present 
woiic  is  the  result  of  a  commission 
from  the  Government  to  proceed  to 
Italy,  to  collect  MSS.,  and  every 
possible  information  respectine  the 
processes  and  methods  of  oil-pamting 
adopted  by  the  Italians.  As  the 
Original  Treatises  discovered,  and 
now  published,  contain  much  other 
matter  besides  that  which  rdates 
to  painting  in  oil,  the  work*  is  more 
comprehensive  than  the  first  purpose 
of  the  commission  wonld  have  made 
it.  The  introduction,  which  oocupies 
nearly  two-thirds  of  the  first  v<^me, 
is  a  very  able  performance ;  in  it  is  a 
comprehensive  view  of  the  history  of 
the  fine  arts.  The  conclusions  drawn 
frmn  the  documents,  the  result  in  de- 
tail of  her  search  and  labours,  are  so 
clearly  laid  before  the  reader,  with 
ample  proofs  of  each  particular  fact 
and  inference,  as  greatly  to  f^lHtate 
the  reader  in  his  inquiry  into  the 


441 

documents  themselves.  He  will 
find  that  Mrs  Merrifleld,  hy  her 
arrangement  of  the  parts,  and  bring- 
ing them  to  bear  upon  her  puipose, 
has  saved  him  that  trouble  imch  the 
nature  of  the  work  would  otherwise 
have  necessitated.  Besides  that  her 
introduction  contains  a  separate  and 
complete  treatise  on  each  branch  of 
art,  the  preliminary  observaticms, 
hei^g  each  document,  render  its 
contents  most  tangiUe.  At  the  end 
-of  the  second  volume  is  an  index, 
which  in  a  work  of  this  kind  it  is  most 
desirable  to  possess — the  want  of 
which  in  Mr  £astlake*s  excellent 
Materiais/or  a  Hittory  of  OU-pamting 
we  have  often  had  occasion  to  regret ; 
and  we  do  hope  that,  in  his  forth- 
coming wortc  on  the  Italian  practice, 
he  win  make  amends  for  this  defect 
by  an  index  which  will  embrace  the 
contents  of  the  ^^Materials.*'  We  have 
onrsdvee  spent  much  time,'that  might 
have  been  saved  by  an  index,  in  turn- 
ing over  the  pages  for  passages  to 
which  we  wished  to  refer,  for  that 
work  is  one  strictly  of  reference,  al- 
though interesting  in  the  first  reading. 

The  documents  consist  of  the  follow- 
ing MSS. — the  manuscripts  of  Jehan 
Le  Begue,  of  St  Acdemar,  of  EracUus, 
of  Alcherius,  in  the  first  volume.  In 
the  second — the  Bolognese,  Mar- 
dana,  Paduan,  Yolpato,  and  Brussels 
manuscripts;  extracts  from  ah  origi- 
nal manuscript  by  Sig.  Gio.  (yKelly 
Edwards;  extracts  from  a  disserta- 
tion read  by  Sig.  Retro  Edwards, 
in  the  academy  of  fine  arts  at  Venice, 
on  the  propriety  of  restoring  the  pub* 
lie  pictures. 

As  these  several  MSS.  open  to  us 
new  sources  of  information,  most  im- 
portant in  establishing  certain  Hacts, 
from  whence  the  art  of  painting  among 
ns  may  enter  upon  great  and  impor- 
tant changes,  it  may  not  be  altogether 
nnproAtaMe  to  give  some  short  ac- 
count of  them  in  their  order. 

The  manuscript  of  Jehan  Le  Begue, 
^^  a  licentiate  in  the  law,  and  notary 
of  the  masters  of  the  mint  in  Paris,** 
was  composed  by  him  in  the  year 
1431,  in  his  sixty-third  year.  It  is, 
however,  professedly  a  compilation 
firom  works  of  Jehan  Alcherius,  or 
Alcerius,  of  whom  little  is  known,  nor 
is  it  certain  that  he  was  a  painter. 
His  woric    probably   preceded    Le 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


442 


Ancient  Practice  of  Painting, 


[April, 


Begae*s  about  twenty  years.  Alche- 
rios  himself  was  a  collector  of  recipes, 
from  various  sources,  during  thirty 
years,  and  twenty  years  afterwards 
his  MSS.  came  into  the  hands  of  Le 
Begue. 

The  manuscript  of  Petms  de  St 
Audemar,  according  to  Mr  Eastlake, 
may  be  of  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  or 
beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
He  is  supposed  to  have  been  a  native 
of  France,  (Pierre  de  St  Omer.)  Some 
of  the  recipes  are  found  in  the  "  Clavi- 
cula,"  attributed  to  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury ;  but  this  is  no  argument  against 
the  date,  for  it  was  at  all  times  the  prac- 
tice to  make  selections  from  former 
"secreti." 

The  manuscripts  of  Eraclius  consist 
of  three  books — the  first  two  metrical, 
the  third  in  p^ose.  Nothing  is  known 
of  the  author.  *^  Two  ancient  copies 
only  of  the  MS.  of  Eraclius  have  been 
hitherto  discovered,  and  it  is  some- 
what singular  that  both  are  bound  up 
with  the  MSS.  of  Theophilus."  It  is 
not  easy  to  fix  a  dato  to  Eraclius. 
Mrs  Merrifield  thinks  ^'that  the 
metrical  parts  only  constituted  the 
Treatise  ^  de  coloribus  et  artibus  Ro' 
jncmorum^  of  Eraclius,  and  that  this 
part  is  more  ancient  than  a  great  part 
of  the  third  book." 

'  Manuscripts  of  Alcherins. —  These 
are  of  two  dates,  1398,  and  again 
corrected  1411,  after  his  return  from 
Bologna,  "according  to  further  infor- 
mation, which  he  subsequently  re- 
ceived by  means  of  several  authentic 
books  treating  of  such  subjects,  and 
otherwise."  These  are  the  Le  Begue 
manuscripts. 

"  The  Bolognese  manuscript  is  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  It  is  a  small 
volume  in  duodecimo  on  cotton  paper, 
and  is  preserved  in  the  library  of  the 
R.  R.  Canonici  Regolari,  in  the  con- 
vent of  St  Salvatore  in  Bologna." 
There  is  no  name  of  the  author^it  is 
written  sometimes  *^ln  Italianised 
Latm,  and  sometimes  Italian,  with  a 
mixture  of  Latin  words,  as  was  usual 
at  that  period."  It  has  no  precise 
date.  It  is  an  interesting  notice  of  all 
the  decorative  arts  practised  in  Bolog- 
na at  that  period,  and  contains  a  sys- 
tematically arranged  collection  of 
recipes. 

The  Marciana  manuscript  is  pf  the 
sixteenth  century,  in  the  library  of  St 


Marco  at  Venice.  The  recipes  are  in 
the  Tuscan  dialect,  and  some  are  but 
little  known.  They  appear  to  have  been 
compiled  for  the  use  of  a  convent,  by 
some  monk  or  lay  brother,  who, 
in  his  capacity  of  physician  to  the  in- 
firmarv,  prepared  both  medicaments, 
varnishes,  and  pigments.  Names  of 
artists  are  mentioned  which  show 
that  the  author  lived  at  the  J>eginning 
or  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  Paduan  manuscript,  Mrs 
Merrifield  asserts  to  be  Venetian. 
It  is  in  quarto,  on  paper,  without 
date ;  but  the  handwriting  is  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  It  shows .  a 
manifest  deviation  from  the  practice 
established  in  the  Mardana  MS. — the 
introduction  of  spirit  of  turpentine  as 
a  diluent,  and  mastic  varnish,  instead 
of  the  hard  varnishes  of  amber  and 
sandarac.  In  it  we  find  that.* ^oil- 
paintings  had  begun  to  suffer  from  the 
effects  of  age ;  and  that  they  required, 
or  it  was  bdieved  that  they  required,  to 
be  washed  with  some  corrosive  liquid, 
and  to  be  revamished.  Directions,  or 
rather  recipes,  for  both  these  processes 
are  given."  Some  of  the  recipes  are 
in  Latin,  supposed  "secreti,"  and 
therefoce  given  in  that  language. 

The  Volpato  manuscript.— The  au- 
thor, a  painter,  Giovanni  Baptista 
Volpato,  of  Bassano,was  bom  1633— 
a  pupil  of  Novelli,  who  had  been  a 
pupil  of  Tintoretto.  A  work  from  a 
MS.  of  Volpato  was  announced  for 
publication  at  Vicenza  in  1685,  but  it 
is  believed  that  it  has  not  been  pub- 
lished. The  MS.  now  first  brought 
to  light  by  ^Irs  Merrifield  was  lent  to 
her,  with  permission  to  copy,  by  Sig. 
Basseggio,  librarian  and  president  of 
the  Athenaeum  of  Bassano.  There  is 
good  reason  to  believe  that  it  was 
written  during  the  latter  end  of  seven- 
teenth, or  l^ginning  of  eighteenth 
century. 

The  Brussels  manuscript. — ^This 
now  published  is  a  portion  of  a  MS. 
preserved  in  a  public  libraiy  of  Brus- 
sels, written  by  Pierre  Le  Brun,  con- 
temporary with  the  Caracci  and  Ru- 
bens ;  its  date  is  1635. 

Sig.  Edwards's  manuscript  is  writ- 
ten by  the  son  of  Sig.  Pietro  Edwards, 
who  was  employed  by  the  Venetian 
and  Austrian  governments  in  the  res- 
toration of  the  pictures  in  Venice. 
He   died   in    1821.     His   son,  Sig. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Ancient  Practice  of  Painting. 


443 


O'Kelly  Edwards,  wrote  an  account 
of  the  method  of  restoration,  with 
interesting  matters  respecting  the 
public  pictnres  generalij.  Mrs  Mer- 
rifield  has  taken  extracts,  the  work 
not  being  permitted  to  be  published 
without  the  permission  of  the  Acade- 
my of  Venice,  which  was  refused. 

There  follow  also  extracts  from  a 
dissertation  read  by  Sig.  Pietro  Ed- 
wards to  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts  at 
Venice,  on  the  propriety  of  restoring 
the  public  pictures. 

Besides  these  documentary  papers, 
Mrs  Merrifield  extended  her  inquiries 
among  the  best  modem  painters, 
copiers,  and  restorers,  and  has  re- 
corded their  opinions:  we  cannot 
call  them  more  than  opinions,  for 
there  is  no  certain  conclusion,  on  any 
one  point  of  inquiry,  to  be  dra¥ra 
from  her  conferences  with  these  per- 
sons. They  give,  indeed,  their  iiffor- 
mation,  such  as  it  is,  clearly 'and 
decidedly  enough,  but  they  are  at  dis- 
agreement with  each  other.  It  is 
creditable  to  foreign  artists  to  add, 
that  only  in  one  instance  was  any  re- 
luctance shown  to  be  communicative. 

It  will  have  been  observed  that 
these  documents  go  back  far  enough 
in  time,  and  down  to  a  sufficiently  late 
date;  it  should  be  presumed,  there- 
fore, that  in  them  will  be  found  every 
pardcular  of  practice  from  the  change 
of  method,  from  the  tempera  to  paint- 
ing in  oil — such  as  it  was  after  "  the 
discovery"  of  Van  Eyck.  But  if  we 
are  to  conclude  that  the  discove^  of 
Van  Eyck  is  actually  contained  in 
these  documentary  "  secreti,"  it  must 
be  admitted  to  have  been  rathera  dis- 
covery of  application  than  of  material. 

There  is  no  positive  distinct  state- 
ment to  the  effect  that  this  and  this 
did  Van  Eyck,  or  where  is  the 
identical  recipe  which  he  intro- 
duced into  Italy.  This  is  per- 
haps no  proof,  nor  cause  of  reason- 
able conjecture,  that  the  materials  of 
his  method  are  not  set  forth  in  some 
of  these  MS.,— on  the  contrary,  it 
may  have  been  the  cause  of  their  not 
being  set  down  as  Van  Eyck's,  upon 
the  assumption  that  a  new  practice 
and  application  only  was  introduced. 
Indeed  it  will  be  scarcely  thought, 
now  that  so  much  has  been  brought  to 
light,  that  any  vehicle  for  pigments 
has  been  kept  back  by  the  several 
writers  of  the  MSS.    If  it  then  be 


asked  what  is  the  conclusion  to  be 
drawn— what  the  really  valuable  result 
of  these  commissions,  and  the  inde- 
fatigable research  of  sud^  able  persons 
as  Mr  Eastlake,  Mr  Hendne,  and 
Mrs  Merrifield— it  may  be  answered 
that  they  all  conclude  in  one  and  the 
same  view — ^that  the  practice  of  the 
best  masters  of  the  best  time  con- 
sisted in  the  use  of  olio-resinous  var- 
nishes. We  should  have  said  an  olio- 
resinous  varnish,  and  that  amber — 
were  it  not  for  the  proof  that  sandarac 
and  amber  were  chiefly  the  tipo  sub- 
stances— that  they  were  fi^uently  sy- 
nonymous theonefortheother,  and  that 
they  were  not  unfr^uently  both  used 
together.  Nor  can  it  be  denied  that 
there  were  occasionally  other  addi- 
tions. Mr  Eastlake  places  great  con- 
fidence in  the  olio  (Tabezzo,  which, 
not  without  a  fair  show  of  evidence, 
he  concludes  (and  we  think  in  this 
Mrs  Merrifield  agrees  with  him) 
to  have  been  the  varnish  used  by 
Correggio,  according  to  Armenini. 
But  we  are  nowhere  as  yet  assured 
that  it  was  used  by  Correggio  as  a 
vehicle. 
If  we  remember  rightly,  there  is  a 

Cage  in  Mr  Eastlake^s  book  which 
a  tendency  to  alarm  our  modem 
painters,  and  perhaps  make  some  ab- 
stain from  the  use  of  the  old  olio-resin- 
ous medium.  He  speaks  somewhere  of 
its  liability  to  crack,  to  come  away  in 
pieces,  but  after  a  long  lapse  of  time. 
We  could  have  wished  he  had  been 
more  explicit  on  this  point :  it  would 
have  been  well  to  have  shown  the 
difference,  if  there  be  any,  as  we  feel 
somewhat  confident  there  must  be, 
between  the  effect  of  olio-resinous 
vamishes  used  over  the  surface  of  a 
picture,  and  as  mixed  with  the  colours 
m  the  painting.  If  we  are  not  mis- 
taken, he  refers  to  some  of  the  old 
tempera  paintings  before  Van  Eyck's 
time,  covered  with  the  varnish,  and 
particularly  to  those  of  the  old  By- 
zantine school.  We  do  not  ourselves 
remember  to  have  ever  seen  on  old 

Pictures  such  changes,  though  we. 
ave  seen  them  to  a  lamentable  and 
obliterative  degree  on  pictures  paint- 
ed within  the  last  fifty  years  in  oil 
and  mastic  varnish.  We  throw 
out  these  observations  because  it 
may  attract  the  notice  of  Mr  East- 
lake,  before  his  long-expected 
volume  on  the  Italian  practice  comes 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


AU 


AndaU  Praetiee  ofPaMng. 


[ApriU 


from  the  pTMB.  It  mty  be  doulitfol 
if  Van  Eyck  had  himaeU;  at  first,  that 
entire  confideoce  in  hi«  materialf  wfaidi 
time  has  eAiown  thej  deeenred— to 
parts  of  his  moat  eUborate  and  &- 
mons  iMctiure  were  pnt  in  In  diatenmer 
and  Tarnished  oyei^— yet  we  are  led  to 
biBlieve  that  the  pecoJiar  effect  of  his 
mediom  was  the  preservation  of 
colours  in  their  original  purity.  It 
should  be  mentioneid,  also,  that  one 
improvement  supposed  to  have  been 
introdooed  by  Van  £yck,  or  rather 
the  Van  £yd»,  was  the  dryer— the 
substitntion  of  white  oopperas  for 
lead:  and  this  appears  to  have  been 
adopted  from  chemical  knowledge,  it 
havmg  been  shown  that,  whereas  oils 
take  up  the  lead,  no  portion  of  the 
copperas  becomes  incorporated  with 
the  oils,  that  substance  only  facilitat- 
ing the  absorption  of  oxygen. 

Although  these  MS.  treatises  do  not 
go  farther  badi  than  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, assuming  that  to  be  tiie  date  of  the 
one  by  Eradius,  yet  there  is  reason  to 
Bttppose  tiiat  the  eariiest  treatises  are 
compilations  of  the  recipes,  the  m- 
cretty  of  still  earlier  ages.  They  be- 
come thus  more  interesting  as  links 
which,  though  broken  here  and  there, 
indicate  the  character  of  the  chaii\  in 
the  history  of  arts,  which  may  be  still 
left  to  complete  without  any  matmal 
deviation  from  the  original  pattern. 
That  character  was  undoubtedly  re- 
ligious, but  it  is  not  true  that  every 
o&er  show  of  art  was  held  in  con- 
tempt, as  some  maintain.  The  gold- 
smith, the  leweller,  the  workers  in 
glass  and  all  kinds  oi  metal,  whose 
recipes  may  be  found  in  these  volumes 
of  Mrs  Aierrifield,  showed  as  much 
skill,  (and  a  fiur  better  taste  in  design) 
somewhat  out  of  the  line  of  religions 
ornament,  as  any  of  the  last  two  oen- 
turies.  Even  in  the  ninth  century, 
among  the  gifts  of  the  King  of  Mercia 
to  a  monastery,  we  find  a  golden 
curtain,  on  which  is  wrous^t  the  tak- 
ing of  Troy,  and  a  ^ded  cup  which 
is  chased  over  all  the  outside  with 
savage  vine-dressers,  ^ting  with 
serpents.  We  can  imagine  it  a  work 
of  which  a  Benvenuto  Cellini  need 
not  have  been  ashamed. 

A  woodcut  in  page  ^f^y  of  the 
introduction,  and  which  Mrs  Mem- 
field  has  adopted  to  ornament  the 
cover,  r^resents  "a  writer  of  the 
fifteenth  century.'*    It  is  taken  firom 


a  manuscript  in  the  Biblioth^e  at 
Paris.  It  is  not  oily  enrions  aa 
showing  what  an  importontand  labo- 
rious art  writing  was  in  those  days^ 
and  what  machinery  it  required,  bat 
for  the  religious  mark  which  desig- 
nate the  character  of  the  writing—is 
the  toner  is  a  painting  <tf  the  cmd- 
fixioQ.  Mrs  MerrifielS  had  told  us, 
that,  in  a  catalMue  of  the  sale  of 
**  furniture  of  (^taiini,  the  rich 
Venetian  trader^  who  resided  at  St 
Botolph's  in  London  in  1481,  or  in 
that  of  a  nobleman  in  1572,**  neither 
looking-glasses  nor  chairs  are  men- 
tioned !  Yet  in  this  woodout  there 
is  not  only  a  diair,  but  exactiy  the 
one  which  has  been  recently  reintoo- 
dnced  in  modem  fumiidiing.  Sunely 
the  date  1672  would  throw  sosie 
excQse  upon  that  of  1481— «id  offer 
a  £Bdr  eoi^ecture  that  there  must 
have  beoi  some  peculiar  cause  for  tiie 
omi^on.  We  must  have  sufficient 
proof  of  chairs  at  the  later  date.  Does 
the  writer  in  this  cut  sit  alone?^the 
room  is  not  even  indicated--or  was  he 
(me  of  many  sitting  toother  in  the 
Scriptorium?  Mr  Maitland  thinks 
that,  in  later  times,  the  8orq;>torinm 
was  asmall  cell,  that  would  only  hold 
one  person-Hiot  so  in  earlier  times. 
We  quote  a  passage  from  his  book 
upon  the  sulriect:  ^'But  the  Scrip- 
torium of  earlier  times  was  obviously 
an  ^arbnent  capable  of  containing 
many  persons;  iaii  in  which  many 
persons  did,  in  fact,  work  together  in 
a  v^  businees-like  manner,  at  the 
transcription  of  books.  The  first  cf 
these  points  is  implied  in  a  very  curi- 
ous document,  which  is  one  of  the 
very  few  extant  specimens  of  French 
Yisigothic  MS.  in  uncial  characters, 
and  bdongs  to  the  eighth  century. 
It  is  a  short  form  of  oonsecraticMit 
or  benediction,  barbarously  entitled 
*  OratUmem  m  Scr^ptiaris^^  and  is  to 
the  following  effect,  *  Vouchsafe,  O 
Lord,  to  Mess  this  Scriptorium  of  thy 
servants,  and  all  that  dwell  therein, 
that,  whatsoever  sacred  writings  shall 
be  here  read  or  written  by  them,  they 
may  receive  with  understanding,  and 
bring  the  same tosood effect,  through 
ourLord,* "  &c  We  can  imagine  that 
we  see  the  impress  of  this  prayor  in 
the  representation,  in  the  comw  of 
the  woodcut  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking.  Mrs  Merrifield  enumerates 
to  a  large  extent  the  works  of  such 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1B49.] 


Amdeai  PrmcUce  of  Ptummff. 


445 


wnters:  HUmy  oi  tbem  mast  luire 
been  eztremdy  bemtifiiL  ^'The 
ehoral  books  belonging  to  thecatiM- 
dral  of  Ferrara  are  thirty  in  number, 
iweuij'two  of  vlddi  are  twenty-six 
IndieB  kmg,  by  eisbteen  in  breadth, 
and tberanainingei^  smaller.  They 
were  begnn  in  1477,  and  comideted 
in  1539.  The  most  interesting  of 
these  books,  for  the  beanty  of  i^ 
chacacters,  as  wdi  as  for  the  minia- 
tores,  were  execnted  by  Jaoopo 
JFiHpjx)  d^Ai^genta,  Frate  EvangeliAba 
da  Keggio,  a  Fraaciscan,  Andrea 
deUe  Veze,  GHoraimi  Yendramin  of 
Fadna,  and  Martino  di  Georgio  da 
Modena.  The  parchment  on  wfaidi 
these  hocks  are  written  is  in  ezoeUent 
preser^atiofli.  It  is  worthy  of  remark, 
that  great  part  of  the  parchmait  or 
veUmn  for  these  books  waa  brought 
from  Germany,  or  at  least  w$s  mann- 
fiEustnued  by  Germans.  There  is  an 
entry  in  theiecords  of  the  catiiedral, 
for  the  year  1477,  of  a  snm  €i  money 
paid  to  M.  Alberto  da  Lamagna,  for 
265  skins  of  yeUnm ;  of  another  sum 
paid  in  1501,  for  60  skins,  to  Piero 
Ibemo,  also  a  German;  and  to 
Creste,  another  German,  for  50  akiIU^ 
fomished  by  them  <m  aoeonnt  of  these 
books.**  Catigraphy  and  miniature- 
painting  were  sister  arts:  so  lugfafy 
were  both  esteemed,  tiiat  the  right 
hands  of  the  writer  and  miniatore- 
painters,  who  o(Hnpleted  the  choral 
books  of  Eerrara,  and  tiiose  of  the 
monastery  degli  AngeU  in  Florence, 
are  preserved  in  a  casket  with  ^e 
utmost  yeneration.  '^The  best 
mhiiatnre-palnter  of  the  tenth  century 
was  Godemann,  who  was  chiqplain  of 
the  Bishop  of  Wimibester,  from  a.d. 
963  to  984,  and  afterwards  Abbot  of 
Ihomiey.  His  Beoedictional,  orna- 
mented witii  thirty  beantifiil  minia- 
tures, is  m  the  possession  of  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire.  IntheelcTenth 
ceatuiT,  sdkools  of  painting  were 
formed  at  HUdeshehn  and  Paderbom, 
and  the  art  was  exerdsed  hy  eoclesi- 
astiosofthehi^iarrank.*'  Francesco 
dai  libri,  so  called  from  his  constant 
emplojrment  in  fllnminating  MS., 
was  one  of  die  most  eminent  mimatori 
of  the  fifteentii  century.  Mliat 
Vasari  sm  of  him  is  quite  delightfol, 
whether  it  conveys  the  sentimeiit  of 
Vasari  himself  or  of  Francesco— that, 
having  lived  to  &  great  age,  *^  he  died 
contented   and  hi^py,    because,   in 


additkm  to  the  peace  <d  mind  which 
he  derived  from  his  own  virtues,  he 
left  a  son  who  was  a  better  painter 
than  himedf.**  We  doi^t  if  this 
total  absence  of  Jealousy  is  a  r^srj 
general  parental  virtue.  The  passage 
reminds  tis  (tf  the  noble-hearted 
Achilles,  whose  ghost  in  the  shades 
below  anxiously  inquiredrei^cting his 
son  if  he  excelled  in  glory,  and  bein^ 
answered  in  tiie  affinnative,  stalked 
away  rejoicing  greatly.  It  may  not 
be  universally  &own,  that  the  word 
miniature  is  derived  from  minium, 
red  lead,  with  which  the  initial  let- 
ters were  written,  or  perii^is  more 
commoaly  pdnted:  hence  our  Ru- 
brics. 

Mosaic  painting  was  for  some  time 
the  rival  of  oil-painting.  It  was  much 
esteemed  at  Venice,  where  the  damp 
aflfiocted  other  kinds  of  painting.  It 
was  introduced  unquestionably  by  the 
Gre^.  It  afforded  work  for  several 
centuries  in  the  decoration  Of  the 
churdi  of  St  Mark,  commencing  fr(Hn 
the  eleventh  century. 

This  department  of  art  was  not 
without  its  jealousies.  The  Znceati 
were  diarged  by  their  rivals  with 
having  filled  up  d^ciencies  in  their 
work  with  other  painting,  and  though 
Utian  vindicated  them,  and  is  sup- 
posed to  have  assisted  them  in  designs, 
the  Venetian  govaimient  decreed  that 
they  should  re-execute  the  work  at 
their  own  cost,  which  nevertheless 
was  not  done.  Mosaic  work^v  did 
not  always  work  from  the  designs  oi 
others ;  some,  and  these  not  inconsider- 
ablCi  painters  applied  themselves  to  tMs 
art  l^ere  were  great  ^'  secret! "  in 
the  working  in  mosaic,  whidi  even  now 
may  be  useful.  The  most  important  of 
these  of  working  in  mosaic  was  that  of 
Agn<^o,  the  son  of  Taddeo  Gaddi, 
who,  in  1346,  rq>aired  some  of  the 
mosaics  executed  by  Andrea  Tafi  in 
the  roof  of  St  Giovanni  at  Florence. 
He  fixed  the  cubes  of  the  glass  so 
firmly  into  the  ground,  with  a  stucco 
composed  of  wax  and  mastic  melted 
together,  that  neither  the  roof  nor  the 
viralting  had  received  any  injury  from 
water  from  the  period  of  its  comple- 
tion until  the  time  of  Vasari.  May 
not  our  ^te  and  mortar  system  be 
hai^y  supmeded  ?  Mrs  Merrifield 
takes  occasion  to  redeem  fr<nn  his 
prison,  to  which,  in  her  preface  to  the 
tranrtation  oi  Cennino  Cennini,  she 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


446 


Ancient  Practice  of  Painting. 


[April, 


had  condemned,  that  earnest  old  man, 
upon  the  authority  of  the  subscription 
from  the  prison  of  the  Stlnche— show- 
ing that  it  was  the  domicile  of  the 
transcriber,  not  the  author.  Vasari 
asserts  that  Cennino  Cennini,  to  whom 
the  secret  of  mosaic  work  was  trans- 
mitted from  Agnolo  Gaddi,  left  a 
treatise  on  the  subject.  No  such  work 
has  been  yet  found ;  but  as  there  are 
other  MSS.  of  the  author,  the  treatise 
may  be  yet  forthcoming.  There  is  an 
anecdote  which  shows  there  may  be 
better  gold  than  comes  from  the  mint. 
Alesso  Baldovinetto,  who  spared  no 
pains  to  learn  the  best  methods  of 
working  in  mosaic,  learned  much  of 
the  art  from  a  German  traveller  to 
whom  he  had  given  a  lodging.  Thus, 
having  been  well  informed,  he  worked 
with  great  success.  At  eighty  years 
of  age,  feeling  the  natural  inmmities 
fast  approaching,  he  sought  a  retreat 
in  the  hospital  of  St  Paul.  ''It  is 
related  that,  in  order  to  insure  him- 
self a  better  reception,  he  took  with 
him  to  his  apartments  in  the  hospital 
a  large  chest,  which  was  thought  to 
contain  money ;  and,  in  this  belief,  the 
officers  of  the  hospital  treated  him 
with  the  greatest  respect  and  atten- 
tion. But  their  disappointment  may 
be  imagined,  when,  on  opening  the 
chest,  after  the  decease  of  the  aged 
artist,  they  found  nothing  but  draw- 
ings on  paper,  and  a  small  book  which 
taught  the  art  of  making  the  mosaics, 
(Pietre  del  Musaicfi)  the  stucco,  and 
the  method  of  working.  At  the  pre- 
sent time,  we  should  have  considered 
this  little  book  a  greater  treasure  than 
the  money  which  was  so  much  de- 
sired." We  here  have  another  de- 
lightful passage  from  Vasari,  which 
will  readily  t^  accepted  as  the  old 
man's  excuse.  "It  was  no  wonder 
that  they  did  not  find  money,  for 
Alesso  was  so  bountiful,  that  every- 
thing he  possessed  was  as  much  at 
the  service  of  his  friends  as  if  it  had 
been  their  own."  The  introductory 
remarks  on  mosaic  may  be  well  worth 
the  builder's  and  architect's  attention, 
now  that  great  improvements  have 
been  made  m  the  making  of  glass,  and 
that  it  is  rendered  so  cheap;  whilst 
duty  was  accordmg  to  weight,  the 
great  art  was  to  make  it  as  thin  as 
possible,  hence  the  greater  nicety  and 
expense  in  the  manufacture.  To 
make  thick,  strong,  or,  in  the  language 


of  mosaic  art,  cubes  of  glass  for  orna- 
mental purposes,  and  as  a  preservative 
from  weather,  is  a  desideratum  of  the 
present  day. 

Few  people  will  interest  themselves 
about  Tarsia  work,  of  which  Yasari 
speaks  slightingly,  that  it  was  fittest  for 
those  persons  who  have  more  patience 
than  skill  in  design.  An  art,  how- 
ever, of  some  antiquity  may  yet  be 
very  commonly  seen  in  the  inlaid 
work  of  various  woods  in  our  Tun- 
bridge  ware.  Indeed,  the  art  is  even 
now  becoming  more  important  in  its 
application  to  furniture :  our  fashion* 
able  tables  are  a  kind  of  Tarsia 
work. 

The  history  of  painting  on  glass  is 
extremely  interesting,  and  has  en- 
gaged the  attention  of  many  writers. 
France  and  Germany  have  taken  Uie 
lead  in  this  art,  particularly  the  for- 
mer ;  less  attention  has  perhaps  been 
paid  to  its  rise  in  Italy  than  the  sub- 
ject deserves.  The  art  itself  is  so 
exquisitely  beautiful,  and  its  applica- 
tion as  a  religious  ornament  so  im- 
pressive, that  we  rejoice  to  see  its 
revival.  Mrs  Merrifield  enlarges  much 
upon  the  subject,  and  very  happily, 
though  her  commission  to  Italy  did 
not  send  her  to  a  country  where 
the  best  materials  maybe  collected. 
Specimens  of  painted  glass  in  our 
own  country,  both  as  to  design  and 
colour,  are  so  admirable — some,  indeed, 
may  vie  with  painting  in  oil  of  the 
best  time,  with  regard  to  drawing  and 
eflect — that  we  could  wish  a  com- 
mission to  collect  and  publish  the 
coloured  specimens  that  are  now 
unknown,  excepting  to  the  curious 
in  the  art.  Glass  psuntinff  had  at- 
tamed  great  perfection  in  France  in 
the  eleventh  century.  It  was  likevrise 
much  ^iltivated  in  our  own  country ; 
the  windows  of  Lincoln  cathedral 
show  early  specimens  of  great  beauty. 
Glass  windows  were  introduced  into 
England  as  early  as  a.d.  674,  by 
ecclesiastics,  for  decoration  of  their 
churches.  In  private  houses,  glass 
was  extremely  rare  in  the  middle 
ages ;  it  was  not  in  common  use  till 
the  reign  of  Henry  Vm.  It  was 
the  custom  to  remove  windows  as 
furniture.  Before  the  introduction  of 
glass,  thin  parchment  stretched  on 
frames,  and  varnished,  and  not  un- 
frequently  pahited,  protected  the  in- 
terior of  the  houses  from  the  weather. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


AnciaU  Practice  of  Painting. 


We  have  always  understood  that,  for 
the  great  improyement  in  glass-paint- 
ing, and  that  which  rendered  the 
dnqae-cento  style  so  beaatifal,  we  are 
indebted  to  John  Yan  Eyck;  before  his 
time  every  variation  in  colonr  required 
a  separate  piece.  The  painting  on 
glass,  as  on  canvass,  and  bnming  in 
different  tmts  and  on  colours  on  one 
surface,  has  been  generally  considered 
the  discovery  of  the  inventor  of  oil- 
painting.  Mrs  Merrifield  rather  thinks 
that  at  least  a  portion  of  this  improve- 
ment is  to  be  ascribed  to  Fra  Gia- 
como  daUhno,  who  found  out  that  a 
transparent  yellow  might  be  ^ven  to 
the  glass  by  silver— the  origin  of  the 
invention  being  the  letting  fall  fh)m 
his  sleeve  a  silver  button  into  the  fhr- 
nace,  which  being  closed,  and  the 
silver  fased,  a  yellow  stain  had  been 
imparted  to  the  glass.  Pottery  and 
glass-making  are  nearly  allied ;  it 
would  be  curious,  if  there  be  a  fair 
ground  for  the  supposition  that  the 
manufacture  of  glass  was  brought  from 
Tyre  to  Venice.  **  In  the  fourteenth 
century  the  Venetians  had  still  a  colony 
at  Tyre."  The  Venetian  glass,  how- 
ever, was  deficient  in  transparency ; 
hence  probably  the  Venetian  practice 
of  using  black  glass,  which,  by  juxta- 
position in  small  pieces,  would  cer- 
tainly tend  to  give  the  appearance 
of  greater  transparency  to  the  co- 
loured. 

Wo  know  not  if  there  has  been  any 
great  advance  in  the  art  of  gilding, 
from  early  times  to  the  present,  though 
that  of  gold-beating  has  been  brought 
to  far  greater  perfection.  Gold  was 
extensively  used  at  a  very  early  period 
in  all  kindis  of  decoration,  and  in  the 
fifteenth  century  was  lavishly  employ- 
ed on  pictnres.  Seven  thousand  leaves 
of  gold  were  used  on  the  chapel  of 
S.  Jacopo  de  Pistoia.  The  gold,  as 
well  as  some  of  the  expensive  colours, 
was  commonly  provided  by  the  parties 
for  whom  pictures  were  painted.  On 
mural  paintings^  leaves  of  tinfoil,  cover- 
ed with  a  yellow  varnish,  were  sub- 
stituted for  gold.  It  would  be  curious 
to  seek  how  some  modem  uses  are 
indebted  to  the  publication  of  old 
recipes.  **  In  order  to  economise  gold, 
the  old  masters  had  anoiher  invention, 


U7 

called  *  potporino,*  a  composition  made 
of  quicksilver,  tin,  and  sulphur,  which 
produced  a  yellow  metallic  powder, 
that  was  employed  instead  of  gold. 
The  Bolognese  MS.  devotes  a  whole 
ch^)ter  to  this  subject  A  substance 
of  a  similar  nature  is  now  in  use  in 
England,  and  is  employed  as  a  sub- 
stitute for  gold  in  coloured  woodcuts 
and  chromo-lithogn4[>hs."  Wax  was 
used  as  a  mordant  in  gilding.  Its  use 
as  a  vehicle  in  painting  has  been 
much  discussed ;  it  was  known  to  the 
ancients  as  encaustic,  and,  in  another 
form,  has  been  strongly  recommended 
by  a  modem  painter  of  great  ability, 
whose  works  are  fair  tests  of  its  effi- 
ciency; and  if  we  may  believe  the 
assertions  with  regard  to  the  ancient 
practice  of  Greek  and  mediieval* 
pamters,  there  may  be  little  reason  to 
doubt  its  durability.  But  as  it  was  cer- 
tainly known  and  discarded  by  the  old' 
masters,  even  before  the  invention  of 
Van  Eyck  in  oil  planting,  we  should 
reasonably  conclude  that  it  was  in- 
ferior  to  other  vehicles.  There  is  ar 
picture  by  Andrea  Mantegna  at  Milan, 
painted  in  wax,  on  which  Mrs  Merri- 
field makes  the  following  remarks : — 
"The  picture  is  very  perfect,  the 
colours  bright,  and  the  touches  sharp. 
The  darks  are  laid  oi|  very  thick,  but 
the  paint  appears  to  have  ran  into 
spots  or  streaks,  as  if  it  had  been 
touched  with  something  which  had 
touched  the  surface.  It  is  said, 
however,  that  it  has  never  been  re* 
paired,  and  its  authenticity  is  stated 
to  be  undoubted.  It  is  evident  that 
the  wax  has  been  used  liquid,  for  if 
the  colours  had  been  fused  by  the 
application  of  heat,  the  sharpness  and 
precision  of  touch  for  which  this  pic- 
ture, in  common  with  other  paintings 
of  this  period,  is  remarkable,  would 
have  be^  lost  and  melted  down.  The 
vehicle,  whatever  it  was,  appeared  to 
me  to  have  been  as  manageable  as 
that  of  Van  Eyck."  Mrs  Merrifield 
refers  to  Mr  Eastlake^s  Material 
for  the  fullest  account  of  all  that 
pertains  to  wax  -  painting.  We 
would  refer  also  to  his  Reports  of  the 
Commission  on  the  Fhie  Arts  for  fur- 
ther detail.* 
After  some  interesting  accounts  of 


*  In  the  third  Report  a  recipe  is  giren  by  Mr  EaetUke,  us  oonuniiiiicated  by  "  Mr 
John  King  of  BriBtol,"  who  is  spoken  of  ae  a  *'  cbemiat.''    The  recipe  itself,  iu  the- 

VOL.  LXV.— NO.  CCCCII.  2  F 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


448 


••^KW^^^*  ^^V^WWW^P  w^  ^wPBWiW^^* 


[April. 


statnerpaioting,  the  propriety  of  whioh 
has  been  so  ably  diBcoMed  by  Mr 
flaatlake,  and  a  few  words  on  imple- 
mentB  used  in  painting,  Mrs  Merri- 
field  treats  of  leather,  mello,  and  dye* 
ing.  The  first  of  these  leads  her  to 
lament  the  praetiee  of  ^e  monks 
*^  dnring  the  dark  ages  ;**  who,  to  the 
snppoaed  loss  of  JsSsiy  olassic  works, 
foond  ont  that,  aeoording  to  the  <dd 
praverb,  there  Is  ^'nothuig  like  lea- 
ther.'* We  would  reoommend  her  to 
beoome  a  little  more  acquainted  with 
the  real  history  of  the  monks  during 
^^  the  dark  ages,*'  their  actual  habits 
and  manners,  rather  than  trust,  as  we 
fear  has  been  the  ease,  to  authors 
who  have  on\y  misrepresented  them. 
She  will  find  matter  even  as  inter* 
eating  as  the  documents  disooyered 
respecting  their  arts  and  inyentions. 
However  there  may  be  cause  for 
lamenting  the  misuse  of  parchments 
which  had  been  written  csi,  and  their 
conversion  into  waistcoats  for  war- 
riors, and  sandals  for  monks,  there 
was  no  need  to  fit  the  said  sandals 
on  *'  the  sleek  and  well-fed  monks ;" 
for  certainly,  if  they  were  as  described, 
they  would  have  worn  out  the  fewer, 
as  «'  sleek  and  well-fed"  means  but  fkt 
and  lazy.  It  would  be  hard  to  find 
any  now  who,  eqpally  with  them,  were 
giveg  to  fasthig  and  prayer.  Indeed, 
the  verv  arts  which  they  practised, 
into  which  Mrs  Merrifield  has  made 
research,  should,  we  tMnk,  rescue 
them  firom  the  eommon  ill  report. 

Leather  was  used  for  hangings,  at 
first  only  behind  the  seats  of  the  owner 
of  the  house,  subsequently  round  the 
room,  and  stamped  and  s^,  and  orna- 
mented with  tlnfoiL  We  doubt  if 
our  modem  papers,  even  the  *^  ar- 
tistic,'* are  aa  improvement.  The  old 
principle  in  Aimitnre  was  richness  of 
efibct,  a  dq[>th,  a  home-warmth  both 
in  substance  and  colour;  the  modem 
inferior  taste  is,  or  has  been  recently, 
for  all  that  is  light,  gaudy,  and  fiimsy. 
We  should  not  be  sorry  to  see  the 
revival  of  leather  hangings,  as,  in  point  : 


of  riehncM  and  look  of  oomlbrt — a 
great  thing  inaroom--ftr8iq)eriorto 
paper.  There  is  perhi^[>8  no  vwy 
ipreat  beauty  in  niello,  nor  mudi 
cause  ibr  regret  that  it  has  fallen  into 
disuse ;  yet,  unimportant  as  it  is  In 
itself,  it  is  the  parent  of  the  moat 
delightful,  the  most  useful  invention — 
engraving.  Nigellum  or  niello  was 
known  to  the  ancients,  and  prac- 
tised during  the  middle  agea  :  it  is 
only  known  now  by  spedmena  in 
museums.  Tetwe  think  there  has  been 
an  attempt  to  revive  it  in  Russia. 
We  have  seen  a  specimen,  but  it  was 
very  coarsely  executed. 

Dyeing  appears,  during  the  middle 
ages,  to  have  been  the  trade  of  the 
Jews.  It  is  not  ascert^ned  at  what 
period  it  was  introduced  into  England. 
It  is  said  that,  in  the  reign  of  Hrairy 
HL,  woollen  doth  was  worn  white, 
for  lack  of  the  art  of  dyeing~-though 
this  is  doubted,  as,  woad  having  been 
imported  in  the  time  of  John,  it  might 
be  implied  that  dyeing  was  known. 
Before  the  introduction  of  printing- 
blocks,  the  practice  of  painting  linen 
doth  intended  for  wearing-apparel, 
with  devices,  flowers,  and  various  orna- 
ments, in  imitation  dfembroldery,  was 
common  in  England.  To  what  great 
results  has  thisf  ittle  dress-vanity  led  I 
How  much  of  our  oommerdal  proqae- 
rity  has  its  very  origin  in  a  taste  con- 
demned by  the  serious  as  frivolous! 
The  love  of  ornament  is  an  instinct, 
and  they  are  slanderers  of  Nature  in 
all  her  works,  and  in  man's  inventive 
mind,  who  would  insert  it  in  the  calen- 
dar of  deadly  sins.  There  is  perhaps 
another  love,  the  love  of  profit,  of  a 
more  ambiguous  character :  we  believe 
there  are  not  a  few  who  would  have 
made  a  ^^  drab  creation"  of  this  beau- 
tiful world,  now  from  their  cotton- 
printing  millssendingfbrth,  by  millions 
upon  millions  of  yards,  this  *^  frivolous 
vanity"  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  It 
maybe  questioned  if  Penn's  merchan- 
dise, as  the  bales  were  unpadded,  would 
have  passed  the  custom-bouse  of  a 


Report^  is  considered  an  improyement.  We  wish,  however,  to  correct  an  error  which 
somewhat  disparages  the  scientific  reputation  of  a  deceased  ftriend,  whom  we  greatly 
esteemed  fbr  his  many  virtues,  as  well  as  for  his  enthusiasm,  knowledge,  and  taste,  in 
^  that  reprded  art.  Mr  Kfaig  was  not  a  chemist,  but  an  eminent  surgeon  of  Clifton. 
Had  he  been  a  chemist,  his  recipe  would  hare  been  drawn  up  with  greater  chemi- 
cal correctness :  it  is  certafaily  not  t^tmndum  oHem  i^iemlcam.  We  may  here  state 
that  we  have  heard  from  hiot,  that  early  in  life  he  had  reoeived  this  reeipe  from 
an  aged  ^edeqias^  as  the  veritable  recipe  of  anoknt  liaies. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


iliiem^  iVoctK^  <2^i\im<M^. 


449 


white  conscience.  Have  poor  Indians 
been  as  nnscrapnlonBlj  eormpted  as 
cheated? 

.  By  fieur  the  greater  portion  of  tiie 
introduction  takes  np  the  subject  of 
oO-painting,  whidi  was  the  cldef  ob- 
ject of  the  commission.  We  hare 
already  spoken  of  the  result,  as  well 
as  of  the  little  reliance  to  be  placed 
upon  the  experience  of  modem  pahit- 
ers  and  restorers  in  the  country  of  the 
^d  masters.  They  flatly  contradict 
each  other.  Even  as  to  method,  did 
Titian  paint  first  with  cold  colours  ? 
One  affirms,  another  denies.  There  is 
much  eridence  that  the  Venetian 
painters  were  more  sparine  than  others 
In  the  use  of  ultramarine.  Their 
principal  bhie,  it  appears,  was  aazurro 
della  Magna,  (German  blue.)  The 
receipts  f<Mr  making  asures  are  nume- 
rous. Blue  is  the  most  impOTtant  of 
our  colours ;  it  is  w^  therefore,  that 
the  attention  of  our  colour-makers 
should  be  particulariy  dhrected  to  it. 
We  hare  often  felt  sure,  on  looking  at 
Venetian  pictures,  that  the  blues 
generally  were  not  ultramarine— the 
beauty  of  which  colour,  great  as  it  is, 
does  not  bear  the  mixture  with  a  body 
of  white  lead  with  impunity— it  must 
be  used  thin.  One  of  the  artists  con- 
sulted said,  *^The  Vdhetians  never 
used  ultramarine,  which  inclined  too 
much  to  the  yiolet.**  Though  he  is 
wrong  in  "  never^^  for  there  is  proof  to 
the  contrary,  in  reference  to  thdrgene- 
ral  practice  he  may  be  right,  as  also  for 
their  cause  of  setting  it  aside.  The 
rery  growing,  warm^^general  tones  of 
the  Venetians— of  Titian  and  Gior- 
gione  espedally— required  a  warmer 
blue,  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  apply 
such  an  ei^thet--for  we  are  aware  that 
most  classifiers  of  colours  say  that  it 
is  always  cold  ^  and  we  remember  the 
dd  controversy  on  the  subject,  which 
Gainsborough  endeavoured  not  unsuc- 
cessfoUy  to  decide,  by  pahiting  his 
now  celebrated  picture,  called  the 
"  Blue  Boy.*^  Contrary  to  the  opi- 
nion of  many  artists,  we  are  incUiieA 
to  ame  with  Mr  Held,  whose  chemi- 
cal knowledge  and  experience  should 
have  great  weight,  that  the  modern 
colour  "  Prussian  blue,**  if  well  pre- 
pared, is  one  of  much  value.  It  is 
certainlythe  mostpowerfol— not,  how- 
ever, to  be  recommended  for  the  dear 
asurec^asky.  We  should  be  g^  to 
know  the  opinion  of  Mr  Eastlake  with 


reffard  to  the  modem  ultramarine, 
said  to  be  made  after  an  analysis  of 
the  real  substance.  Though  it  be- 
longs not  to  his  investigation  of  the 
old  practice,  a  note  upon  the  sul^ject 
would  be  very  acceptable.  If  our 
blues  and  our  chromes  are  permanent 
occurs,  we  have  little  to  regret  in  the 
(supposed)  loss  oi  many  used  by  the 
old  masters. 

It  is  curious  that  even  colours  were 
purchased  of  the  *^  epesiali,*'— the 
apothecaries.  It  is  well  known  how 
much  we  are  indebted  to  medical 
science  for  many  of  the  redpes  in  art, 
including  those  for  the  purification  of 
oils  and  the  manufocture  of  varnishes. 
^^  Siff.  A.  told  me  that,  when  he  was  at 
Venice,  he  made  a  pdnt  of  going  to  the 
Piasza  San  Salvatore,  where  Titian 
used  to  purchase  his  colours,  to  see 
whether  there  were  any  ^^speaiali" 
there  stQl.  He  found  one,  and  in- 
quired of  him  if  he  bad  any  old  colours, 
sudi  as  were  used  by  the  old  painters, 
and  he  was  shown  an  oranse-coloured 
pigment,  whidi  resembled  a  colour 
fr^uently  found  on  Venetian  pic- 
tures.** We  have  before  us  a  docu- 
ment of  payments  so  late  as  1699,  by 
which  it  appears  that,  with  us  also, 
the  i^thecaiy  was  the  vender  of 
pafaiters*  materials.  '' 1699.— Bob. 
Bayl^y  apothecary— for  oil,  gold,  and 
ccdours,  £61.'*  This  was  for  painting 
a  high  cross.  Blackness  has  some- 
times been  olgected  to  in  the  colouring 
(^  the  greatest  of  landscape  painters, 
Gkuipar  Poussin.  If  the  following 
statement  may  be  relied  upon,  the 
cause  of  this  occasional  blemtsh.  if  it 
be  one.  may  be  conjectured.  Sig.  A. 
showed  a  black  miiror,  which  he  said 
had  been  used  in  pdnting  by  Bamboc- 
do>  (Peter  Van  Laer,)  and  that  it  had 
been  *^  bequeathed  by  Bambocdo  to 
Gra^parPonsshi;  by  the  latter  to  some 
other  painter,  until  it  ultimatdy  came 
hito  tne  hands  of  Sig.  A.**  In  pic- 
tures oi  an  eariy  time  the  darks  are 
thick  and  substantia],  the  lights  thin. 
This  was  reversed  afterwards,  except- 
ing with  regard  to  some  dark  blue, 
and  other  dnq[>eries,  of  which  ex- 
amples may  be  seen  in  Correggio. 
There  is  a  peculiar  impasto,  however, 
of  the  Bdognese  schod,  which  seems 
to  have  escaped  the  notice  of  Mr  East- 
lake  and  Mrs  Merrifidd  :  it  is  mostly 
observable  in  Guerdno.  The  paint  on 
the  flesh,  hi  heads,  arms,  ^.,  is  fire* 


Digitized  by  V^jOOQIC 


450 

quently  greatlj  raised,  as  if  modelled. 
We  are  carions  to  know  something  re- 
specting this  method — in  what  way  the 
manipmation  is  managed. 

We   cannot  credit   the    accoonts 
gfyen   bj   all   whom    Mrs     Merri* 
field  consulted,  that  it  was  Titian's 
practice  to  lay  by  his  pictures,  after 
each  painting,  for  months,  and  even 
years.    This  slow  process  implies  a 
forbearance  which  can  noways  be  re- 
conciled with  the  fervour  and  usual 
impatience  of  genius.    Without  fas- 
tening him  down  to  so  systematic  a 
necessity,  we  can  easily  believe  that 
his  pictures  were  long  under  his  hand, 
from  the  repeated  glazings  so  remark- 
able in  his  works.     Exposure  to  the 
sun  and  air  seems  to  have  been  uni- 
yersal.  It  is  well  known  that,  a  short 
time  after  painting,  a  portion,  pro- 
bably a  deleterious  portion,  of  the  oil 
rises  to  the  surface.    The  atmosphere 
certainly  takes  up  this,  but  the  expo- 
sure must  be  frequent,  for  this  greasi- 
ness  will  return.    We  strongly  sus- 
pect that  it  is  this  deleterious  exuda- 
tion which    destroys  the   purity  of 
colours ;  and  would  recommend,  from 
a  long  experience,  the  washing  the 
surface  of  pictures,  (we  have  used 
common  sand  for  the  puipose,)  as 
often  as  any  greasiness  returns.  A  time 
will  be  ascertained  when  none  recurs ; 
and  we  think   the  picture  is  then 
pretty  secure  from  any  further  change. 
In  this  case,  a  kind  of  abrasion  does 
what  time  would  in  the  end  do ;  but, 
not  waiting  for  time,  we  oflen  varnish, 
and  leave  this  deleterious  part  of  the 
oil  to  do  its  mischief.  Much  stress  has 
been  laid  on  the  grinding  of  colours. 
TheYenetians  were  not  very  careful  in 
this  matter,  excepting  in  their  ghizing 
colours.    It  is  very  evident  that,  for 
some  purposes  of  offset,  they  purposely 
laid  on  their  colours  very  coarsely 
ground,  and  scraped  down  for  granu- 
lation.   White  lead,  however,  it  is 
admitted,  cannot  be  too  finely  ground, 
or  too  carefully  made.    It  is  ^  pig- 
ment that  Huan  was  most  solicitous 
about.    There  is  a  letter  of  his  extant, 
in  which  he  laments  the  death  of  the 
person  who  manufactured  it  for  him. 
**The   Italians,    and    especially  the 
Venetians,"    says    Mrs   Merrifield, 
'*  were  extremely  careful  in  the  pre- 
paraUon  of  their  white  lead,  which 
was  ^erally  purified  by  washing." 
A  recipe  of  Fra  Fortunato  of  Rovigo, 


Andeni  Practice  ofPamting, 


[April, 


recommends  the  grinding  it  with  vine- 
gar and  washing  it,  repeating  th& 
operation :  *^  You  will  then  have  a. 
white  lead,  which  will  be  as  ex- 
cellent for  miniature  painting  as  for 
painting  in  oiL"  With  regard  to  the 
glazings  of  Utian,  an  ahnost  incred- 
ible story  is  told  by  an  artist,  Sig.  £. 
^^He  says  that  glazingp  are  never 
permanent,  and  that  nothing  can  make 
them  so ;  and,  as  a  proof,  he  told  me 
there  were  in  a  certain  palace  several 
pictures  by  Titian,  whidi  had  always 
been  covered  with  glasses:  that  he 
was  present  when  the  glasses  were 
removed  for  the  time ;  when,  to  the 
surprise  of  every  one  present,  the 
glazings  were  found  to  have  evaporated 
from  the  pictures,  and  to  have  adhered 
to  the  inside  of  the  ^lass.  I  considered 
this  incredible,  and  it  certainly  appears 
to  require  proof,  although  it  must  be 
recollected  that  Lionardo  da  Vinci  says, 
^  II  verde  fatto  dal  rame,  ancorch^  tal 
color  sia  messo  a  olio,  se  ne  va  in 
fumo,* "  &C.  If  the  colour  evaporated 
from  the  picture,  it  would  certainly  be 
retdned  by  the  glass ;  and  this  artist 
distinctly  said,  that  all  the  glazings 
were  fixed  on  the  inside  of  the  glass, 
exacthr  above  the  painting,  and  that 
the  efl^t  of  the  difierent  colours  on 
the  glass  was  very  singular.  From 
that  tune,  he  added,  he  had  left 
off  glazing  his  pictures.  This  Is  the 
more  strange,  because  painters  of  the 
Flemish  school  may  be  said  to  havo 
commenced  their  pictures  with  glazing, 
and  to  have  continued  it  throughout ; 
yet  we  never  heard  of  such  a  fact, 
though  many  of  their  pictures  have 
been  under  glass. 

We  have  elsewhere  recommended, 
without  knowing  that  it  was  an  old 
practice,  the  use  of  white  qhalk  and 
such  substances  with  the  colours,  and 
are  therefore  pleased  to  find  the  fol- 
lowing notice, — "  White  chalk,  mar- 
ble dust,  gesso,  the  bone  of  cuttle-fish, 
alumen,  and  travertine,  were  occasion- 
ally used  in  white  pigments.  They 
were  frequently  mixed  with  trans- 
parent vegetable  colours,  to  give  them 
body:"  it  might  be  added  to  give 
them,  by  a  semi-transparency,  and 
that  even  to  colours  in  their  own 
nature  opaque,  a  luminous  quality. 

Does  *^  grana  in  grano,"  the  Spanish 
term  for  tiie  scarlet  pigment,  show 
the  origin  of  the  expression,  **a  rogue 
in  grain."    *^  Pierce  Plowman,  whoso 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Ancient  Practice  of  Painting. 


Vision  IB  sapposed  to  hare  been  writ- 
ten in  1350,  m  describing  the  dress  of 
a  lady  richly  clad,  says,  that  her  robe 
was  of  *  scarlet  in  grain ;'  that  is, 
scarlet  dyed  with  grana,  the  best  and 
most  durable  red  dye.  The  import  of 
the  words  ^  in  grain,'  was  afterwards 
changed,  and  the  term  was  applied 
generally  to  all  colours  with  which 
cloths  were  dyed,  which  were  consi- 
dered to  be  permanent.*' 

*^  Biadetto,".the  artificial  carbonate 
of  copper,  is  said  to  be  the  bine  most 
resembling  that  found  in  Venetian 
pictures.  Mrs  Merrifield  erroneously 
places  coal  among  the  black  pigments. 
It  is  a  brown,  and  we  know  of  none 
60  useful ;  it  is  deep,  but  not  the  hot 
brown,  such  as  Vandyke  brown,  re- 
sembling that  of  Teniers :  Mr  East- 
lake  has  shown  that  it  was  used  by 
the  Flemish  and  Dutch  painters.  We 
had  long  used  it,  before  we  were  ac- 
quainted with  so  authoritative  a  re- 
commendation. 

We  find  many  very  usefhl  observa- 
tions on  oils,  as  to  their  purification, 
and  the  methods  of  rendering  them 
drying.  As  Mrs  Merrifield  offers  in  a 
note  a  new  dryer,  certainly  a  desider- 
atum, we  quote  the  passage,  that 
trials  of  it  may  be  made : — 

^  The  most  powerful  of  all  dryers  is  per- 
haps chloride  of  lime  in  a  dry  state  :  a 
small  quantity  of  this,  added  to  clarified 
oil,  wiU  convert  it  into  a  solid.  For  this 
reason  it  must  be  employed  very  oauti- 
onsly  :  if  too  mnch  be  used,  it  may  bum 
the  brushes,  and  injure  the  colours.  It 
has  the  advantage  of  not  darkening  the 
oil,  and  its  drying  property  appears  to 
arise  from  its  i&sorbing  the  watery  par- 
ticles of  the  oil.  Chloride  of  calcium  is 
equally  efficacious  as  a  dryer,  but  the 
small  quantity  of  iron  which  it  contains 
dissolres  in  the  oil,  and  darkens  it.  It 
seems  probable  that,  if  the  chloride  of 
lime  were  judiciously  employed,  it  might 
prove  semceable  as  a  dryer  ;  but  as  I  am 
not  aware  that  it  has  been  tried  as  such 
by  any  person  but  myself,  the  utmost  cau- 
tion would  be  required,  and  some  experi- 
ments would  be  necessary,  in  order  to  as- 
certain the  smallest  possible  quantity 
which  would  answer  the  purpose  in- 
tended." 

We  are  surprised  to  find,  in  the  Bo- 
lognese  MS.,  olive  oil  mentioned  as 
Eiixed  with  linseed  oil  in  equal  pro- 
portions, because  we  never  yet  heard 
of  any  successful  experiment  to  render 
it  drying.    As  it  is  the  property  of 


451 

olive  oil  to  turn  li|hter,  not,  as  other 
oils,  darker,  a  proof  of  successful  expe- 
riment would  be  valuable.  Pacheco 
mentions  ^^  salad  oil  **  with  honey,  in 
a  mixture  of  flour  paste  for  grounds ; 
but  this  may  have  been  nut-oil.  Be- 
sides the  passages  in  Vasari  and  Lo- 
mazzo,  which  attribute  to  Lionardo 
the  use  of  distilled  oil,  there  is  the 
recipe  in  the  Secreti  of  Alessio,  which 
is  conclusive  as  to  the  fact  that  linseed- 
oil  was  distilled  and  used  to  dilute 
amber  varnish.  We  are  aware  that 
Mr  Hendrie,  \n  his  valuable  translation 
of  Theophilus,  strongly  insists  upon 
the  superiority  of  distilled  over  other 
oil,  but  it  does  not  appear  ever  to 
have  been  in  general  use. 

The  recommendation  of  amber  var- 
nish being  the  chief  result  of  the  torn- 
mission,  numerous  authorities  as  well 
as  recipes  are  given.  *^  It  appears  to 
he  mentioned  in  the  Marciana  MS., 
under  the  term  *  carbone,'  which  has 
undoubtedly  been  written  instead  of 
*  caribe,'  the  Arabic  and  Persian  term 
for  amber."  We  would  suggest  the 
possibility  that  **  carbone "  may  still 
be  the  right  word,  and  mean  amber, 
if  it  has  been  before  mentioned  in  the 
MS., —  for  one  mode  of  making  the 
varnish  was  to  bum  the  amber  to  a 
^^  carbone,"  and  then  to  grind  it,  as 
recommended  in  the  recipe.  In  speak- 
ing of  amber  varnish  as  the  result  of 
Mrs  Menifield's  research,  we  should 
be  wrone  in  ascribing  it  to  that  alone ; 
nor  shomd  we  be  doing  justice  to  her 
own  liberal  and  full  acknowledgment 
of  the  prior  recommendation  of  it  by 
Mr  Sheldrake  in  1801,  whose  autho- 
rity she  quotes  at  much  length,  with 
detail  of  his  experiments.  ^^  The  use 
of  amber  varnish  as  a  vehicle  for 
painting,  was  revived  and  recom- 
mended so  long  ago  as  1801,  by  Mr 
Sheldrake,  in  a  paper  published  in 
the  19th  volume  of  the  Transactions 
of  ^  Society  of  Arts.  In  these  papers, 
Mr  Sheldrake  endeavours  to  prove 
that  this  varnish  was  used  by  the 
Italian  painters;  and  as  his  opinion 
has  been  in  a  great  measure  confirmed 
by  documenti^  evidence,  his  papers 
acquhre  additional  interest  from  his 
having  recorded  the  experiments  made 
by  himself  in  painting  with  this  var- 
nish." 

The  authority  of  Gerard  Lairesse, 
given  in  a  note,  we  think  little  of;  for 
the  work  bearing  his  name  was  not 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


452 


Aneut^PraeiiceqfPdmimg, 


[April, 


written  bjbim,  but  after  his  death,  by 
some  who  professed  to  give  an  account 
of  his  instructions.  There  is  an  amns- 
iog  anecdote,  whidi  is  introduced  for 
the  purpose  of  showing  that  yamish 
was  in  use ;  we  insert  it  for  its  plea- 
santly:— 

*'  As  an  indirect  proof,  but  not  tho  lem 
yalaable  on  that  aoeoonl^  10  the  following 
anecdote,  related  bj  Lnigi  Grespi  of  hie 
f&Uier,  GkiiBeppe  Maria  <>e8pi,  Milled  Lo 
Spagnnolo.  '  One  daj,  Car<Unal  Lam- 
bertini  was  in  our  house,  sitting  for  his 
portrait,  which  my  father  was  painting, 
when  one  of  my  brothers  entered  the 
room,  bringing  a  letter,  just  arrired  by 
post,  from  another  brother  who  was  at 
Modena  on  business.  The  Cardinal  took 
the  letter,  and,  on  opening  it,  said  to  my 
father, '  Go  on  painting,  and  I  will  read 
it.'  HaTing  opened  the  letter,  he  began 
to  read  quickly,  inyenting  an  imaginary 
letter,  in  which  the  absent  son,  with  the 
greatest  expressions  of  shame  and  humi- 
liation, prostrated  himself  at  the  feet  of 
his  father,  begging  his  pardon,  and  saying 
that  he  had  found  it  impossible  to  disen- 
gage himself  from  a  stringent  promise  of 
marrying  a  certain  Signora  ApoUonia, 
whence  ^  .  Bat  he  had  hardly  pro- 
ceeded thus  far,  when  my  father  leaped 
on  to  his  foot,  knocking  oyer  palette,  pen- 
cils, and  chair  ;  and  upieUing  oU,  varnidkf 
and  everything  d$e  wkick  wa»  <m  Cft«  liiUe 
henoh ;  and  uttering  all  kinds  of  exclama- 
tions. The  Cardinal  jumped  at  the  same 
time,  to  quiet  and  pacify  him,  telling  him, 
as  well  as  he  could  for  laughing,  that  it 
was  all  nonsense,  and  entirely  an  inren- 
tion  of  his  own.  Meanwhile,  my  father 
was  running  round  the  room  in  despair, 
the  Cardinal  following  him,  and  thus  plea- 
santly ended  the  morning's  work.  After 
this  time,  whenever  his  eminence  came  to 
see  my  father,  before  getting  out  of  the 
carriage,  he  would  wUiper,  That  he  had 
no  doubt  Signora  ApoUonia  was  at  home, 
and  with  him.' " 

We  refer  the  artist-reader  to  the 
work  itself,  for  yalnable  matter  on  the 
subject  of  grounds ;  we  haye  already 
trespassed  too  far  to  allow  of  our  here 
entering  minutely  into  the  subject. 
Mr  Eastlake  and  Mrs  Merrifield,  how- 
ever, think  a  knowledge  of  grounds  of 
the  first  importance.  The  evidence  is 
in  favour  of  white  grounds,  of  sise  and 
gesso.  De  Piles  thinks  them,  how- 
ever, liable  to  crack.  And  in  this 
place  Mrs  Merrifidd  narrates,  on  the 
authority  of  the  French  painter,  M. 
CamiUe  Rogier,  to  Si^.  Cigogna,  who 

inserted  itinhis  /fMcnz««m  Vemziasw^ 


a  circumstance  which  strongly  sa  vonni 
of  the  astute  exchange  of  armour  in 
the  HiocU-brass  for  gold.  Owing  to 
the  gesso  or  white  tempera  ground, 
it  is  said  that  the  celebrated  Nozze  di 
Cana,  by  Paolo  Veronese,  was  in  sudi 
a  condition  as  to  render  it  necessary 
to  line  it  very  carefuUy,  to  prerent  the 
paint  scaling  from  the  canvass.  "But 
when,  in  1815,  the  picture  was  about 
to  be  restored  to  Venice,  according  to 
the  treaty,  it  was  perceived  that  the 
colours  crumbled  off  and  fell  into  dust 
at  the  slightest  movement.  To  con- 
tinue the  operation,  therefore,  was  to^ 
expose  one  of  the  finest  works  of  the 
Venetian  sdiool  to  certain  destruc- 
tion ;  and  the  committee  decided  that 
the  picture  of  Paolo  should  remain  at 
Paris,  and  that  a  painting  of  Le- 
brun's  should  be  sent  to  Venice  in  its 
stead."  "Credat  JudsBUs!"  If  this 
were  so — ^if  the  picture  was  really  in 
that  condition,  how  could  it  have  been 
lined?  and  if  it  could,  by  any  care» 
bear  the  necessary  rough  usage  and 
removals  of  lining,  would  it  not  have 
borne  careful  conveyance?  TheFrench 
are  al^  diplomatists.  We  think  Mr 
Pe«l,  and  much  less  experienced  lin- 
ers, must  laugh  at  the  simplicity  of 
the  committee.  Were  they  a  com- 
mittee on  the  Fine  Arts  ?  We  have 
heard  of  valuable  pictures  having  been 
smuggled  into  this  country,  with  other 
pictures  painted  over  them — ^if  the 
proof  which  satisfied  the  committee^ 
(if  the  story  have  any  real  foundation 
of  truth,)  had  been  a  free  pass  through 
the  custom-house,  we  have  not  the 
slightest  doubt  our  picture-dealers 
would  have  readily  supplied  it,  and 
have  skilfully  so  attached  dry  colours 
as  to  peel  off  on  the  sli^test  shaking. 
We  should  rather  give  credence  to 
the  glazings  of  Titian  flying  off  to  the 
glass,  than  to  this  supposed  danger  of 
removal  from  the  cause  ascribed. 

In  now  taking  leave  of  Mrs  Merri- 
field, we  express  our  hope  that,  hav- 
ing so  ably  and  so  faithfully  done  the 
work  confided  to  her  by  the  Commis- 
sion on  the  Fine  Arts,  she  will  not 
think  her  labours  at  an  end ;  for  we 
are  quite  sure  that  her  judicious  mind 
and  dear  style  may  be  most  profitably 
employed  in  the  service  of  art,  to 
whose  practical  advancement  she  has 
contribnted  so  much. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Trnt^sanU  Pomta, 


tkhjntbon'b  fosmb. 


Trbbb  Ib  do  liTing  poet  who  mon 
jnstlj  demands  of  the  oritio  a  eaha 
and  aocnrate  estimate  of  his  claims 
than  Alfred  Tennyson;  neither  is 
there  one  whom  it  is  more  difficult 
accnrateij  and  dispassionatelj  to  es* 
timate.  Other  living  and  poetical  re- 
pntations  seem  tolerably  well  settled. 
The  older  bards  belonff  already  to  the 
past.  Wordsworth  all  the  world  con- 
sents to  honour.  Living,  he  already 
ranks  with  the  greatest  of  onr  ances- 
tors. His  faults  even  are  no  longer 
canvassed;  they  are  frankly  admitted, 
and  have  ceased  to  disturb  us.  Every 
man  of  original  genius  has  his  man- 
nerism more  or  less  disagreeable; 
once  thoroughly  understood,  it  be- 
comes our  omy  care  to  forget  it.  No 
one  now  thinks  of  discovering  that 
Wordsworth  is  occasionally,  and  es- 
pecially when  ecclesiastical  themes 
overtake  him,  sadly  prosaic;  no  one 
is  now  more  annoyed  by  this  than  he 
is  at  the  school  divinity  of  Milton,  ar 
the  tangled,  elliptical,  helter-skelter 
sentences  into  which  the  impetuous 
imagination  of  Shakspeare  sometimes 
hurries  him.  Moore,  another  survi- 
vor of  the  magnates  of  the  last  gene- 
ration, has  Judgment  passed  upon 
him  with  equal  certainty  and  univer- 
sality. He,  with  a  somewhat  differ- 
ent fate,  has  seen  his  fame  collapse. 
He  no  longer  stalks  a  giant  in  the 
land,  but  he  has  dwindled  down  to 
the  most  delightful  of  minstrel-pages 
that  ever  brought  song  and  mi^c 
into  a  lady's  chamber.  So  exquisite 
are  Ids  songs,  men  willingly  forget  he 
ever  attempted  anything  higher.  We 
have  no  other  remembrance  of  his 
Laila  Rookh  than  that  he  has  em- 
bedded in  it  some  of  those  gems  of 
song — some  of  those  charming  lyrics 
whkh  scarcely  needed  to  be  set  to 
music;  they  are  melody  and  verse  in 
one.  They  sing  themselves.  If  his 
fame  has  diminished,  it  has  not  tar- 
nished.    It  has  shrunk  to  a  little 


point,  but  that  little  point  is  bright  as 
the  diamond,  and  as  imperishable. 
Of  the  poets  more  decidedly  of  onr 
own  age  and  generation,  there  are  but 
few  whom  it  would  be  thought  worth 
while  to  estimate  according  to  a  high 
standard  of  exc^ence.  llie  crowd 
we  in  general  consent  to  praise  with 
indulgence,  because  we  do  not  look 
upon  them  as  candidates  for  immor- 
tality, but  merely  for  the  honours  of 
the  day — a  social  renown,  the  applause 
of  their  contemporaries,  the  palm  won 
in  the  race  with  living  rivals^ 

Poetry  of  the  very  highest  orda*| 
coupled  with  much  affectation,  much 
defective  writing,  many  wilful  blun- 
ders, renders  Alfred  Tennyson  a  veiy 
worthy  and  a  very  difficult  subject 
for  the  critic  The  extreme  diversity 
and  unequal  merit  of  his  compositions, 
make  it  a  very  perplexing  business  to 
form  any  general  estimate  of  his  writ- 
ings. The  conclusion  the  critic  comes 
to  at  one  moment  he  discards  the 
next.  He  finds  it  impossible  to  sa- 
tisfy himself,  nor  can  ever  quite  deter- 
mine in  what  measure  praise  and  cen- 
sure should  be  mixed.  At  one  time 
he  is  so  thoroughly  charmed,  so  com- 
pletely delighted  with  the  poet's  verse, 
that  he  is  cusposed  to  extol  his  author 
to  the  skies;  he  is  as  little  inclined  to 
any  captious  and  disparaging  criticism 
as  lovers  are,  when  they  look,  how- 
ever dosely,  into  the  fan*  face  which 
has  enchanted  them.  At  other  times, 
the  page  before  him  will  call  up  no- 
thing but  vexation  snd  annoyance. 
Even  the  gleams  of  genmne  poetiy, 
amongst  the  confhsion  and  elaborate 
triviality  that  afflict  him,  will  only 
add  to  his  displeasure.  A  heap  of 
rubbish  never  lo<^  so  vile,  or  so  dis- 
agreeable, as  when  a  fresh  flower  is 
seen  thrown  upon  it  Were  Tennyson 
to  be  estimated  by  some  half-doz^ 
of  his  best  pieces,  he  would  be  the 
compeer  of  Coleridge  and  of  Words- 
worth —  if  lyy  a  like  number  of  his 


Pmmm.     Bj  Alpbud  TmifTSoiv*    FxfUi  Edi«l«D. 
Th4  PHnctn:  a  Medley.    By  ALFasD  Taifinrsoff. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


454  Tennyi(m''$  Poems. 

yyont  performances,  he  would  be 
raised  very  little  above  that  nameless 
and  unnumbered  crowd  of  dilettanti 
versifiers,  whose  utmost  ambition 
seems  to  be  to  see  themselves  in  print, 
and  then,  as  quickly  as  possible,  to 
disappear — 

**  On«  moment  Uack,  then  |^ne  for  ever/* 

This  diversity  of  merit  is  not  to  be 
accounted  for  by  the  diverse  nature 
of  the  subject-matter  which  the  poet 
has  at  deferent  times  treated;  for 
Mr  Tennyson  has  ffiven  us  the  hap- 
piest specimens  of  the  most  different 
styles  of  composition,  employed  on  a 
singular  variety  of  topics.  He  has 
been  grave  and  graceful,  playfol  and 
even  broadly  comic,  with  complete 
success.  As  a  finished  portraiture  of 
a  peculiar  state  of  mind-— conceived 
with  philosophic  truth,  and  embel- 
lished with  all  the  fascinating  associa- 
tions which  it  is  the  province  of 
poetry  to  call  around  us — nothing 
could  surpass  the  poem  of  the  Lotos 
Eaters.  For  playfiilness,  and  tender; 
amorous  fancy — ^warm,  but  not  too 
warm— spiritual,  but  not  too  spiritual 
— we  shall  go  far  before  we  find  a 
rival  to  the  Talking  Oak,  or  to  the 
Day  Dream:  what  better  ballad  can 
heart  desire  than  theLord  of  Burleigh  f 
And  how  well  does  a  natural  in£g- 
nation  speak  out  in  the  clear  ringing 
verse  of  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere! 
Specimens  of  the  richly  comic,  as  we 
have  hinted,  may  here  and  there  be 
found :  we  have  one  in  our  eye  which 
we  shall  seek  an  opportunity  for 
quoting.  In  harmonising  metaphysic 
thought  with  poetic  imagery  and  ex- 
pression, he  does  not  always  succeed; 
on  the  contrary,  some  of  his  saddest 
failures  arise  firom  the  abortive  at- 
tempt ;  yet  there  are  some  admirable 
passages  even  of  this  description  of 
writing. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  the  difference  of 
s^Io  aimed  at,  or  subject-matter 
adopted,  which  determines  whether 
Tennyson  shaU  be  successful  or  not. 
Perhaps  it  will  be  said  that  the 
marked  inequality  in  his  compositions 
Is  sufficiently  accounted  for  by  the 
simple  fact,  that  some  were  written 
at  an  earlier  age  than  others;  that 
some  are  the  productions  of  his  youth, 
and  others  of  his  maturity — that,  in 
short,  it  is  a  mere  question  of  d^tes. 


[April, 

There  is  indeed  a  very  striking  differ* 
ence  between  those  poems  which  com- 
mence the  volume,  and  bear  the  date 
of  1830,  and  the  other  and  greater 
number,  which  bear  the  date  of  1832 : 
the  difference  is  so  great,  that  wo 
question  whether,  upon  the  whole, 
the  fame  of  Mr  Tennyson  would  not 
have  been  advanced  by  the  omisaioa 
altogether  from  his  collected  works  of 
this  first  portion  of  his  poems;  for 
though  much  beauty  would  be  lost, 
far  more  blemish  would  be  got  rid  of. 
Still,  however,  as  the  same  inequality 
pursues  us  in  his  later  writings,  and 
is  evident  even  in  his  last  production 
— The  Princess — there  remains  some- 
thing more  to  be  explained  than  can 
be  quite  accounted  for  by  the  mere 
comparison  of  dates.  This  something 
more  we  find  explained  in  a  badschoSl 
oftastSy  under  the  influence  of  which 
Mr  Tennyson  commenced  his  poetic 
authorship.  Above  this  influence  he 
often  rises,  but  he  has  never  quite 
liberated  himself  from  it.  To  this 
source  we  trace  the  affectations  of 
many  kinds  which  deface  his  writ- 
ings— affectation  of  a  super-refine- 
ment of  meaning,  ending  in  mere 
obscurity,  or  in  sheer  nonsense ;  af- 
fectation of  antique  simplicity  ending 
in  the  most  jejune  triviality ;  experi- 
mental metres  putting  the  ear  to  tor- 
ture ;  or  an  utter  aisregard  of  all 
metre,  of  all  the  harmonies  of  verse, 
together  with  an  incessant  toil  after 
originality  of  phrase ;  as  if  no  new 
idea  could  be  expressed  unless  each 
separate  word  bore  also  an  aspe<^t  of 
novelty. 

At  the  time  when  Tennyson  com- 
menced his  career,  poetry  and  poets 
were  in  a  somewhat  singular  position. 
Never  had  there  been  so  great  a  thhrst 
for  poetry — never  had  diere  existed 
so  large  a  reading  public  with  so  de- 
cided a  predilection  for  this  species  of 
literature;  and  rarely,  if  ever,  has 
there  arisen— at  once  the  cause  and 
effect  of  this  public  taste — so  noble  a 
band  of  contemporary  poets  as  those 
who  were  just  Uien  retiring  from  the 
stage.  The  success  which  attended 
metrical  composition  was  quite  intoxi- 
cating. Poems,  now  gradually  wan- 
ing from  the  sight  of  all  mankind, 
were  rapturously  welcomed  as  master- 
pieces. It  seemed  that  the  poet 
might   dare  anything.     Meanwhile, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Tetwif»<nC$  Poems, 


455 


the  noretty  to  which  hd  was  embold- 
«iied  was  rendered  urgent  and  ne- 
cessarf ;  for,  in  addition  to  the  old 
riyals  of  times  long  past,  there  was 
this  band  of  poets,  whose  echoes  were 
still  ringing  in  the  theatre,  to  be  com- 
peted irdth.  Was  it  any  wonder  that 
at  snch  an  epoch  we  should  have 
Keats  writing  his  Endifmion^  or  Ten- 
nyson elaborating  his  incomprehen- 
sible ode  To  Memory^  or  inditing  his 
fooUsh  songs  To  the  Owl^  or  torturing 
himself  to  unite  old  balladry  with 
modem  sentiment  in  his  Latfy  of 
ShalloU^  fot  ever  rhyming  with  that 
detested  town  of  Camelot;  or  that  he 
should  hare  been  stringing  together 
fulsome,  self-adulatory  nonsense  about 
The  Poet  and  the  Poefa  Mind'-OT,  hi 
short,  committing  any  conceivable 
extravagance  in  violation  of  sense, 
metre,  and  the  English  language? 
The  young  poet  of  this  time  was  evi- 
dently earned  off  his  feet.  He  had 
drank  so  deep  of  those  springs  about 
Parnassus,  that  he  had  lost  his  footing 
on  the  solid  ground.  It  did  not  fol- 
low that  he  and  his  compeers  idways 
soared  above  us  because  they  could 
no  longer  walk  on  a  level  with  us. 
Men,  in  a  dream,  think  they  are  fly- 
ing when  they  are  only  falling.  They 
reeled  much,  these  intellectual  revel- 
lers. It  is  true  that  sober  men  dis- 
countenanced them,  rebuked  them, 
reminded  them  that  liberty  was  not 
license,  nor  imagination  another  name 
for  insanity;  but  there  was  still  a 
considerable  crowd  of  indiscriminate 
admirers  to  cheer  and  encourage  them 
in  their  wildest  freaks. 

One  tendency,  gathered  firom  these 
times,  seems,  all  along  and  throughout 
his  whole  progress,  to  have  beset  our 
authol^~the  reluctance  to  subside  for 
a  moment  to  the  easy  natural  level  of 
cultivated  minds.  He  has  a  morbid 
horror  of  commonplace.  He  will  be 
grotesque,  if  you  wOl;  absurd,  infan- 
tine— anything  but  truly  simple :  when 
he  girds  himself  for  serious  effort,  he 
would  give  you  the  very  essence  of 
poetry,  and  nothing  else.  This  wish 
to  have  it  all  blossoms,  no  stem  or 
leaves,  has  perhaps  been  one  cause 
why  he  has  written  no  long  work.  It 
is  a  tendency  which  is,  in  some  mea- 
sure, honourable  to  him.  Though  it 
has  assisted  in  betraying  him  into  the 
errors  we  have  already  noticed,  it 


must  be  allowed  that  we  are  never  in 
danger  of  being  wearied  with  the  mo- 
notony of  commonplace. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  consider 
for  a  moment  this  characteristic — the 
wish  to  seize  upon  the  essence,  and 
the  essence  only,  of  poetry. 

In  our  high  intellectual  industry, 
there  goes  on  a  certain  division  and  sub- 
division of  labour  analogous  to  that 
which  marks  the  progress  of  our  com- 
mercial and  manufacturing  industry. 
The  first  men  of  genius  were  historians, 
poets,  philosophers,  all  in  one.  If 
thev  wrote  verse,  tiiey  found  a  place 
in  it  for  whatever  could  in  any  man- 
ner interest  their  contemporaries, 
whether  it  was  matter  of  knowledge, 
or  matter  of  passion.  The  theology 
of  a  people,  and  the  agriculture  of  a 
people — chaos  and  night,  and  how  to 
sow  the  fields— the  progeny  of  gods, 
and  the  breeding  of  bulls — ^were  alike 
materials  for  the  poem.  A  Hesiod  or 
a  Gower  chant  all  they  know — science, 
or  religion,  or  morality.  The  first 
epic  is  the  first  history.  But  the  nar- 
rative here  becomes  too  engrossing  to 
admit  of  large  admixtures  of  didactic 
matter.  This  is  relegated  to  some 
other  form  of  composition,  and  handed 
over  to  some  other  master  of  the  art. 
The  dramatic  form  carries  on  this 
divbion  still  further.  The  represen- 
tation of  the  narrative  relieves  the 
poem  of  its  historic  character,  and  a 
diiJogue  which  is  to  accompany  action 
becomes  necessarily  devoted  to  the 
passions  of  life,  or  such  strains  of 
reflection  as  result  from,  and  harmo- 
nise with,  those  passions.  The  lyric 
minstrel  seizes  upon  these  eliminate^ 
elements  of  passion  and  reflection,  and 
adds  thereto  a  greater  liberty  of  ima- 
gination. At  length  comes  that  mere 
intellectual  luxunr  of  imaginative 
thought— that  gathering  hi  of  beauty 
and  emotion  from  all  sources — that 
subtle  blending  of  a  thousand  pleasmg 
allusions  and  flitting  images— exqui- 
site for  their  ovm  sake,  and  consti- 
tutmg  what  is  considered  as  pre-emi- 
nently the  poetical  description  of 
natural  scenery,  or  the  poeUcal  deli- 
neation of  human  feeUng. 

But  it  is  possible  that  this  intellec- 
tual division  of  labour  may  be  carried 
too  far.  This  luxury  of  imaghiative 
thought  may  be  found  supporting 
itself  on  the  slenderest  base  imagin- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


456 


TeM^$&H^s  Pdemi. 


[April, 


able  of  either  incident  or  reflection, 
maj  be  almost  divorced  from  those 
first  natural  sources  of  interest  which 
affect  all  mankind.  Now,  although 
this  may  be  the  most  poetical  element 
of  the  poem — ^though  this  subtle  plaj 
of  imagination  may  constitute,  more 
than  anything  else,  the  difference  be- 
tween poetry  and  prose,  it  does  not 
follow  that  a  good  poem  can  be  con- 
structed wholly  of  such  materials.  It 
does  not  even  follow  that,  in  a  good 
poem,  this  is  really  the  most  essential 
part;  for  that  which  constitutes  the 
specific  distinction  between  prose  and 
poetry  may  not  be  an  ingredient  so 
important  as  others  which  both  prose 
and  poetry  have  in  common.  It  is 
the  hUty  and  its  peculiar  formation, 
which  more  particularly  distinguishes 
the  sword  from  any  other  cutting 
instrument;  but  the  blade— the  faculty 
of  cutting  which  it  shares  in  common 
with  the  most  domestic  koife — is,  after 
all,  the  meet  important  part,  the  most 
requisite  property  of  the  sword.  A 
peculiar  ]^y  of  imagfaiation  is  pre* 
eminently  poetic,  but  thought,  renec* 
Hon,  the  genuine  passions  of  man — 
these  must  still  constitute  the  greater 
elements  of  ibt  composition,  whether 
it  be  prose  or  poem. 

If,  therefore,  we  carry  this  division 
of  labour  too  far,  we  shall  be  in  danger 
of  carvmg  elegant  and  daborate  hilts 
that  have  no  blades,  or  but  a  sham  one. 
We  ask  no  one  to  write  didactic  or  phi* 
losophic  poems— we  should  entreat  of 
them  to  abstain;  we  call  on  no  man  to 
describe  again  the  culture  of  the  sugar- 
cane, (though  it  bids  Mr  to  become 
amongst  us  one  of  the  lost  arts,)  or  the 
breeding  of  sheep,  in  numerous  verse ; 
we  hope  no  one  will  again  fall  into  that 
shDgular  error  of  imagining  ^t  the 
**  art  of  poetry"  must  be  a  pecuUariy 
appropriate  subject  for  a  poem,  and 
the  very  topic  that  the  spirit  of  a 
poetic  reader  was  thirsting  far.  Art 
of  poetry!  what  poetic  nutriment  will 
you  extract  from  that?  As  well  think 
to  dine  a  man  upon  the  art  of  co<^cery ! 
It  is  quite  right  that  what  is  best  said 
in  prose  should  be  confined  to  prose ; 
but  neither  must  we  divorce  substan- 
tial thought,  the  broad  passions  of 
mankind,  or  a  deep  reflection,  finom 
the  poetic  form.  This  would  be  to 
build  nothing  b«t  steeples,  and  mina- 
rets, and  aU  the  fOigne  <tf  aitbitee- 


tura.    We  should  have  pIDan 
porticoes  enoi^,  but  not  a  temple  of 
any  kind  to  enter  into. 

We  often  hear  it  asserted,  on  tlie 
one  hand,  that  the  taste  for  poelry 
has  dedined.  We  hear  this,  on  the 
other  liaad,  vigorously  conteAked  and 
denied.  No,  says  the  indignant 
chamfrfon  of  the  muse,  vifu  may  hare 
sunk  much  in  estimation,  and  the  kt- 
genious  labours  of  the  rhymist  maj 
be  put  on  a  par,  if  yon  wlU,  with  the 
tri<^  of  the  juggler  or  the  capnoea 
of  art.  Difficulties  conquered  1  Noo^ 
sense.  We  want  good  Udngs  cza* 
cuted.  It  is  your  folly  if  you  do  not 
choose  the  best  means.  Themaawlia 
plays  on  his  fiddle  with  one  stiing 
only,  shall  have  thanks  if  he  {days 
weU,  but  not  because  he  plays  on  one 
string;  if  he  could  have  juayed  better, 
using  the  four,  his  thanks  shall  be 
diminished  by  so  much.  Yes,  vene 
mav  be  depreciated,  bat  poetnf'^ 
which  grows  perenniid  flrom  the  veir 
heart  (»  humanity^you  may  plongh 
over  the  soil  deep  as  you  please,  you 
will  onlv  make  it  grow  Uie  faster,  and 
stoike  the  deeper  root.  The  answer 
is  well,  and  yet  there  mav  be  some- 
thing left  unexplained.  If  poetiy  haa 
been  deserting  the  highroads  of  hu- 
man thought — If  it  has  grown  more 
limited  as  it  has  grown  more  subtle-^ 
there  may  be  some  ground  for  sus- 
pecting that  the  publk  will  desert  it. 
Without  wishing  to  detract  anything 
from  the  high  merit  of  hto  best  per- 
formances, we  should  refer  to  a  great 
portion  of  the  poetry  of  Skelkif  as  an 
illustration  of  these  remarks,  aaad  also 
to  a  considerable  part  of  the  poetry  of 
KeatM, 

It  is  especially  in  the  class  of  de- 
scriptive poetry,  that  we  modems  have 
carried  &e  over-refinement  we  are 
speaking  of,  to  so  remarkable  an  ex- 
tent The  poets  of  Greece  and  Bosoe, 
it  has  been  often  obeerved,  rarrty,  if 
ever,  described  natural  scenerr  simplv 
for  its  own  sake.  It  was  with  theor 
verse  as  with  their  paintings— 4he 
landscape  was  always  a  m^e  acces- 
sory, the  main  interest  lying  with  the 
human  or  superhuman  bdngs  who 
inhabited  it.  The  truth  seems  to  be, 
that  the  pagan  imagteadon  was  so 
fbU  of  its  goddesses  and  nymphs,  that 
these  obsewed  the  genuine  impressiOB 
which  the  scene  itself  would  have  pro- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Tamifmm^M  Poems, 


457 


dnced.  Not  but  that  tiie  aadent 
poet  must  have  felt  the  charm  of  a 
beaatiM  or  saldime  scene;  but  initead 
of  dw(rilioff  upon  this  natural  cfaaim, 
he  turned  unmediatelj  to  what  aeem- 
ed  a  more  worthy  sabiect — to  the 
sapematoral  beiDgs  wiw  which  su- 
perstition had  peopled  the  scene. 
Scarcely  could  he  see  the  wood  for 
tiie  dryads,  or  the  rirer  for  those 
smooth  naiads  that  were  sorely  liying 
in  its  lucid  depths.  And  even  if  we 
snppose  that  these  pagan  faiths  had 
lost  their  hold  both  of  writer  and  of 
reader,  it  is  still  yery  easy  to  under- 
stand that  simple  nature — trees,  and 
hills,  and  water — ^however  pleasing  to 
the  beholder,  might  not  be  thought  an 
appropriate  subject,  or  one  sufficiently 
important  for  an  exclusive  descrip- 
tion. What  is  open  to  every  one*8 
eye,  and  familiar  to  every  man's 
thought,  is  not  tiie  first,  but  the  last 
topic  to  which  literature  resorts.  Not 
till  all  others  are  exhausted  does  it 
betake  itself  to  this.  Just  as  the  he- 
roic in  human  existenoe  would  be 
sung  and  resung,  long  before  a  Field- 
ing portrays  the  common  IHe  that  is 
lying  about  him;  so  portents  and 
proSgies,  gods  and  satyrs,  and  Ovi- 
dian  fables  of  metamorphosed  damsels, 
would  precede  the  description  of 
groves  and  bays,  verdure  and  water, 
and  the  light  of  heaven  seen  shining 
every  day  upon  them. 

Even  the  sacred  poets  and  prophets 
amongst  the  Hebrews,  who  gave  such 
sublime  views  of  nature,  always  asso- 
ciated her  with  the  presence  of  God. 
This,  indeed,  was  the  secret  of  thehr 
sublimity.  With  them  nature  was  never 
seen  alone.  The  clouds  rolled  about 
His  else  invisible  path;  the  thunder 
was  His,  the  hills  were  His ;  nature 
was  the  perpetsal  vesture  of  the  Deity. 

It  is  only  in  modem  times  that  the 
scenery  of  nature  has  beoi  allowed  to 
speak  for  itself,  to  make  its  own  im- 
pressioD,  as  the  great  represeotative 
of  the  Beautifal  here  below.  But  now, 
as  this  scenery  is  to  be  described,  not 
by  admeasmrements,  or  the  items  of  a 
catalogue,  as  so  much  land,  so  much 
water,  so  mnch  timber,  b«t  by  the 
deep,  and  varied,  and  often  shadowy 
sentiments  it  calls  forth,  it  is  manifest 
that  it  must  become  a  theme  inex- 
haustible to, the  poet,  and  a  theme 
also  soaewhat  duigerons  to  him,  as 


temptinghim  more  and  more  towards 
tiioee  refined,  and  vague,  and  evanes- 
cent feelings  which  are  not  found  on 
the  highways  of  human  thought,  and 
are  known  only  to  the  experience  of  a 
few. 

But  to  return  more  immediately  to 
Mr  Tennyson.  We  have  said  that,  at 
the  time  when  he  conmienced  writing, 
poetry  was  in  a  certain  feverish  con- 
dition. The  young  poet  had  been 
spoilt — ^had  grown  over-confident.  He 
was  like  Spencer's  Knight  in  the  Pa- 
lace of  Love,  who  sees  written  over 
everydoor,  "Beboldl  Beboldl"  Only 
over  one  door  does  he  read  the  salu- 
tary caution,**Be  not  too  bold !"  Pub- 
lic opinion,  or  the  opinion  of  a  large 
and  powerful  coterie,  favoured  ms 
wildest  excesses.  That  language  wan 
strained  and  distorted,  was  a  sure 
sign  of  the  original  power  of  thought 
that  was  straggling  through  the  im- 
perfect medium.  Obscurity  was  al- 
ways honoured.  People  strained  their 
eyes  to  watch  thehr  favourite  as  he 
careered  amongst  the  clouds :  if  they 
lost  sight  of  him,  the  fault  was  pre- 
sumed to  be  in  thehr  own  vision ;  they 
were  not  likely,  therefore,  to  confess 
any  inability  to  follow  him.  The 
young  aspirants  of  the  day  even  learnt 
to  despise  the  trammels  of  their  own 
art.  The  measure  and  melody  <^ 
their  verse  was  sacrificed  to  the  irre- 
sistible afflatus  which  bore  them  on- 
ward. Metre  was  put  to  the  torture, 
— at  least  our  ears  were  tortured — in 
order  that  no  iota  of  the  heaven- 
breathed  strain  should  be  lost.  They 
still  wrote  in  verse,  because  verse  alone 
could  disguise  the  empty,  meaninglesa 
phraseology  they  had  enlisted  in  their 
service ;  bot  it  was  often  a  jingling 
rhythm,  harsher  to  the  ear  than  the 
most  crabbed  prose,  which  was  re- 
tained as  an  excuse  or  concealment 
for  that  resplendent  gibberish  they 
had  imported  so  largely  into  the  Eng- 
lish language.  From  a  super-refine- 
ment of  thought,  altogether  trans- 
cendental, they  deh'ghted  to  descend  ta 
an  imitation  of  childish  or  antique 
shnplicity.  The  natural  level  of  cul- 
tivated thought  was  by  all  means  to 
be  avoided.  U  yon  were  not  in  the 
clonds,  you  must  be  seen  sitting 
amongst  the  bvtteicupe. 

Turn  BOW  to  the  opennig  and  earlier 
poema  in  Mr  Tennyson's  vohime; 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


458  Tennys(nCs  Poemi, 

they  are  considerably  altered  from  the 
state  in  which  they  made  their  first 
appearance,  bnt  they  still  leaye  traces 
enough  of  the  unfortunate  influence 
we  have  attempted  to  describe.  The 
best  amongst  them  is  a  sort  of  gallery 
of  portraits  of  fair  ladies—Claribel, 
and  Lilian,  and  Isabel,  and  Adeline, 
and  Madeline,  and  others.  From  these 
might  be  extracted  some  few  very  beau- 
tiful lines,  but  none  of  them  pleases  as 
a  whole.  There  is  an  air  of  effort 
and  elaboration,  coupled  with  much 
studied  negligence,  which  prevents 
us  from  surrendering  ourselves  to 
the  charms  of  any  of  these  portraitures. 
The  Claribel^  with  which  the  volume 
commences,  might  be  a  woman  or  a 
child  for  anyth^g  that  the  poem  tells 
US ;  we  only  gather  from  the  expres- 
sion *Mow  lieth,"  that  she  is  dead, 
and  ever  her  grave  there  rings  a  chime 
of  words,  which  leave  as  little  impres- 
sion on  the  living  ear  as  they  would 
on  the  sleeper  beneath.  It  was  a  pity 
— since  alterations  have  been  per- 
mitted— that  the  volume  was  still  al« 
lowed  to  open  with  this  mere  mono- 
tonous chant.  And  why  were  these 
two  absurd  songs  To  the  Owl  still  pre- 
served ?  Was  it  to  display  a  sort  of 
moral  courage,  and  as  they  were  first 
written  out  of  bravado  to  common 
sense,  was  it  held  a  point  of  honour  to 
persist  in  their  republication?  I, 
Tennyson,  have  written  good  things ; 
therefore  this,  my  nonsense,  shall  hold 
its  ground  in  spite  of  the  murmurs  of 
gentle  reader,  or  the  anger  of  malig- 
nant critic  I  But  we  must  not  com- 
mence an  inquisition  of  this  kind,  nor 
ask  why  this  or  that  has  been  per- 
mitted to  remain,  for  we  should  carry 
on  such  an  inquiry  to  no  little  extent. 
We  should  make  wide  clearance  in 
this  first  part  of  his  volume.  Here  is 
a  long  Ode  to  Memory^  which  craves 
to  be  extinguished,  which  ought  in 
charity  to  be  forgotten.  An  utter 
failure  throughout.  We  cannot  read 
it  again,  to  enable  us  to  speak  quite 
positively,  but  we  do  not  think  there 
is  a  single  redeeming  line  in  the  whole 
of  it.  A  dreary,  shapeless,  meta- 
ph^ical  mist  lies  over  it ;  there  is  no 
olyect  seen,  and  not  a  ray  of  beauty 
«ven  colours  the  cloud.  Then  comes 
an  odious  piece  of  pedantry  in  the 
shape  of  "  A  Song.^  What  metre, 
Greek  or  Roman,  Russian  or  Chinese, 


[April, 


it  was  intended  to  imitate^  we  iiave 
no  care  to  inquire:  the  man  was 
writing  English,  and  had  no  justifiable 
pretence  for  torturing  our  ear  with 
verse  like  this : — 

SONO. 

*'*'  A  spirit  hwmts  the  year*!  last  hours, 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers : 

To  himself  be  talks  ; 
For  at  oTentide,  listening  earnestly. 
At  his  work  you  may  near  him  sob  and 

In  we  walks. 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  bea^y  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers.** 

Of  the  Lady  ofShalott  we  have  al- 
ready hinted  our  opinion.  They  must 
bo  far  gone  in  dilettantism  who  can 
make  an  especial  favourite  of  such  a 
caprice  as  this— with  its  intolerable 
vagueness,  and  its  irritating  repeti- 
tion, every  verse  ending  with  the 
**  Lady  of  Shai^,"  which  must  always 
rhyme  with  "  Camefo/."  We  cannot 
conceive  what  charm  Mr  Tennyson 
could  find  in  this  species  of  odious 
iteration,  which  he  nevertheless  re- 
peatedly inflicts  upon  us.  It  matters 
not  what  precedent  he  may  insist 
upon — whether  he  quotes  the  autho- 
rity of  Theocritus,  or  the  worthy 
example  of  old  English  ballad-makers 
— the  annoyance  is  none  the  less.  In 
a  poem  called  The  Sisters,  we  have 
the  verse  framed  after  this  fashion : — 

**  We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  ; 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  Csce : 

Tke  wind  i$  blowwy  in  imrret  and  tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  reyenge  became  me  welL 
O  the  earl  toaefair  toeeeT 

And  SO  we  go  on  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter,  with  "  The  wind  is  blowing 
in  turret  and  tree,**  and  **  The  earl 
was  fair  to  see,**  brought  in,  no  mat- 
ter how,  bnt  always  in  the  same  place. 
The  rest  of  the  verse  is  not  so  abun- 
dantly clear  as  to  be  well  able  to  afford 
this  intervenient  jingle,  which  is  in. 
deed  no  better  than  the/al laila!  or 
tolderoll  of  facetious  dnnking-songs. 
These  have  their  purpose,  being  fram- 
ed expressly  for  people  in  that  condi- 
tion when  they  want  noise,  and  noise 
only,  when  the  absence  of  all  sense  is 
rather  a  merit ;  but  what  earthly  use, 
or  beauty,  or  purpose  there  can  be  in 
the  melancholy  iterations  of  Mr  Ten- 
nyson, we  cannot  understand.  Cer- 
tainly we  agree  here  with  Hotspur— 
we  would  rather  hear  *^a  kitten  cry 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Tenmf$on^$  Poems. 


4^9 


Mew,  than  one  of  these  same  metre 
ballad-mongers." 

Oriana  &  fashioned  on  the  same 
plan: — 

^  My  heart  ii  wasted  with  my  woe, 
OruuMU 
There  U  no  rest  for  mo  below, 
Oriana.'' 

As  if  some  miserable  dog  were  baying 
the  moon  with  the  name  of  Oriana. 
Mariana  in  the  Moated  Orange 
is  not  by  any  means  improved  by 
this  habit  of  repetition,  every  stanza 
ending  *with  the  same  lines,  and  Uiose 
not  too  skilfolly  constructed  :— 

**  She  only  mid,  *  My  life  is  dreary; 
He  eometh  not,'  ihe  said  ! 
She  mm/,  *  I  am  aweary,  aweary; 
I  would  that  I  were  dead!' " 

This  piece  of  Mariana  has  been  very 
mnch  extolled ;  the  praise  we  should 
allot  to  it  would  seem  cold  after  the 
applause  it  has  freqnentlv  received. 
The  descriptive  powers  of  Tennpon 
are,  in  his  happiest  moments,  unnval- 
led;  on  these  occasions  there  is  no 
one  of  whom  it  may  be  said  more 
accurately,  that  his  words  paint  the 
scene ;  but  the  description  here  and  in 
the  subsequent  piece,  Mariana  in  the 
Southy  has  always  appeared  to  us  too 
studied  to  be  entirely  pleasing.  We 
have  tried  i^feel  it,  but  we  could  not. 
For  instances  of  graver  faults  of 
style,  and  in  productions  of  higher 
aim,  we  should  point,  amongst  others, 
to  The  Palace  of  Art,  The  Vision  of 
Sin,  The  Dream  of  Fair  Women.  In 
all  of  these,  verses  of  great  merit  may 
be  found,  but  the  larger  part  is  very 
faulty.  An  obscurity,  the  result  some- 
times of  too  great  condensation  of  style, 
and  a  jerking  spasmodic  movement, 
constantly  mar  the  effect.  From  The 
Palace  of  Art  we  quote,  almost  at  hap- 
hazard, the  following  lines.  The  soul 
has  built  her  palace,  has  hung  it  with 
pictures,  and  placed  therein  certain 
great  bells,  (a  sort  of  music  we  do  not 
envy  her,)  that  swing  of  themselves. 
It  Is  then  finely  said  of  her — 

^  She  took  her  throne, 
She  lat  betwixt  the  ihininc  oriels 
To  nmg  her  songs  alone. 

After  this  the  strain  thus  proceeds : — 

<*  No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone. 
More  than  my  sonl  to  hear  her  echoed  song 

nrolf  aroiu^  the  rihM  ttome; 


''Singing  and   mnmnring  in   her  feastfol 
mirth, 

Trying  to  feel  herself  alive  ; 
Lord  oyer  natnre,  lord  of  the  visible  earth, 

Lord  of  the  senses  five. 

'* Commnning  with  herself:  <A11  these  are 
mine; 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
Tis  one  to  me. '  She — when  yonng  night  divine 

Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

*'  Makinir  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils — 
Lit  ligot  in  wreaths  and  anadems. 

And  Dore  qointessenoes  of  precions  oils 
In  Wlow'd  moons  of  gems, 

"  To  mimic  heaven ;  and  clapt  her  hand?,  and 
cried, 

*  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
lu  this  great  house,  so  royal,  rich,  and  wide^ 

Be  fla^red  to  the  height. 

'* '  Prom  shape  to  shape  at  first  within  the 
womb. 

The  brain  is  modelled,'  she  began. 
*  And  through  all  phases  of  all  thougnt  I  come 

Into  the  perfect  man. 

"  *  All  nature  widens  upward,  evermore 

The  simpler  essence  lower  lies  ; 
More  complex  is  more  perfect,  ovrning  more 

Discourse,  more  widely  wise.' 

'^  Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate, 
And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 

As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplish'd  Fate; 
And  at  the  last  she  said—" 

Now  this  surely  is  not  writing 
which  can  commend  itself  to  the 
judgment  of  any  impartial  critic. 
One  cannot  possibly  admire  this 
medley  of  topics,  moral  and  phvsi- 
ological,  thrown  pell-mell  together, 
and  mingled  with  descriptions  which 
are  themselves  a  puzzle  to  understand. 
To  hear  one's  own  voice  "  throbbing 
through  the  ribbed  stone,"  is  a  start- 
ling novelty  in  acoustics,  and  the 
lighting  up  of  the  apartment  is  far 
from  ^ing  a  lucid  affair.  We  can 
understand  *^the  wreaths  and  ana- 
dems ;"  our  experience  of  an  illumina- 
tion-night in  the  streets  of  London, 
where  little  lamps  or  jets  of  gas, 
assume  these  festive  shapes,  comes 
to  our  aidt  but  "moons  of  gems" 
would  form  such  globes  as  even  the 
purest  quintessence  of  the  most  pre- 
cious oil  must  fail  to  render  very 
luminous. 

The  Vision  of  Sin  commences  after 
this  fashion : — 

"  I  had  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late : 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace-gate; 
He  rode  a  hone  with  winge,  thai  would  have 

Jlown^ 
Btit  thai  hf$  heavy  rider  hejd  him  dotvn.. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


460 


x€fMj^!fOfl4  xmMHV* 


[April, 


Aii4  firam  the  ptlAoeeaiM  a  child  of  no, 
^iwi  too*  Wm  hy  the  curls,  and  led  kirn  in. 
Where  sat  a  comptty  with  heated  eyea, 
Expeoting  when  a  foantain  should  ariie/^ 

Thus  it  commences,  and  thus  it 
proceeds  for  some  time,  in  the  same 
very  intelligible  strain.  It  is  onr 
fault,  perhaps,  that  we  cannot  inter- 
pret the  vision ;  but  we  confess  that 
we  can  make  nothing  of  it  till  the 
measure  suddenly  changes,  and  we 
have  a  bitter,  moddng,  sardonic  song, 
a  sort  of  devil^s  drinking-song, 
through  which  some  species  of  mean- 
ing becomes  evident  enough. 

In  a  vision  of  sin  we  may  cocmt 
upon  a  little  mystery ;  but  we  should 
expect  to  find  all  clear  and  beautiful 
in  A  Dream  qf  Fair  Women.  But 
here,  too,  everything  is  smgularly 
misty.  Those  who  have  witnessed 
that  ingenious  exhibition  called  The 
Dissolving  Views,  will  recollect  that 
gay  and  gaudy  obscurity  which  inter- 
venes at  the  change  of  each  picture ; 
they  will  remember  that  they  passed 
hidf  their  time  looking  upon  a  canvass 
covered  with  indistinct  forms,  and 
strangely  mingled  colours.  Just  for 
a  few  minutes  the  picture  stands  out 
bright  and  well  defined  as  need  be, 
then  it  breaks  up,  and  confuses  its 
dim  fi'agments  with  the  colours  of 
some  other  picture,  which  is  now 
struggling  to  make  itself  visible. 
Ha^our  time  is  spent  amongst  ming- 
led shadows  of  the  two,  the  eye  m 
vain  attempting  to  trace  any  perfect 
outline.  Precisely  such  a  sensation 
the  perusal  of  this,  and  some  other  of 
the  poems  of  Tennyson,  produces  on 
the  reader.  For  a  moment  the  scene 
brightens  out  into  the  most  palpable 
distinctness,  but  for  the  greater  part 
we  are  gazing  on  a  flittering  mist, 
where  there  is  more  colour  than  form, 
and  where  the  colours  themselves  are 
flung  one  upon  the  other  in  lawless 
profusion.  In  the  Dream  of  Fair 
Women^  the  [form  of  Cleopatra  stands 
forth  magnificently ;  it  is  almost  the 
only  portion  of  the  poeiiv  that  has 
the  great  charm  of  disthictness,  or 
which  fixes  itself  permanently  on  the 
memory. 

We  cannot  brine  ourselves  to  quote 
line  after  line,  and  verse  after  verse, 
of  what  we  hold  to  be  bad  and  unread- 
able :  we  have  given  some  examples, 
and  mentioned  a  considerable  number 


of  die  pieces,  on  which  we  should 
found  a  certain  vote  of  censure ;  the 
intelligrat  reader  can  easily  check  our 
judgment  by  his  own, — confirm  or 
dispute  it.  We  turn  to  what  is  a 
more  grateful  task.  Wdl  known  as 
these  poems  are,  we  must  be  per- 
mitted to  give  a  few  specimens  of 
thosehappyeffi>rt8  which  have  secured, 
we  believe,  to  Tennyson,  in  spite  of 
the  deiiBCts  we  have  pointed  out,  an 
endnrinff  place  amongst  the  poets  of 
England.  We  shall  make  onr  selec- 
tioB  so  as  to  illustrate  his  success  in 
very  difierent  styles,  and  on  different 
topics.  We  shall  make  this  selection 
from  the  v<^nme  of  HU  Poemgy  and 
then  dwell  separately,  and  somewhat 
more  at  large,  upon  7%e  Princess^ 
which  is  oonq[Hurativel7  a  late  publica- 
tion. 

We  cannot  pass  1^  oar  eraecial 
favourite.  The  Lotaa-iatere.  This  is 
poetry  oi  the  very  highest  (u^er— in 
every  way  charming— sutject  and 
treatment  both.  The  state  of  mind 
described,  is  one  which  every  culti- 
vated mind  will  understand  and  enter 
into,  and  which  a  poet,  in  particolar, 
must  th(»roughly  sympathise  with— 
that  lassitude  which  is  content  to  look 
upon  the  swift-flowing  current  of  life, 
and  let  it  flow,  refusing  to  embaric 
thereon— a  lassitude  wimk  is  not 
wholly  torpor,  which  has  mental 
energy  enough  to  cull  a  justificatioii 
for  itself  from  all  its  stores  of  philo- 
sophy—a  lassitude  charming  as  the 
last  thought,  before  sleep  quite  folda 
us  in  its  safe  and  tried  oblivion.  No 
need  to  eat  of  the  Lotos,  or  to  be  cast 
upon  the  enchanted  island,  to  £deltiiis 
gentle  despondency,  this  resignation 
made  up  of  resistless  Indolence  and 
well-reasoned  despair.  Yet  these  are 
drcumstancea  which  add  greatly  to 
the  poetry  of  our  picture.  To  the 
band  of  weary  navigators  who  had 
disembarked  upon  this  land— 


*<  Where  all  thing!  alwavi 
The  mild-ejed  melanehoiy 


seemed  the  I 
LotOB-eaten  came. 


**  Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 
Uden  with  flower  and  finut,  whereof  they  gave 
To  each ;  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taite,  to  him  the  gushhig  of  the  wave, 
Far,  hi  away,  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  aHen  shores ;  and  if  his  fellow  snake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voieee  Arom  the  grave ; 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18i9.] 


T$mifwtCs  P^mtu. 


461 


And  deep  asleep  be  aemd.  y^k  aU  awake. 
And  mnne  in  hu  ears  his  beating  heart  did 

make. 

?. 
^They  tat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  iob  and  moen,  npoQ  the  shore  ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave ;  hut  oTermore 
Most  weary  seemed  the  sea,  weary  the  oar. 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  saia,  *  We  will  return  no 

more;* 
And  all  at  onoe  they  sang,  *  Oar  island  home 
Is  far  bey W  the  wa^ ;  we  will  no  longer 

roam.'" 

OHOMC  SONO. 
I. 

<<  There  is  sweet  music  here,  that  softer  falls 

Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass. 

Or  night-dews  on  still  waten  between  walls 

Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaasing  pais ; 

Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  Um, 

Than  tir*d  eyalidi  npon  tir'd  eyes  t 

Music  that  brings  iwe^t  sleep  down  from  the 
blissftd  skies. 

Here  are  cool  mosses  deep. 

And  through  the  moss  the  met  creep. 

And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaT'd  flowers 
weep. 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs 
in  sleep. 

n. 

«*  Why  are  we  weighed  npon  with  heftTinets, 

And  utterly  oonsomed  with  sharn  diitrett. 

While  all  things  else  hftte  rest  Irom  weari- 
ness? 

All  things  have  rest:  why  should  we  toil 
alone? 

We  only  toll,  who  are  the  flrst  of  things, 

And  make  pwpetual  moan. 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  tkvown : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings. 

And  oeate  from  wanderings, 

Kor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber^s  holy  balm  ; 

Nor  hearicen  what  the  inner  spirit  sings,— 

*  There  is  no  joy  but  eahn !  ^ 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  erown 
of  things? 


**  Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o  V  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life :  ah!  why 
Should  life  all  labour  be? 
Let  us  alone.    Time  drireth  onward  &st, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.    What  is  it  that  will  last? 
AU  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  pastb 
Let  us  alone.    What  pleatnre  can  we  haYO 
To  war  with  eril  ?    Is  there  any  peaee 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave? 
All  things  hare  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the 

gravo 
In  silenee,— ripen,  fiJl,  and  ceaee: 
Give  us  louff  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or 

dreammleate!*^ 

VI. 

**  Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  Uvea, 
And  dear  the  last  enkbraeet  of  our  wives, 


And  their  warm  tears:  but  all  hath  taflfor*d 

dtange  i 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are  cold: 
Our  sons  inherit  us :  our  looks  are  strange : 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  Joy. 
Or  else  the  island  princes  over^bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel  sings 
Before  them  of  the  ten  years*  war  in  Trov, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten  thmgs. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  ijle  ? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  gods  are  hard  to  reconcile : 
*Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  anin. 
There  it  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
liong  labour  unto  aged  breath.  **      .        • 


*<We  have  bad  enough  of  action,  and  of 
motion,  we, 

Roll'd  to  starboard,  roll*d  to  larboard,  when 
the  surge  was  seething  free, 

Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his 
foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 

Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an 
equal  mind. 

In  the  hollow  Lotos-Und  to  live  and  lie  re- 
clined 

On  the  hills  like  gods  together,  careless  of 
mankind/* 

As  at  once  a  companion  and  coun- 
terpart to  this  picture,  we  have  a 
noble  strain  fh)m  Ulysses^  who,  having 
reached  his  island-home  and  kingdom, 

Santa  again  fbr  enterprise — for  wider 
elds  of  thonght  and  action. 

<«  It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king. 

By  this  still  hearth^  amonff  these  barren  crags. 

Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race. 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know 

not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  dnnk 
Life  to  the  leee :  all  times  I  have  enjoyed 
Qteatly,  have  suffered  greatly. 

I  am  become  a  name; 
For,  always  roaming  with  a  hunj|r^  heart, 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known;  cities  of  men. 
And  manners,   climates,  councils,  govern- 
ments; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  inv  peers. 
Far  on  the  ringmg  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  put  ofall  that  I  have  met; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethrough 
Gleams  that  untraveird  world,  whose  margin 

fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
. 

"  This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle— 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
Tliii  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  ragged  people,  and  through  soft  degrees 


Sub£e  tiiem  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  Eail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


462 


Meet  adontion  to  my  houiehold  gods 
When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I 


T€mt»f9QrC$Poem$. 

The  oak  makes  answer: — 


[April, 


There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  puffs  his  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark-hlne  seas.  My  mariners. 
Souls  that  have  toiled,  and  wrought,  and 

thought  with  me— 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads— you  and  I  are  old ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all :  hut  something  ere  the  end,  « 
Some  work  of  nohle  note,  may  yet  be  done. 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  gods. 
ITie  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 
The  long  day  wanes :  the  slow  moon  climbs : 

the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my 

friends, 
Tis  not  too  late  to  seok  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and,  sitting  well  in  order,  smite 
The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die." 

St  Simeon  Stylites  is  a  poem  strongly 
and  justly  conceived,  and  written 
throughout  witli  sustained  and  equa- 
ble power.  Those  who  have  objected 
to  it,  that  it  is  not  the  portrait  of  any 
Christian  even  of  that  distant  age  and 
that  Eastern  clime,  have  perhaps  not 
sufficiently  consulted  their  ecclesias- 
tical history,  or  sufficiently  reflected 
how  almost  inevitably  the  practice  of 
])enances  and  self-inflictions  leads  to 
the  idea  that  these  are,  in  fact,  a  sort 
of  present  payment  for  the  future  joys 
of  heaven..  Such  an  idea  most  assur- 
edly prevailed  amongst  the  Eastern 
eremites,  of  whom  our  Simeon  was  a 
most  noted  example.  But  we  cannot 
quote  from  this,  or  from  The  Two 
Voices^  or  from  Locksley  HaU^  or  from 
Clara  Vere  de  Vere;  for  we  wish  now 
to  select  some  specimen  of  the  lighter, 
more  playful,  and  graceful  manner  of 
our  poet.  We  pause  betwixt  The 
Day-Dreani  and  The  Talking  Oak; 
they  are  both  admirable :  we  choose 
the  latter— we  rest  under  its  friendly, 
sociable  shade,  and  its  most  musical 
of  boughs.  The  lover  holds  com- 
munion with  the  good  old  oak-tree, 
and  finds  him  the  most  amiable  as 
well  as  the  most  discreet  of  confi- 
dants. May  every  lover  find  bis  oak- 
tree  talk  as  well,  and  as  agreeably, 
and  give  a  report  as  welcome  of  his 
absent  fair  one!  On  being  ques- 
tioned— 

**  If  ever  maid  or  spouse 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 
To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs,'' 


«  O  Walter,  I  hav«  sheltered  here 
Whatever  maiden  giaee 
Tlie  good  old  snmmen,  year  by  year, 
Blade  ripe  in  summer-chase : 
«  Old  summers,  when  the  monk  waa  fat. 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek. 
Would  twist  his  girdle  tifht,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  chedc ; 

**  And  I  have  shadowed  many  a  group 
Of  beauties,  that  were  bom 
In  teacup-timei  of  hood  and  hoop, 
Or  while  the  patch  was  wem; 
*'  And  leg  and  arm,  with  love-knots  gay, 
About  me  leaped  and  laugh*d 
The  modish  Oupid  of  the  day. 
And  shriUM  his  tinsel  shafi. 

"  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 
Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  rirl  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick 
Is  three  times  worth  them  all; 
"  I  swear  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thy  ears,) 
That  though  I  circle  in  tne  grain 
Five  himdred  rings  of  years — 

"  Yet  since  I  first  could  cast  a  shade 
Did  never  creature  pass 
So  sliffhtly,  musically  made. 
So  light  upon  the  grass : 
"  For  as  to  fitiries,  that  wiU  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  firesh, 
I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit. 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh.** 

The  lover  proceeds  to  inquire  when 
it  was  that  Olivia  last  came  to  "  sport 
beneath  his  boughs;"  and  the  oak,  who 
from  his  topmost  branches  could  see 
over  into  Summer-place,  and  look,  it 
seems,  in  at  the  windows,  gives  him 
full  information.  Yesterday  her  fa- 
ther had  gone  out — 

«  But  ai  for  her,  she  stud  at  home. 

And  on  the  roof  she  went. 
And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come, 

She  lookM  with  discontent. 

«  She  left  the  novel,  half  uncut, 

Unon  the  rosewood  shelf; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut; 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

<<  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  a  colt. 

And  livelier  than  a  Utrk; 
She  sent  her  voice  through  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  pi^. 

"  A  lidit  vrind  chased  her  on  the  wing. 

And  in  the  chase  grew  wild; 
As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 

About  the  darling  child. 

''  But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows, 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir. 
The  flower  she  touchM  on  dipt  and  rose. 

And  tum*d  to  look  at  her. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.] 


TVunyMMiV  Poem*. 


463 


**  And  here  ihe  eiine,  tnd  round  me  pUjM, 

And  aaag  to  mo  tho  whole 
Of  those  tluoe  itanzM  th«t  yon  made 
Abont  my  *  gUnt  bole  ;* 

**  And,  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth, 

She  stroTo  to  ipMi  my  wmiit; 
AIm  !  I  was  so  broad  of  girlh 

I  could  not  bo  embiaoML 

^  I  wished  mTself  the  (air  young  beech, 

That  here  beside  me  stands. 
Thai  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each. 

She  might  hare  lockM  her  hands.'' 

It  is  all  equally  charming,  bat  we  can 
proceed  no  fhrther.  Of  the  comic,  we 
bave  hinted  that  Mr  Tennyson  is  not 
without  some  specimens,  tboogh,  as 
will  be  easily  imagined,  it  is  not  a 
vein  in  which  he  frequently  indulges. 
Wiil  Waterproof  $  Lyrical  Monologue 
is  not  a  piece  much  to  our  taste,  yet 
that 

*<  Head-waiter  of  the  chophouse  here, 
To  which  I  most  resort,** 

together  with  the  scene  in  which  he 
lives  and  moves,  is  venr  graphically 
brought  before  us  in  the  following 
lines: — 

'*  But  thou  wilt  noTor  more  from  hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fiste  allots  : 
Thy  Utter  dap,  increased  with  pence. 

Go  down  among  the  pots. 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungiy  sinners. 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

"  We  fret,  vte  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot; 
Thi  care  is  under-polish*d  tins 

To  serre  the  hot-and-hot. 
To  come  and  so,  and  come  again. 

Returning  nke  the  pewit. 
And  watch  u  by  silent  gentlemen 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet.** 

But  this  is  not  the  extract  we  pro- 
mised our  readers,  nor  the  one  we 
should  select  as  the  best  illustration 
of  our  author^s  powers  in  this  style. 
In  a  piece  called  Walking  to  the  MaH, 
there  occurs  the  following  description 
of  a  certain  college  trick  played  on 
some  miserly  caitiff,  who,  no  doubt, 
had  richly  deserved  this  application  of 
Lynch  law.  It  is  not  unlike  the 
happiest  manner  of  our  old  drama- 
tists,— 

*<  I  was  at  school— a  college  in  the  south: 
There  liyed  a  flay-flint  near;  we  stole  his  fruit. 
His  hens,  his  eggs;  but  there  was  law  for  us  ; 
We  paid  in  person.  He  had  a  sow,  sir :  she 
Witn  meditatiye  grunts  of  much  content, 
lAy  ^[reat  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sua  and  mud. 
By  night  we  dragg*d  her  to  the  college  tower 
VOL.  LXV.— NO.  CCOCII. 


From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  eOrk-serew 

stair. 
With  hand  and'  rope  we  haled  the  groaning 

sow. 
And  on  Uie  leads  we  kept  her  till  she  pigg*d« 
Larse  ram  of  prospect  had  the  mother  sow. 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loT*d, 
As  one  by  one  we  took  them — ^but  for  this. 
As  noTor  tow  was  higher  in  this  world. 
Might  hare  been  happy ;  but  what  lot  is  pure? 
We  took  them  aU,  tiU  she  was  left  alone 


**  «  wwA  —WWII  Mu,  bill  SUV   was  •«!•  M«V 

Upon  her  tower,  ttie  Niobe  of  swine. 
And  so  returned  un£wrow*d  to  her  sly.** 

The  Princess ;  a  Medley ^  now  cMms 
our  attention.  This  can  no  longer, 
perhaps,  be  regarded  as  a  new  publi- 
cation, yet,  being  the  latest  of  Mr  Ten-  ' 
nyson's,  some  account  of  it  seems  due 
from  us.  With  what  propriety  he  has 
entitled  it  "A  Medley  ".is  not  fully 
seen  till  the  whole  of  it  has  come  before 
the  reader ;  and  it  is  at  the  close  of 
the  poem  that  the  author,  sympathis- 
ing with  that  something  of  surprise 
which  he  is  conscious  of  having  exdted, 
explains  in  part  how  he  fell  into  that 
baff-serious,  half-bantering  style,  and 
that  odd  admixture  of  modem  and 
medieval  times,  of  nineteenth  centurv 
notions  and  chivdrous  manners,  whidh 
characterise  it,  and  constitute  it 
the  medley  that  it  is.  Accident,  it 
seems,  must  bear  the  blame,  if  blame 
there  be.  The  poem  grew,  we  are  led 
to  gather,  firom  some  chance  sketch 
or  momentary  caprice.  So  we  infer 
from  the  following  lines, — 

''  Here  closed  our  eomponnd  story,  which 

at  first, 
Perhaps,  but  meant  to  banter  little  maids 
With  mock  heroics  and  with  parody  ; 
But  slipt  in  some  strange  way,  cro88*d  with 

burlesque 
From  mock  to  earnest,  OTon  into  tones 
Of  tragic** 

However  it  grew,  it  is  a  charming 
medlev ;  and  that  purposed  anachron- 
ism which  runs  throughout,  blending 
new  and  old,  new  theory  and  old 
romance,  lends  to  it  a  perpetual 
piqnancv.  Speakingmoreimmeoiately 
and  critically  of  its  poetic  merit,  what 
strud^  us  on  its  perusal  was  this,  that 
the  pidures  it  presents  are  the  most 
vivid  imaginable ;  that  here  there  is  an 
oriffinality  and  brilliancy  of  diction 
which  quite  illuminates  the  page ;  that 
everything  which  addresses  itself  to 
the  eye  stands  out  in  the  brightest 
light  before  us ;  but  that,  where  the 
author  falls  itito  reflection  and  senti' 
ment^  he  is  not  equal  to  himself;  that 
2a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


164  TmmfWi^B 

\iete  %  slow  creeping  mist  seems  ooca- 
sionallj  to  steal  over  the  page ;  so 
that,  although  the  poem  is  not  long, 
there  are  yet  maoy  passages  whldi 
inight  be  omitted  with  advantage.  As 
to  that  pecniiar  abmpt  style  of  narra- 
tiye  which  the  author  adopts,  it  has, 
at  all  events,  the  merit  of  extreme 
brevity,  and  must  find  its  fall  jostifi* 
cation,  we  presume,  in  that  haif-bor- 
lesqne  character  which  is  impressed 
upon  the  whole  poem. 

The  subject  is  a  pleasing  one — a 
gentle  banter  of  ^^  the  rights  of 
woman,"  as  sometimes  proclaimed  by 
oertain  fair  revolntionists.  The  femi- 
nine republic  is  dissolved,  as  might 
be  expected,  by  the  entrance  of  Love. 
He  is  not  exactly  elected  first  presi- 
dent of  the  republic ;  he  has  a  snorter 
way  of  his  own  of  arriving  at  despotic 
power,  and  domineers  and  scatters  at 
the  same  time.  In  vain  the  sex  band 
thems^ves  together  in  Amazonian 
dubs,  sections,  or  communities;  he  no 
sooner  aM>ears  than  eftch  one  drops 
the  hand  of  his  neighbour,  and  every 
heart  is  solitaiy. 

The  poem  qpens,  oddly  enough, 
with  the  sketch  of  a  baronet's  park^ 
which  has  been  given  up  for  the  day 
to  some  mechanics*  institute.  They 
hold  a  scientific  gala  there.  Bapidly, 
and  with  touches  of  sprightly  fancy, 
is  the  whole  scene  brought  before  us— 
the  holiday  multitude,  and  the  busy 
amateurs  of  experimental  philosophy. 

"  Somewhat  lower  down, 
A  man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  viala  fired 
A  cannon :  Echo  answered  in  her  sleep 
From  hollow  fields :  and  here  were  telescopes 
For  azure  views  \  and  there  a  group  of  ffirls 
In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric  shock 
Dislinked  with  shrieks  and  laughter :  round 

theUke 
A  little  clock-work  steamer  paddliug^  plied. 
And  shook  the  lilies:  perched  about  the  Knolls, 
A  dozen  anfry  models  jetted  steam; 
A  petty  railway  ran  ;  a  fire-balloon 
Rose  gem-like  up  before  the  dusky  grow, 
And  diopt  a  parachute  and  passed : 
And  there,  tlirongh  twenty  posts  of  telegraph, 
They  flashed  a  saucy  ihessage  to  and  fro 
Between  the  mimic  stations  ;  so  that  sport 
With  science  hand  in  hand  went:  otherwhere 
Pure  sport:  a  herd  of  boys  with  clamour 

bowrd 
And  BtuapM  the  wieket ;  habie$  roU'd  aboui 
Likt  iwtJbUd  fniit  m  jfrat$;  and  men  and 

maids 
Arranged  a  country-dance,  and  flew  through 

Ifiht 
And  ■hadvw.** 

Here  we  are  introdnced  to  LiEa,  the 


[April. 

baronet*s  young  and  pretty  daughter. 
She,  in  a  sprightly  fashion  that  wouid^ 
however,  have  daunted  no  admirer, 
rails  at  the  sex  masculine,  and  asserts^ 
at  all  points,  the  equality  of  woman. 

^  Convention  beats  them  down  ; 
It  is  but  bringing  up  ;  no  more  than  that : 
You  men  have  dlDue  it ;  how  I  hate  you  all  I 
O  were  I  some  great  princes^  I  would  build 
Far  off  from  men  a  collie  of  my  own. 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  things  ;   yoa 

would  see.' 
And  one  said,  smiling,   'Pretty  w«re  th» 

sight. 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex,  and 

flaunt 
With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for  deans, 
A  nd  tweet  airl-graduates  m  tketr  golden  hair, 

.        .        .        .        Yet  I  fear, 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood. 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the  nest. 
Some  boy  would  spy  it.' 

"  At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tinv  silken-eandal'd  foot : 
*  That's  your  light  way ;  but  I  would  make  it 

death 
For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  n.' 
Petolant  she  ^>oke,  and  at  herself  she  lau^'d; 
A  rosebud  set  with  liUle  vnlful  ikoms. 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make  ntr,  she  J** 

Hereupon  the  poet,  who  is  one  of 
the  party,  tells  a  tale  of  a  princess 
who  did  what  Lilia  threatened — who 
founded  a  college  of  sweet  girls,  to  be 
brought  up  in  high  contempt  and  stem 
equality  of  the  now  domineering  sex. 
This  royal  and  beautiful  champion  of 
the  rights  of  woman  had  been  be- 
trothed to  a  certain  neighbouring 
prince;  and  the  poet,  assuming  the 
character  of  this  prince,  tells  the  tale 
in  the  first  person. 

Of  course,  the  royal  foundress  of  a 
college,  where  no  men  are  permitted 
to  make  their  appearance,  scouts  the 
idea  of  being  bound  by  any  such  in«- 
oontract.  The  prince,  however,  can- 
not so  easily  resign  the  lady^  He 
sets  forth,  with  two  companions, 
Cyril  and  Florian.  The  three  dis- 
guise themselves  in  feminine  apparel, 
and  tiius  gain  admittance  into  this 
palace-college  of  fair  damsels. 

*'  There  at  a  board,  by  tome  and  paper,  sat. 
With  two  tame  leopanls  eouch'd  beside  her 

throne, 
All  beauty  compass'd  in  a  female  form, 
The  princess  ;  uker  to  the  inhabitant 
Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the  stm. 
Than  our  man^i  earth.    She  rose  her  height 

and  said: 
•We  give  you  weloome ;  not  withovt  re- 
dound 
Of  Isme  and  profit  unto  youiaelvee  ye  e<m«^ 
The fin^finuts  of  the  stranger:  afteitime^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


TtumyiOfCs  Poenu. 


465 


And  tint  full  Toioe  which  dicles  round  the 

grave 
Will  rank  jon  nobly,  mingled  np  with  me. 
What  I  are  the  ladies  of  joor  land  so  tall  ?  * 

•  We  of  the  court,'  said  Cyril.     *  From  the 

conril' 
Bhe  answered  ;  <  then  ye  know  the  prince  ? ' 

And  he, 
'  The  climax  of  his  age :  as  tho*  there  were 
One  rose  inall  ^e  world — your  highness  that — 
He  worships  your  ideal.*    And  she  replied  : 

*  We  did  not  think  in  our  own  hall  to  hear 
This  haixen  verbiage,  current  among  men — 
I^ht  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compUment : 
We  think  not  of  him.    When  we  set  our  hand 
To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with  ourselves 
Never  to  wed.     You  likewise  will  do  well, 
Ladies,  in  ottering  here,  to  cast  and  fling 
The  tricks  which  make  us  toys  of  men,  that  so, 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will. 
You  may  with  those  self-stvled  our  lords  allv 
Your  fortunes,  justiier  balanced,  scale  with 

scale/ 
At  these  high  words,  we,  conscious  of  oitr- 

selves, 
Perused  the  matting.*' 

In  this  banter  is  not  unfairly  ex- 
pressed a  sort  of  reasoning  we  have 
sometimes  heard  gravely  maintained. 
We  women  win  not  be  "  the  toys  of 
men.''  We  renounce  the  toilette  and 
all  those  charms  which  the  mirror  re- 
flects and  teaches;  we  will  be  tiie 
equal  friends  of  men,  not  bound  to 
them  by  the  ties  of  a  silly  fondness, 
or  such  as  a  passmg  imagination 
creates.  Good.  But  as  the  natural 
attraction  between  the  sexes  must, 
nnder  some  shape,  still  exist,  it  may 
be  worth  while  for  these  female  theo- 
rists to  consider,  whether  a  little  folly 
and  love,  is  not  a  better  combination, 
than  much  philosophy  and  a  coarser 
passion ;  for  such,  they  may  depend 
npon  it,  is  the  altemative  which  life 
presents  to  us.  Love  and  imagina- 
tion are  inextricably  combined;  in 
our  old  English  the  same  word,  Fancy^ 
expressed  them  both. 

Strange  to  say,  the  princess  has 
selected  two  widows^  (both  of  whom 
have  children,  and  one  an  infant,) 
— Lady  Blanche  and  Lady  Psyche — 
for  the  chief  assistants,  or  tutors,  in 
her  new  establishment.  Our  hopeful 
jmpils  put  themselves  under  the  tui- 
tion of  Lady  Psyche,  who  proves  to 
be  a  sister  of  one  of  them,  Florian. 
This  leads  to  their  discovery.  After 
Lady  P^che  has  delivered  a  some- 
what tedious  lecture,  she  recognises 
her  brother. 

«"<  My  brother  I     O,*  she  said; 
<Wh«taoyoiihex«?  Aadinthiidrai?  And 
■     I? 


Why,  who  are  these?  a  wolf  within  tlie  fold  1 
A  pack  of  wolves !  the  Lord  be  gracious  to  me ! 
A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot  to  xuin  ul !  *  ^^ 

All  three  appeal  to  Psyche's  feel- 
ings. The  appeal  is  effectual,  though 
the  reader  will  probably  think  it  rather 
wearisome :  it  is  one  of  those  pas- 
sages he  wiU  wish  were  abridged. 
The  lady  promises  silence,  on  the 
condition  that  they  will  steal  away, 
as  soon  as  may  be,  from  the  forbidden 
ground  on  which  they  have  entered. 

The  princess  now  rides  out, — 

"To  take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  in  the  north.** 

The  new  pupils  are  summoned  to 
attend  her. 

<' She  stood 
Among  her  maidens  higher  by  the  head. 
Her  bMk  against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on  one 
Of  those  tame  leopards.    Kitten-like  it  rolled. 
And  pawM  about  her  sandaL     I  drew  near : 
My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and  with 

awe ; 
And  from  mv  breast  the  involuntary  si^h 
Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light  of 

That  lent  m]r  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and  shook 
My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  climb,  and  so 
Went  fortn  in  long  retinue,  following  up 
The  river,  as  it  narrow'd  to  the  hills." 

Here  the  disguised  prince  has  an 
opportunity  of  furtively  alluding  to 
his  suit,  and  to  his  precontract— even 
ventures  to  speak  of  the  despair  iriiich 
her  cmel  resolution  will  ii^ct  upon 
him. 
^  *"  Poor  boy,*  she  said,  <  can  he  not  read— no 

bodLsP 
Quoit.  tennis*baU — no  games?  nor  deals  in 

that 
Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exercises  ? 
To  nurse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 
Methlnks  he  seems  no  better  than  a  girl ; 
As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourselves  have  been. 
We  had  our  dreams,  perhaps  be  mixed  with 

them  ; 
We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun  to  do  it. 
Being  other — since  we  learnt  our  meaning 

here. 
To  uplift  the  woman's  fallen  divinity 
Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man.** 

Well,  after  the  geological  survey, 
and  much  hammering  and  clinking, 
and  ^^  chattering  of  stony  names,"  the 
party  sit  down  to  a  sort  of  pic-nic. 
And  here  Cyril,  flushed  with  the 
wine,  and  forgetM  of  his  womanly 
part,  breaks  out  into  a  merry  stave 
t«  unmeet  for  ladies.'* 
««*Forbear,»  the  princess  cried,  '/brfteor, 

Andy  helited  throng  and  thfov^  nifth  untth 
aadlovi^     . 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


466  Tennyson's  Poems. 

I  smoto  him  on  the  breast ;  h«  itarted  up  ; 
There  rose  a  shriek  as  of  a  tiij  saek*d.*^ 

That  ''sir,"  that  manljr  blow,  had 
revealed  all;  there  was  a  general 
flight.  The  princess,  Ida,  in  the 
tnmnlt  is  thrown,  horse  and  rider, 
into  a  stream.  The  prince  is,  of 
course,  there  to  save;  bat  it  avails 
him  nothing.  He  is  afterwards 
bronght  before  her,  she  sittmg  in 
state,  ''eight  mighty  daughters  of 
the  plough  "  attending  as  her  guard. 
She  thus  tauntingly  dismisses  him  :— 

«*  ( Yoo  haye  done  well,  and  like  a  gentleman, 
And  like  a  prince  ;   you  have  onr  thanks 

for  all : 
And  Ton  look  well  too  in  Tonr  woman^s  dress; 
Well  haye  you  done  and  like  a  gentieman. 
You  have  saved  our  life  ;  we  owe  you  bitter 

thanks: 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in  the 

flood; 
Then  men  had  said— but  now— 
You  that  have  dared  to  break  our  bound, 

andgullM 
Our  tutors,  wrong'd,  and  lied,  and  thwarted 

us — 
/  wed  with  thee  !  /  bound  by  precontract. 
Your  bride,  your  bond-skve  I  not  tho"*  all  the 

gold 
That  v&ms  the  world  tcere  packed  to  make 

yourcrown^ 
And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord  you.*  ** 

Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters 
of  the  plough  usher  them  out  of  the 
palace.  We  shall  get  into  too  long  a 
fltory  if  we  attempt  to  narrate  all 
the  events  that  follow.  The  king, 
the  fiather  of  the  prince,  comes  with 
an  army  to  seek  and  liberate  his  son. 
Arac,  brother  of  the  princess,  comes 
also  with  an  army  to  her  protection. 
The  prince  and  Arac,  with  a  certain 
number  of  champions  on  either  aide, 
enter  the  lists ;  and  in  the  mSUe^  the 
prince  is  dangerously  wounded.  Then 
compassion  rises  in  the  noble  nature 
of  Ida ;  she  takes  the  wounded  prince 
Into  her  palace,  tends  upon  him,  re- 
stores him.  She  loves ;  and  the  col- 
lege is  for  ever  broken  up— disbanded ; 
and  the  "  rights  of  woman  ^'  resolve 
into  that  greatest  of  all  her  rights 
—a  heart-a£fection,  a  life-service,  the 
devotion  of  one  who  is  ever  both  her 
subject  and  her  prince. 

'ihia  account  will  be  sufficient  to 
render  intelligible  the  few  further 
extracts  we  wish  to  make.  Lady 
Psvche,  not  having  revealed  to  her 
chief  these  ''wolves"  whom  she  had 
•detected,  was  in  some  measure  a 
sharer  in  their  guilt.    She  fled  from 


[April, 

the  palace :  but  the  Princess  Ida  re^ 
tained  her  infant  child.  This  incident 
is  made  the  occasion  of  some  very 
charming  poetry,  both  when  the 
mother  laments  the  loss  of  her  child, 
and  when  she  regains  possession  of 
it. 

*<  <  Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah  my 

child  I 
My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I  shall  see  no  more ; 
For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back ; 
And  either  she  will  die  for  want  of  care. 
Or  sicken  with  ill  usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  is  hers  ;  and  they  will  beat  my  girl. 
Remembering  her  mother.     O  mv  flower ! 
Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make  her 

hard  ; 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With  some  cold  reverence,  wof  se  than  were 

she  dead. 
But  I  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a  vrild  petition  nieht  and  dar, 
Until  thej  hate  to  hear  me,  nke  a  wina 
Wailing  for  ever,  till  they  open  to  me. 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet. 
My  babe,  my  sweet  Aglauu  my  one  child : 
And  I  will  take  her  up  and  go  mv  way. 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her.*  ** 

After  the  combat  between  Arac 
and  the  prince,  when  all  parties  had 
congregated  on  what  had  been  the 
field  of  battle,  this  child  is  lying  on 
the  grass — 

"  Psvche  ever  stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  bv  us, 
Half'lapt  m  glowing  gamxe  and  golden  brede, 
Lajf  like  a  neto-faUen  meteor  on  thearaae, 
Unoared/oTf  tpied  iti  mother^  and  began 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter^  and  to  dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  tte/cUling  innocent  €nrm9j 
And  lojey  lingering  Jb^en,    She  the  ffP^ 
BrookM  not,  but  clamouring  out,  *  Mine — 

mine— not  yours ; 
It  is  not  yours,  but  mine :  give  me  the  child,* 
Ceased  all  in  tremble :  piteous  was  the  cry.** 

Cyril,  wounded  in  the  fight,  raises 
himself  on  his  knee,  and  implores  of 
the  princess  to  restore  the  child  to  her. 
She  relents,  but  does  not  give  it  to 
the  mother,  to  whom  she  is  not  yet 
reconciled  —  gives  it,  however,  to 
CyriL 

" «  Take  it,  sir,*  and  so 
Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mail^  hands. 
Who  tum*d  half  round  to  Psyche,  as  she 

sprang 
To  embrace  it,  with  an  eye  that  swam  in  thanks, 
Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from  head  to 

foot, 


And  hu£g*d.  and  never  hueK*d  it  close  enough ; 
in  her  hunger  mouth*d  and  mumbled  it. 


Audi 


And  hid  her  boeom  with  it ;  after  that 
Put  on  more  calm.** 

The  two  Idngs  are  well  sketched 
out— the  father  of  Ida,  and  the  fttther 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Teiu^8an^$  Poems. 


4« 


of  oar  prince.  Here  is  the  first ;  a 
weak,  indulgent,  fidgetty  old  man,  who 
is  very  much  perplexed  when  the 
prince  makes  his  appearance  to  de- 
mand fulfilment  of  the  marriage  con- 
tract. 

**  Hit  name  wm  Gama ;  cracked  and  imall  in 

Toice; 
A  little  dry  old  man,  withoot  a  ftar, 
Not  like  a  king !    Three  dajt  be  feasted  ns, 
And  on  the  fourth  I  spoke  of  why  we  came. 
And  my  betrothed.    '  x  oo  do  as,  Prince/  be 

said, 
Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 
*  All  bonoor.     We  remember  love  onrselves 
In  oar  sweet  yoatb  :  there  did  a  compact  pass 
Lon^  sammers  back,  a  kind  of  oeremonT — 
I  thmk  the  year  in  which  oar  olives  failed. 
I  woald  yoa  bad  her,  Prince,  with  all  my 

heart; — 
With  my  fall  heart !  bat  there  were  widows 

here. 
Two  widows,  lAdy  Psyche,  Lady  Blanche ; 
Tbey  fed  her  theories,  in  and  oat  of  place. 
Maintaining  that  with  equal  bosbandry 
The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  nuuo. 
They  barp*d  on  this ;  with  this  our  banquets 

Cor  dances  broke  and  bugged  in  knots  of 

talk; 
Nothing  but  this :  my  very  ears  were  hot 
To  hear  them.    Last  my  daughter  begged  a 
'  boon, 

A  certain  summer-palace  which  I  have 
Hard  by  your  father^  frontier:  I  said  No, 
Yet,  bemg  an  easy  nun,  gave  it/  ** 

The  other  royal  personage  is  of 
another  bnild,  and  talks  in  another 
tone — a  rongh  old  warrior  king,  who 
speaks  through  his  beard.  And  he 
speaks  with  a  rough  sense  too :  very 
little  respect  has  he  for  these  novel 
"  rights  of  women." 

"Boy, 
The  bearing  and  the  training  of  a  child 
Is  woman*8  wisdom.^* 

And  when  his  son  counsels  peace- 
fhl  modes  of  winning  his  bride,  and 
deprecates  war,  the  old  king  says: — 

** '  Tot,  you  know  them  not,  the  girls : 
They  pnxe  hard  knocks,  and  to  be- won  by 

force. 
Boy,  there^s  no  rose  tbat*s  half  so  dear  to 

theni 
As  be  that  does  the  thing  they  dare  not  do, — 
Breathing   and  sounding   beauteous  battle. 


With   the  air  of  trumpets  round  him,  and 

leaps  in 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  bv  the  score, 
FUtterM  and  flustered,  wins,  tho\  dashM  with 

death. 
He  reddens  what  he  kisses :  thos  I  won 
Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good  wife. 
Worth  winning  ;  but  this  firebrand — ^gentle- 
ness 


To  such  as  her !  If  Cyril  spake  her  true, 
To  catch  a  dragon  in  a  cbeny  net. 
And  trip  a  tigiest  with  a  gossamer. 
Were  wisdom  to  it.*  '* 

With  one  charming  picture  we  must 
close  our  extracts,  or  we  shall  go  fkr 
to  have  it  said  that,  with  the  exception 
of  scattered  single  lines  and  phrases, 
we  have  pillaged  the  poem  of  every 
beantifhl  passage  it  contains.  Here 
is  a  peep  into  the  garden  on  the  col- 
lege-walks of  our  niaiden  university : 

"There 
One  walked,  reciting  by  herself,  and  ome 
In  Ikis  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read. 
And  imooih^d  a  petted  peacock  down  with  that.. 
Some  to  a  low  son^  oar^d  a  shallop  by. 
Or  under  arches  ofthe  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadowM  from  the  heat.** 

It  may  be  observed  that  we  have 
quoted  no  passages  from  this  poem, 
such  as  we  might  deem  faulty,  or  vapid, 
or  in  any  way  transgressing  the  rules 
of  good  taste.  It  does  not  follow  that 
it  would  have  been  impossible  to  do 
so.  But  on  the  chapter  of  his  faults 
we  had  already  said  enough.  Mr 
Tennyson  is  not  a  writer  on  whose 
uniform  good  taste  we  learn  to  have 
a  full  reliance ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
makes  us  wince  very  often ;  but  he  is 
a  writer  who  pleases  much,  where  he 
does  please,  and  we  learn  at  length  to 
blink  the  fault,  in  favour  of  that 
genius  which  soon  after  appears  to 
redeem  it. 

Has  this  poet  ceased  from  his  labours^ 
or  may  we  yet  expect  from  him  some 
more  prolonged  strain,  some  work 
fully  commensurate  to  the  undoubted 
powers  he  possesses  ?  It  were  in  vain 
to  prophesy.  This  last  performance, 
The  Princess^  took,  we  believe,  his 
admirers  by  surprise.  It  was  not  ex- 
actly what  they  had  expected  from 
him — not  of  so  high  an  order.  Judg- 
ing by  some  intimations  he  himself 
has  given  us,  we  should  not  be  dis- 
posea  to  anticipate  any  such  effort 
from  Mr  Tennyson.  Should  he,  how  - 
ever,  contradict  this  anticipation,  no 
one  will  welcome  the  future  epic,  or 
drama,  or  story,  or  whatever  it  may 
be,  more  cordially  than  ourselves. 
Meanwhile,  if  he  rests  here,  he  will 
have  added  one  name  more  to  that 
list  of  English  poets,  who  have  suc- 
ceeded in  establishing  a  permanent 
reputation  on  a  few  brief  performances 
— a  list  which  includes  such  names  as 
Gray,  and  Collins,  and  Coleridge. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


468 


Aristocratic  Aimak, 


[April, 


ARISTOCRATIC  ANKALS. 


Here  are  three  books  analogous  in 
subject,  and  nearly  coincident  in  pub- 
lication, but  of  diverse  character  and 
execution.  We  believe  the  vein  to  be 
rather  a  new  one,  and  it  is  odd  that 
three  writers  should  simultaneously 
begin  to  work  it.  Mr  Craik  claims 
a  slight  precedence  in  date ;  his  work 
differs  more  from  the  other  two  than 
they  from  each  other,  and  is  altogether 
of  a  higher  class.  He  is  very  exact 
and  erudite — at  times  almost  too 
much  80  for  the  promise  of  amusement 
held  out  by  his  attractive  title-page. 
In  his  preface  he  explains,  that  it  is 
with  facts  alone  he  professes  to  deal, 
and  that  he  **  aspires  in  nowise  to  the 
airy  splendours  of  fiction.  The  ro- 
mance of  the  peerage  which  he  under- 
takes to  detail  is  only  the  romantic 
portion  of  the  history  of  the  peerage.'' 
He  has  adopted  the  right  course ;  any 
other,  by  destroying  the  reality  of  his 
book,  would  have  deteriorated  its 
value.  And  the  events  he  deals  with 
are  too  curious  and  remarkable  to  be 
improved  by  imaginative  embellish- 
ment. He  is  occasionally  over-liberal 
of  genealogical  and  other  details,  which 
few  persons,  excepting  those  to  whose 
ancestors  they  relate,  will  care  much 
about ;  but  as  a  whole,  his  book  pos- 
sesses powerful  interest,  and  as  he 
goes  on — ^for  he  promises  four  or  fiY^ 
more  volumes— that  interest  is  likely 
to  rise.  Of  the  two  volumes  already 
published,  the  second  is  more  inter- 
esting than  the  first.  Both  will  surely 
be  eagerly  read  by  the  class  to  which 
they  more  particulariy  refer,  but  pro- 
bably neither  will  be  so  generally 
popular  as  Mr  Peter  Burke's  compila- 
tion of  celebrated  trials.  Here  we 
pass  from  historical  to  domestic  ro- 
mance. There  is  a  peculiar  and  fas- 
cinating interest  in  records  of  criminal 
jurisprudence;  an  interest  greatly  en- 


hanced when  those  records  include 
names  illustrious  in  our  annals.  Mr 
Peter  Burke  has  done  his  work  ex- 
ceedingly weU.  He  claims  to  have 
assembled,  in  one  bulky  volimne,  all 
the  important  trials  connected  with 
the  aristocracy,  not  of  a  political 
nature,  that  have  occurred  during 
the  last  three  centuries,  ^^  divested  of 
forensic  technicality  and  prolixity,  and 
accompanied  by  brief  historictd  and 
genealogical  information  as  to  the 
persons  of  note  who  figure  in  the 
cases."  He  has  been  so  judicious  as 
to  preserve,  in  most  instances,  in  the 
exact  words  in  which  they  were  re- 
ported, the  evidence  of  witnesses,  the 
pleadings  of  counsel,  and  the  summing 
up  of  the  judges ;  thus  presenting  us 
with  much  quaint  and  curious  narra- 
tive as  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  noble 
persons  concerned,  and  with  many 
eloquent  and  admirable  speeches  from 
the  bar  and  the  bench.  The  volume, 
wherever  it  be  opened,  instantly  rivets 
attention.  We  can  hardly  speak  so 
laudatorily  of  the  third  book  under 
notice.  ^^  Flag  is  a  big  word  in  a 
pUot's  mouth,"  says  Cooper's  boat- 
swain, when  Paul  Jones  forgets  his 
incognito — and  Burke  is  an  Imposing 
name  to  stand  in  mitialless  dignity  on 
the  back  of  Mr  Colbum's  demy  oc- 
tavo. The  Burke  here  in  question  is 
well  known  as  the  manufacturer  of  a 
Dictionary  of  Peers,  of  a  Baronetage, 
and  so  forth.  As  a  relief  from  such 
mechanical  occupation,  he  now  strays 
into  *^  those  verdant  and  seductive 
by-ways  of  history,  where  marvellous 
adventure  and  romantic  incident 
spring  up,  as  sparkling  flowers,  be- 
neath our  feet."  The  sparkle  of  the 
flowers  in  question  is,  as  his  readers 
will  perceive,  nothing  to  the  sparkle 
of  Mr  Burke's  style.  Ne  sutor,  «&c., 
means,  we  apprehend,  in  this  instance, 


The   Romance   of  ike  Peerage,  or  Cnr%o$Uie9    of   Family  History. 
LiLUB  Caaik.    Vols.  I.  and  II.     London  :  1849. 


By  GaoBOB 


Celihrated  TriaU  eonneeUd  vUh  the  ArxHocraey  in  ike  Relatione  ofPrivaU  Life, 
By  PcTBB  BuBKB,  Esq.,  of  the  Inner  Temple,  Barrister-at-Law.  Pp.  505.  London : 
1849. 

AneedoU9  of  ike  Aristocracy,  and  Epieodee  in  Ancestral  Story,  By  J.  Bbbhabd 
BuBKByEsq.    2  Vols.    London:  1849. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Aristocratic  Annals, 


469 


let  not  Bdrke,  whose  prename  is  Ber- 
nard, go  beyond  his  directories.     In- 
stead of  wandering  into  picturesque 
eross-Toads,  he  should  have  pursued 
the  highway,  where  his  industry  had 
ahready  proved  useM  to  the  public, 
and     doubtless    profitable    both   to 
himself  and  to  his  worthy  publisher. 
Better  fkr  have  stuck  to  Mac»»dani,  in- 
stead of  rambling  amongst  the  daisies, 
where  he  really  does  not  seem  at 
home,  and  makes  but  a  so-so  appear- 
ance.   Not  that  his  book  is  dull  or 
nnamusing ;  it  would  have  been  diffi- 
colt  to  mi^Le  it  that,  with  a  subject  so 
rich  and  materials  so  abundant.    But 
it  certainly  owes  little  to  the  style, 
which,  although  quite  of  the  ambitious 
order,  is  eminently  mawkish.    Of  the 
legends,  anecdotes,  tales,  and  trials, 
<x>mposing  the  volumes,  some  of  the 
most  interesting   are   unduly   com- 
pressed andslnrred  over,  whilst  others, 
less  attractive,  are  wearisomely  ex- 
tended by  diluted  dialogues  and  in- 
sipid reflections.    People  do  not  ex- 
pect namby-pamby  in  a  book  of  this 
kind.     They  look  for  striking  and 
amusing  incidents,  plainly  and  unpre- 
tendingly told.     They  do  not  want, 
for  instance,  such  inflated  truisms  and 
iriieer  nonsense  as  are  found  at  pages 
194  to  196  of  Mr  Burke's  first  volume. 
.   We  cite  this  passage  at  random  out 
of  many  we  have  marked.    We  ab- 
stain from  dissecting  it,  out  of  con- 
aideration  for  its  author,  who,  we 
dai^ay,  has  done  his  best,  and  whose 
•chief  fault  is,  that  he  has  done  rather 
too  much.    We  have  read  his  book 
«areMlv  through  with  considerable 
entertainment.  ItisfuU  of  good  stories 
badly  tdd.  Fortunately,  being  chiefly 
a  compilation,  it  abounds  in  long  ex- 
tracts from  better  writers  than  himself. 
Bnt  every  now  and  then  we  come  to 
a  bit  that   makes  us  exclaim  with 
the  old  woman  in  the  church,  ^*  that's 
his  own  ! " 

The  first  section  of  Bir  Craik's 
book  extends  over  nearly  a  century, 
-*'  that  most  picturesque  of  our  English 
eentories  which  lies  between  the  Be- 
formation  and  the  Great  Rebellion," 
and  owes  its  priority  to  its  length  and 
importance,  not  to  chronological  pre- 
eedence,  which  is  due  rather  to  some 
of  ^e  narratives  in  the  second  vol- 
Qme.  The  history  of  the  LiadyLettice 
Kncdlys,  her  marriages  and  her  de- 


scendants, occupies  neariy  the  whole 
volume,  including  nrach  interesting 
matter  rdative  to  various  noble  Eng- 
lish families,  as  well  as  to  Queen 
Elizabeth,  Amy  Bobsart,  Antonio 
Perez,  and  other  characters  well 
known  in  history  or  romance.  Here 
there  is  temptation  enough  to  linger; 
but  we  pass  on  to  a  most  interesting 
chapter  of  the  second  volume,  which 
illustrates,  as  well  and  more  briefly, 
the  merits  of  Mr  Craik's  book.  It  is 
entitled  The  Old  Percys^t^  name 
than  which  none  is  more  thoroughly 
English,  none  more  suggestive  of  high 
and  chivalrous  qualities.  Mr  Cnuk 
begins  by  a  tilt  at  Romeo's  fallacy  of 
there  being  nothing  in  a  name,  instead 
of  which,  he  says,  ^^  names  have  been 
in  all  ages  among  the  most  potent 
things  in  the  world.  They  have 
stirred  and  swayed  mankind,  and  still 
do  so,  simply  as  names,  without  any 
meaning  being  attached  to  them.  Of 
two  sounds,  designating  or  indicating 
the  same  thing,  the  one  shall,  by  its 
associations,  raise  an  emotion  of  the 
sublime,  the  other  of  the  ridiculous. 
There  can  hardly  be  a  stronger  in- 
stance of  this  than  we  have  in  the 
two  paternal  names,  the  assumed  and 
the  genuine  one,  of  the  family  at  pre- 
sent possessing  the  Northumberland 
title.  The  former,  Percy,  is  a  name 
For  poetry  to  conjure  with  ;  it  is  itself 
poetry  of  a  high  and  epic  tone,  and 
may  be  said  to  move  the  English 
heart  ^more  than  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet,*  as  Sidney  tells  ns  his  was 
movc^  whenever  he  heard  the  rude 
old  ballad  in  which  it  is  celebrated ; 
but  when  Canning,  or  whoever  else 
it  was,  in  the  Anti-Jacobin  audaciously 
came  out  with — 

*  Dake  Smithson  of  NortbumberlAnd 
A  TOW  to  Qod  did  make/ 

he  set  the  town  in  a  roar.'*  The  case 
is  neatly  made  out,  and  the  writer 
then  investigates  the  etymology  of 
the  name  of  Percy.  The  popular 
version  is,  that  a  Scottish  king,  the 
great  Malcolm  Canmore,  was  slain 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  eleventh  cen- 
tury whilst  assaulting  the  castle  of 
Ahswick,  whose  lord  ran  his  spear 
into  the  monarch's  eye,  and  thence 
derived  the  samame  of  Pierce-eye. 
This  is  so  pretty  and  romantic  a  de- 
rivation that  one  is  loath  to  relinqnish 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


cri 


J^rtgaermk 


[Apra; 


y  HTTTrBJ  ait  ItjmfiO.  fffit*rfiaTT.  as* 
ciziiiC)iDiH*t  i*iilii  2L  i^  zxT'Kaiai  if 
FrsD'^  xnt  itH-sne  jirt  nf  3K  rp*» 
rf  /"*r^  nr  ^irm^  jl  Ls^^et  Sdt- 
nuzur*'-  JE&t  xiifi  ^tfiLHim-  lis  ivr- 
aame— BninnLl7  »-tr-aiHi!i»  fr  jnrt- 

teiL--X.Tm  ir  7»arrf     T»a   ir  -^t*  or 

tupcuL  '»:ttfr»  si*  -iiiDfr  :^  ii*«a 
t»focm»  nil*   :if  ti**   *r^j:-!^  lTr5«  a 

d.'VT  ji  r»:imisCi7  S:*:*t  a*  ill?  pr;- 
parpr.     H*  vafw  nf  :^  arse-  a  ^othi 

Cif  lit?  **»-^'tt        rT.-^  iti-lx  ^-t-^T^*  Vr?  g 

•^  wrfc-w* — tLis  i<w   WH  wja.  tie 

skc  cc  A£  j«ts3  -roe  ^izx  ^  tiie  ptir- 

miz:*  a»:cz  iis  A?t?omcii3i5.  .  . 
T\  ili  wiiii  til-  Wiisierj  =:5ft  Ut« 
lw«i  s  pyA  feC:w.  if  ii  be  trse,  as 
we  are  loi-i  bj  an  os«i  writer,  thu  iU 
wife.  Eoizia  de  P:-ct-  was  the  Sixca 
heiress  of  some  of  iV  lands  bestowed 
v^yti  him  bj  the  Coerj-en:-r.  and  thit 
*  be  wedded  her  in  diKharpr^  of  his 
consdeiice."'  We  here  observe  a 
Tarianee  between  Mr  Craik  acd  Mr 
Bernard  Borke,  who  dercies  more 
than  one  chapter  to  anecdotes  of  the 
honse  of  Percr,  which  be  states  to 
hare  enjojed  an  unintermpted  male 
descent  from  the  date  of  the  Conquest 
to  the  death  of  Joceljn  Percy,  the 
eleventh  earl,  in  1670.  ifr  Craik,  on 
the  otlter  hand,  whilst  noticing  that 
the  line  has  thrice  ended  in  a  female, 
and  been  revived  through  the  mar- 
riage of  the  heiress,  fixes  the  date  of 
the  first  of  these  extinctions  and  re- 
vivals in  1168,  or  rather  later,  abont 
a  centnry  after  the  Conquest,  when 
the  death,  without  male  heirs,  of  the 
third  Lord  Percy,  left  the  wealth  and 
honours  of  the  house  to  his  two  daugh- 
ters. Maud,  the  eldest,  died  without 
iflsue ;  Agnes,  the  younger,  married 
Jocelyn  of  Loraine,  whose  house  was 


'^dVBMt 


witb  tke 


W1»JSL  SIA  tsoK  fee  Wr  ] 

Oa  **rmg=ai»   f|f  ^^^  ;  ^ 

oesn:  lismt.    Mr  Cnik  gires  Col- 
sa&    Btcrmpt  as  has  aotteritj:   Mr 
Bcsie  wi^jd  |pr:>iiabiT  rtSet  as  to  kk 
4^1 .  Vifi  we  t»  »x  iecl  eaoagk  is* 
sar?^  s  tae  ssb^ect  to  itlffpt   to 
^!i;^  w^itrv  dxs':-cs  of  this  fmoMtmcm 
•i3*r-  Aiaiajgt  iis  <:itkbfatcd  ^Peer- 
mi*  Cja&£*."'llr  B«rte  gives 
nrxic^  T4ir;ka^ars  of  the  daisi 
\y  a  I'xii-a  nsksakcr  to  the  titles 
jod  9ss^*s  <4  tbe  PeftTB,  o«  tke  ex* 
tiixinLLic  -af  i^  m£tt  Eae  in  1670.  This 
lui.  wb«^«r  t^  b^Md  of  the  Percjs 
!i»:v^  ia  ai$  vei^  or  BOt,  slM»Ht4 
3iu  saull  sL£Pt  of  the  plack  aad  bold- 
sifsis  iz€  wl>!r  that  tamilv  was  solosg^ 
£>±ixi::s^eti.  by  spcioidiBg  hispreteoF- 
S'lGs  ijt  d:^e^aVeifs— at  first  agaiist 
v:^  oo  waxw  C<<«=te9S  of  Xor^Mbcr- 
iiz<>i.  a^  i  anerwards  against  the  proud 
az4  pcwen^  D^e  of  Somerset,  wli» 
Lfci  3£azTieii  i^  heiress  Lady  EGsa- 
be^  Pei^ry.    Whes  it  is  renembered 
tho:  th5s  cexrarred  in  the  reign  of  Chariet 
II..  w^:<se  tribonals  were  not  reoowB* 
c«i  :or  their  e«qinty,  (and  when  a  kMg 
pcr^e  was  oif;e&  bener  than  the  dear- 
est ri^^t.>  and  that  the  infioenee  and 
positi.a  of  the  coontess   and  dike 
gave  them  incaicniabk  advantages,  it 
Hjy  be  thonz ht  that  the  box-bniider 
fr\:«m  Ireland  was  almost  as  bold  a  mas 
as  the  Hotspnr  he  claimed  for  an  an- 
cestor.   He  got  hard  measmne  firoim 
the  Hocse  of  Lords,  and  was  rebuked 
for  presoming  to  tronbie  it.    He  tried 
the  courts  of  law,  suing  pieiaoBa  for 
scandal  who  had  stated  him  to  be  an 
impostor — an  indirect  way  of  estate 
lishing  his  descent.   After  one  of  these 
trials.  Lord  Hailes,  dissatisfied  with 
the  decision  of  the  court,  whidi  was 
nnfaToorable  to  the  plaintiff,  is  stated 
to  have  said  to  Lord  Shaftesbury, 
when  entering  his  coadi — "I  verily 
believe  he  (James  Percy)  hath  as 
much  right  to  the  earldom  of  Northing 
beriand  as  I  have  to  this  eoach  and 
horses,  which  I  have  booght  and  paid 
for."  In  the  reign  of  James  II.,  P«rqr 
again  petitioned  the  Lords,  but  inef> 
ftBctually.    His  final  effort  was  m  the 
first  year  of  William  and  Mary,  whea 
his  p<itition  was  read  and  referred  to 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


i849.1 


Aritiocratie  Atmab, 


471 


a  Committee  of  Privileges,  whose  re- 
port declared  him  insolent ;  and  ulti- 
mately he  was  condemned  to  be 
brought  **  before  the  fonr  courts  in 
Westioainster  Hall,  wearing  a  paper 
upon  his  breast,  on  which  these  words 
shall  be  written:  The  false  and 

IMPUDENT  FRBTENDER  TO  THE  EaUL- 

DOM  OF  Northumberland.**  This 
was  accordingly  done,  and,  thus  dis- 
graced and  branded  as  a  cheat,  the 
unfortunate  trunkmaker  was  heard  of 
no  more. 

Connected  with  the  early  years  of 
the  hehness  whose  rights  were  thus 
disputed,  are  some  sincndarly  romantic 
incidents,  of  which  along  account  is 

£*yen  by  both  Burites.  Before  the 
idy  Elizabeth  Percy  attained  the 
age  of  sixteen,  she  was  thrice  a  wife, 
and  twice  a  widow.  She  was  not  yet 
thirteen  when  the  ceremony  of  mar- 
riage was  performed  between  her  and 
the  ^ari  of  Ogle,  a  boy  of  the  same 
age,  who  died  within  the  year,  leaving 
the  heu^ess  of  Northumberland  to  be 
competed  for  by  new  suitors.  Amongst 
these  was  Thomas  Thynne,  Esq.,  of 
Longleat  in  Wiltshire,  known,  fh>m 
his  great  wealth,  as  Tom  of  Ten  Thou- 
sand, member  of  pariiament  for  his 
county,  a  man  of  weight  in  the  coun- 
ti*y,  and  liying  in  a  style  of  great  mag- 
nificence. He  had  been  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  Duke  of  Yorit,  afterwards 
James  11.,  but,  hayfaig  quarrelled  with 
that  prince,  he  turned  Whi^,  and 
courted  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  who 
frequently  visited  him  at  his  sumptu- 
ous mansion  of  Longleat,  and  to  whom 
he  made  a  present  of  a  team  of  Olden- 
burg carriage  -  horses  of  remaitable 
beauty.  Thynne  was  soon  the  ac- 
cepted suitorof  Lady  Elizabeth  Percy, 
and  they  were  married  in  1681,  but 
separated  immediately  after  the  cere- 
mony on  account  of  the  youth  of  the 
bride,  who  went  abroad  for  a  tour  on 
the  Continent. 

**  It  was  then,  as  some  say,  that  she 
fint  met  Count  Konigsmark  at  the  court 
of  HanoTor  ;  bat  in  this  notion  tbeie  is  a 
oonfbsimi  both  of  dates  and  persons.  The 
county  in  fact,  appears  to  haTe  seen  her  in 
England,  and  to  have  paid  his  addresses 
to  her  before  she  »Te  her  hand,  or  had  it 
giyen  for  her,  to  Thynne.  On  his  rejec- 
tion, he  left  the  country  ;  but  that  they 
met  on  the  Continent  there  is  no  eridence 
or  likelihood.    Charles  John  tou  Konigs- 


mark was  a  Swede  by  birth,  but  was 
sprung  ftrom  a  German  fiunily,  long  settled 
in  the  district  called  the  Mark  of  Bran- 
denbnxf ,  on  the  coast  of  the  Baltic.  The 
name  of  Konigsmark  is  one  of  Uie  most 
distinguished  in  the  military  annals  of 
Sweden  throughout  a  great  part  of  the 

scTenteenth     century." (CeMrated 

TriaU,p,  il.) 

Count  Charles  John  did  honour,  at 
a  very  early  age,  to  the  warlike  repu- 
tation of  his  family,  upon  whose  scut- 
cheon he  was  subsequently  to  cast  the 
shadow  of  a  foul  suspicion.  When 
eighteen  years  old,  he  ^atly  distin- 
guished himself  in  a  cruise  against  the 
Turks,  undertaken  in  company  with 
the  Knights  of  Malta.  Early  in  1681, 
he  returned  to  En^and,  and  the  pro- 
babilities are  that  it  was  then,  during 
Lady  Elizabeth's  widowhood,  that  ho 
became  an  aspirant  for  her  hand.  Her 
second  marriage  apparently  destroyed 
the  chance  of  the  desperate  Swede, 
but  without  extinguishing  his  hopes. 
In  the  month  of  February  1682,  the 
position  of  the  three  personages  of  the 
drama  was  as  foUows:  Lady  Eliza- 
beth, or  Lady  Ogle,  as  she  was  styled, 
was  abroad ;  Konigsmark  had  been 
lost  sight  of,  having  gone  none  knew 
whither;  Tom  Thynne, with  the  heiress 
of  Northumberiand  his  own  by  legal 
title,  if  not  in  actual  possession,  was 
at  the  zenith  of  his  personal  and  poli- 
tical prosperity.  His  friend  Monmouth 
was  the  idol  of  the  mob,  the  Duke  of 
York  had  gone  to  Scotland  to  avoid 
the  storm  raised  by  the  absurd  popish 
plot,  and  by  the  murder  of  Sir  £d- 
mondbury  Godfrey;  Shaftesbury  had 
been  released  from  the  Tower,  amidst 
acclamations      and      illuminations ; 

§  arty-spirit,  in  short,  ran  so  high,  and 
liynne  was  so  prominent  a  figure  at 
the  moment,  that  the  crime  to  which 
he  presently  fell  a  victim  has  been 
thought  by  many  to  have  been  insti- 
gated by  political  enemies,  at  least  as 
much  as  b V  a  disappointed  rival  for 
the  hand  of  the  heiress  of  the  Percys. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  (and  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time  it  were  a  hopeless  un- 
dertaking to  elucidate  a  deed  which 
the  tribunals  and  annalists  of  the  day 
failed  to  clear  up,)  *^on  the  night  of 
Sunday,  12th  February  1682,  all  the 
court  end  of  London  was  startled  by 
the  news  that  Thynne  had  been  shot 
passing  along  the  public  streets  in  hia 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


472 


AriiUHTaiic  Ammak, 


[April, 


coach.  The  spot  was  towards  the 
easternextremitf  of  Pall-Mail,  directly 
opposite  to  St  Alban's  Street, — no 
longer  to  be  foand,  but  which  occupied 
nearly  the  same  site  with  the  covered 
passage  now  called  the  Opera  Arcade. 
St  Alban's  Place,  which  was  at  its 
northern  extremity,  still  preserves  the 
memory  of  the  old  name.  King 
Charles,  at  Whitehall,  might  almost 
have  heard  the  report  of  the  assassin's 
blnnderbnss ;  and  so  might  Dryden, 
sitting  in  his  favourite  front-room  on 
the  groand-floor  of  his  house,  on  the 
south  side  of  Gerrard  Street,  also  hard 
hy^  more  than  a  couple  of  furlongs  dis- 
tant." Sir  John  Reresby,  the  magis- 
trate and  memoir-writer,  took  an 
active  share  in  the  arrests  and  exami- 
nations that  followed,  and  gives  the 
details  of  the  affair.  He  was  at  court 
that  evening,  and  declares  the  king  to 
have  been  greatly  shocked  at  news  of 
the  murder — "  not  only  for  horror  of 
the  action  itself,  (which  was  shocking 
to  his  natural  disposition,)  but  alao  for 
fear  of  the  turn  the  anti-court  party 
might  give  thereto."  Three  persons 
were  arrested — a  Pole,  a  German,  and 
a  Swedish  lieutenant ;  and  Borosky, 
the  Pole,  declared  that  he  came  to 
England  by  the  desire  of  Count 
Eonigsmark,  signified  to  him  through 
his  Hamburg  agent,  and  that  on  Us 
arrival  the  count  informed  him  what 
he  had  to  do,  supplied  him  with 
weapons,  and  put  him  under  the  orders 
-of  a  German  captain,  by  whose  com- 
mand he  fired  into  Mr  Thynne's  car- 
riage. The  murderers  were  deter- 
mined their  enterprise  should  not 
miscarry  for  want  of  arms,  and  got 
together  an  arsenal.  *^  There  were  a 
blunderbuss,  two  swords,  two  pair  of 
pistols,  three  pocket-pistols,  &c.,  ti^ 
tip  together  in  a  sort  of  sea-bed,  and 
delivered  to  Dr  Dubartin,  a  Grerman 
-doctor,  who  received  them  at  his  own 
house."  Active  search  was  made  for 
Konigsmark,  who  had  arrived  in  Eng- 
land incognito  some  days  before  the  mur- 
der, and  after  a  while  he  was  discovered 
in  hiding  at  Gravesend.  The  Duke 
of  Monmouth  and  Lord  Cavendish 
were  particnlarlv  active  in  the  affair, 
and  a  reward  of  £200  was  offered  for 
the  cpunt's  apprehension.  He  was 
earned  before  the  king.  ^*I  hap- 
pened," says  Reresby,  ^*  to  be  present 
upon  this  occasion,  and  observed  that 


be  appeared  before  his  miyesty  with 
all  the  assurance  imaginable.      Ha 
was  a  fine  person  of  a  man,  and  I 
think  his  hair  was  the  longest  I  ever 
saw."     Nothing  was  eliciled  at  this 
examination,  which  was  v^y  superfi- 
cial, but  on  the  27th  Febmary  the 
four  accused  persons  were  put  on  their 
trial  at  Hick's  HalL     Konigsmark 
was  acquitted  for  want  of  evidence, 
(that  of  his  three  accomplices  and 
servants  not  being  reoeivaUe  against 
him,)  and  by  reason  also,  says  Mr 
Peter  Burke,  of  the  more  than  ordi- 
narily artful  and  favourable  summing 
up  of  Chief-Justice  Pemberton,  who 
seemed  determined  to  save  him.    Hie 
others  were  hanged  in  Pall-Mall,  and 
Borosky,  who  £ed  the  blunderbuss^ 
was  suspended  in  chains  at  Mile  End. 
Although  Konigsmark  slipped  through 
the  fingers  of  justice,  the  moral  con- 
viction of  his  guilt  was  so  strong,  and 
the  popular  feeling  so  violent  against 
him,  that  he  was  glad  to  leave  Eng- 
land in  all  haste.    ^*  The  high-spirited 
Lord  Cavendish,"  says  Mr  Bernard 
Burke,  ^'  the  Mend  and  companion  of 
the  murdered  Thynne,  indignant  at 
what  he  deemed  a  shameful  evasion 
of  jnstioe,  <^GBured  to  meet  Konigsmarir 
in  any  part  of  the  world,  charge  the 
guilt  of  blood  upon  him,  and  prove  it 
with  his  sword.   Grranger  rec<Nds  that 
the  challenge  was  accepted,  and  that 
the  parties  agreed  to  fight  on  the 
sands  of  Calais,  Init  before  the  ap- 
pointed time  arrived,  Konigsmark  de- 
clined the  encounter."    Such  back- 
wardness is  rather  inconsistent  with 
the  count's  high  reputation  for  braveiy 
— somewhat  inexplicable  in  the  leader 
of  the  Maltese  boarders,  and  m  the 
man  who  subsequently  greatly  distin- 
guished himself  at  the  siege  of  Cam- 
bray  and  Gerona,  at  Navarin  and 
Modon,  and  at  the  battle  of  Argoo, 
where  he  was  either  killed  in  fight,  or 
died  of  a  pleurisy  brought  on  by  over- 
exertion.   On  this  last  point  autho- 
rities differ.     It  is  not  improbable, 
however,    notwithstanding    his    ap- 
proved valonr,  that  conscience  may 
nave  made  a  coward  of  him  in  the 
instance  referred  to  by  Granger,  and 
that  the  man  who  never  flinched  be- 
fore the  TuA's  scindtar  or  the  Spani- 
ard's toledo,  may  have  shunned  cross* 
ing  his  sword  with  the  vengeful  blade 
of  Cavendish. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


AHitocraiic  Anmds. 


478 


If,  as  may  be  supposed,  it  was 
Konigsmark's  intentton,  by  the  assas- 
sination of  Mr  Tli3mne,  to  clear  the 
^ay  for  his  own  pretensions  to  the 
hand  of  Lady  Elizabeth,  that  part  of 
bis  scheme  was  frnstrated  by  the  dis- 
covery of  his  complicity  in  the  crime. 
There  conld  be  no  hope  of  a  renewal 
of  the  favonr  with  which  the  lady  has 
been  said  to  have  regarded  the  hand- 
some Swede  previon^  to  her  contract 
with  Thynn^— the  work  apparently 
of  her  restless  matchmaking  grand- 
mother and  gnardian,  rather  than  the 
resolt  of  any  inclination  of  her  own. 
Twice  married,  and  still  a  maid,  the 
Lady  Ogle  returned  to  England  im- 
mediately after  the  execution  of  her 
second  husband's  murderers,  and  soon 
(only  two  months  aft^wards,  we  are 
told)  she  was  led  to  the  altar,  for  the 
third  time,  by  Charies  Seymour,  Duke 
of  Somerset,  commonly  known  as  the 
Frou4  Duke  of  Somerset,  by  reason 
of  his  inordinate  arrogance  and  self- 
osteem.  He  outlived  her,  and  married 
Lady  Chariotte  Finch,  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Winchelsea.  «' Madam,"  he 
ia  reported  to  have  said,  with  inJfinite 
indignation,  to  this  lady,  when  she  once 
ventured  to  tap  him  familiariy  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  fan — ^^  Madam,  my 
tnt  wife  was  a  Percy,  and  she  never 
would  have  dared  to  take  such  liberty." 
The  Proud  Duke,  who  not  nnfrequently 
made  himself  a  laughingstock  by  his 
fantastical  assumption,  attended  the 
limerals  of  three  sovereigns,  and  the 
coronation  of  five.  On  all  such  state 
occasions  the  precedence  was  his,  the 
first  peer  of  the  realm  (Duke  of  Kor- 
f(^)  bdng  a  Roman  Catholic  His 
only  surviving  son,  out  of  seven  borne 
him  by  his  first  duchess,  left  but  one 
daughter,  married  to  Sir  Hugh  Smith- 
eon,  to  whom  the  earldom  of  Kor- 
thumberiand  descended,  and  who,  in 
1776,  became  the  first  duke  of  Nor- 
thumberiand. 

Opposite  the  titie-pageof  Mr  Craik's 
second  volume  smiles  the  sweet  fiace 
of  Mary  Tudor,  the  daughter,  sister, 
and  widow  of  kings,  the  wife  of  Charies 
Brandon,  Duke  of  Sufi^,  the  grand- 
mother of  the  hapless  Lady  Jane  Gr^. 
No  English  princess,  so  little  remaik- 
able  for  high  mental  qualities,  occupies 
so  conspicuous  a  place  in  our  annals. 
Her  life  was  a  romance;  and  the  por- 
tion of  it  passed  in  France,  as  the 


Imde  of  the  infirm  Louis  XIL,  hac 
been  more  than  once  availed  of  by  the 
novelist.  But  the  truth  is  here  far  too 
picturesque  for  embellishment.  The 
utmost  efforts  of  fiction  could  scarcely 
enhance  the  singularity  of  the  chain  of 
circumstances  entwined  with  Mary's 
girlhood,  in  the  course  of  which  she 
was  near  becoming  an  empress,  as 
she  afterwards  beciune  a  queen.  In 
January  1506,  when  Mary  was  eight 
years  old,  Philip,  Archduke  of  Austria, 
and,  in  right  of  his  wife,  King  of 
Castile,  was  compelled  by  stress  of 
weather  to  put  in  at  Falmouth,  during 
a  voyage  firom  the  Netheriands  to 
Spain,  whereupon  Henry  VII.  de- 
tained him  at  his  court,  and  would 
not  let  him  go  till  he  had  extorted 
his  consent  to  a  marriage  between  the 
infant  princess  and  Prince  Charles  of 
Castile,  afterwards  the  Emperor 
Charles  V.  Philip  died  in  the  autumn 
of  the  same  year,  but  the  marriage 
was  not  the  less  solemnised  by  proxy 
in  London  early  in  1508,  to  the  great 
contentment  of  Henry,  to  whose  feli- 
city,Bacon  says,  there  was  then  nothing 
to  be  added.  '^Nevertheless,  the  mar- 
riage of  Mary  of  England  with  the 
Spanish  prince,  though  it  had  gone  so 
far,  went  no  farther;  nor  does  her 
father  seem  to  have  counted  upon  the 
airangement  being  carried  out  with 
absolute  reliance.  When  he  died,  in 
1509,  he  was  found  to  have  durec^ed 
in  his  will  that  the  sum  of  £50,000 
should  be  bestowed  as  a  dower  with 
Mary,  whenever  she  should  be  mar- 
ried either  to  Charles,  King  of  Castile, 
or  to  any  other  foreign  prince.  In 
October  1513,  after  the  capture  of 
Toumay  by  Henry  Vin.,  it  was  sti- 

Eulated  by  a  new  treaty,  concluded  at 
lisle,  between  him  and  Maximilian 
Emperor  of  Austria,  that  Charles 
should  marry  the  Princess  Mary  at 
Calais  before  the  15th  May  next" 
The  match,  however,  hung  filre  on  the 
part  of  the  Austrian,  who  had  been 
tempted  by  the  oflfer  for  his  grandson 
of  the  French  princess  Ren^  and 
although  nothing  came  of  this  project, 
it  enabled  the  lung  oi  France  to  con- 
nect himself  as  closely  with  the  royal 
family  of  England,  as  he  had  been 
desirous  of  dohag  with  that  of  Castile, 
but  in  another  manner.  His  queen, 
Anne  of  Bretagne,  died  just  about  that 
time,  and  a  few  months  afterwards  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


474 


Ariiiocraiic  Annt^. 


[ApriU 


decrepid  valetadiaaiian  of  fifty-three 
proposed  maniage  with  the  blooming 
sister  of  Henry  YUL,  then  in  her 
seventeenth  year.  Mary,  attaching 
apparently  little  importance  to  the 
contract  with  the  Prince  of  Castile, 
had  fixed  her  affections  on  the  hand- 
some and  chivahroos  Charles  Brandon, 
her  brother^s  favonrite,  and  the  best 
lance  of  his  day. 

**  JLe  premier  des  roia  fat  on  aoldat  heureux," 

says  the  French  ballad ;  and  Brandon, 
whose  pedigree  was  a  blank  previoosly 
to  his  father's  father,  may  be  said  to 
have  had  almost  equal  fortune.  For 
if  not  a  king  hhnself,  he  was  a  queen's 
husband,  and  a  king's  brother-in-law. 
He  must  have  been  some  years  older 
than  Mary,  for  he  had  already  been 
twice  married,  and  had  been  talked  of 
as  the  proposed  husband  of  various 
illustrious  ladies,  and  amongst  others, 
of  the  Archduchess  Margaret  of  Aus- 
tria, whose  heart  he  is  said  to  have 
Von  by  his  prowess  in  a  tournament. 
At  last  Mary  Tudor  cast  her  eyes 
upon  him,  apparently  with  the  full 
i^proval  of  her  brother,  whose  most 
intimate  friend  Brandon  long  had 
been,  and  who  now  created  him  Duke 
of  Suffolk,  in  anticipation  of  his  mar- 
riage with  his  sister.  Just  then  came 
Louis  XII. 's  offer.  ^^The  tempta- 
tion of  seeine  his  sister  queen  of 
France,"  says  Mi-  Craik,  "  was  not  to 
be  resisted  by  Henry;  and  the  pro- 
spect of  such  an  elevation  may  not 
perhaps  have  been  without  its  seduc- 
tions for  the  princess  herself :"  an 
illiberal  supposition,  refuted,  if  there 
be  aught  in  physiognomy,  by  Mr 
Craik's  own  artist.  The  owner  of 
those  frank,  fair  features  can  never 
have  preferred  ambition  to  love,  a  de- 
crepid  French  king  to  a  gallant  Eng- 
lish duke.  She  consent^,  however, 
to  the  alliance;  and  if  there  were  tears 
and  overruling  in  the  matter,  they  are 
certainly  not  upon  the  record.  Old 
Louis — who,  although  not  much  past 
what  is  generally  Uie  full  vigour  of 
life,  had  already  a  foot  in  the  grave — 
had  planned  the  marriage  as  a  matter 
of  policy,  but  soon  b^ame  exceed- 
ingly excited  by  the  accounts  he  got 
of  Mary's  great  beauty.  A  letter 
from  the  Eari  of  Worcester,  sent  to 
Paris  as  her  proxy  at  the  ceremony 
of  marriage,  to   Cardinal    Wolsey, 


exhibits  the  Frendi  monarch  in  a  fever 
of  expectation,  *^  devising  new  coUjub 
and  goodly  gear  "  for  his  bride.     *^  He 
showed  me,^  says  the  earl,  '^  the  good- 
liest and  the  richeet  sight  of  jewels 
that  ever  I  saw.  I  assure  yon,  all  that 
I  ever  have  sera  is  not  to  compere  to 
fifty-six  great  pieces  that  I  sew  of 
diamonds  and  rubies,  and  seven  of  the 
greatest  pearls  that  I  have  seen,  be- 
sides a  great  number  of  other  goodlj 
diamond,  rubies,  balais,  and  great 
pearls;  and  the  worst  of  the  second 
sort  of  stones  to  be  priced,  and  cost  two 
thousand  ducats.     There  is  ten  or 
twelve  of  the  principal  stones  that 
there  hath  been  refused  for  one  of  theni 
one  hundred  thousand  ducats."     It 
seemed  as  if  Louis,  diffident  of  his  owe 
powers  of  captivation,  had  resolved  to> 
buy  his  wife's  affection  with  trinkets ; 
and  Lord  Worcester,  duly  appreciat- 
ing the  glittering  store,  and  overrat- 
ing, perhaps,  its  power  of  conferring 
happiness,  doubts  not  ^^  but  she  will 
have  a  good  life  with  him,  with  the 
grace  of  God."    The  respectable  and 
nxorious  old  sovereign  was  too  wise 
to  hand  over  the  entire  treasure  at 
once,  and  planned,  as  he  told  Wor- 
cester, to  have  ^*  at  many  and  divers 
times  kisses  and  thanks  for  them." 
He  accordindy  doled  them  out  in  daily 
morsels,    which,     although    minute 
enough  when  compared  with  the  cof- 
fers' full  of  which  Lord  Worcester 
speaks,  were  vet  sufficiently  condde- 
rable  to  satisQr  an  ordinary  appetite. 
On  the  day  of  their  marriage,  which 
took  place  at  Abbeville,  he  gave  her 
^^  a  marvellous  great  pointed  £amond, 
with  a  ruby  almost  two  inches  long; 
without  fail."    And  the  following  day 
he  bestowed  upon  her  "  a  ruby  two 
inches  and  a  half  long,  and  as  big  as  a 
man's  finger,  hanging  by  two  chains 
of  gold  at  every  end,  without  any 
foil ;  the  value  whereof  few  men  could 
esteem."    At  the  same  time  he  packed 
off  her  English  attendants,  which  at 
first  greatly  discomposed  her,  but  after 
a  time  she  appears  to  have  become 
reconciled  to  it,  when  a  new  cause  of 
embarrassment  arose  in  the  arrival  at 
Paris  of  the  l>nke  of  Suffolk  in  the 
character   of   English    ambassador. 
^^The  attachment  understood  to  have 
so  recently  existed  between  her  mt- 
jesty  and  Suffolk  was  of  course  well- 
known  in  France.    The  story  of  th« 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S49.] 


AriitoeraHe  Anmdt, 


475 


EngUsh  cbroniden  iSt  that  Soflblk 
was  on  this  aooount  regarded  with 
general  jealonsj  and  di^lce  by  the 
French ;  and  the  Dnke  of  Bretagne,  in 
particular,  is  charged  with  havbg  ac- 
tually sought  his  U^.'^— (Romance  of 
the  Peerage,  Yo\.\L  p.  2ib^  The  Duke 
of  Bretagne,  also  called  tne  Dauphin, 
was  son-in-law  of  Louis,  and  after- 
wards Francis  I.  One  feels  unwilling 
to  credit  the  imputation  cast  on  so 
chivalrous  a  king.  Mr  Burke  gene- 
ralises the  matter,  makhig  no  mention 
of  Francis,  and  attributhig  the  foul 
play  to  *^  the  French,  envious  of  the 
success  of  Brandon."  But  Mr  Burke, 
who  will  gossip  by  the  hour  about  an 
apocryphal  legend,  huddles  over  the 
romantic  career  of  Charles  Brandon  in 
half-a-dozen  pages,  and  can  hardly  be 
looked  upon  as  a  serious  authority. 
The  alleged  unfafar  attempt  on  Sitf- 
folk's  life  occurred  on  the  occasion  of 
a  tournament,  which  betfan  at  Paris, 
on  Sunday  12th  November,  **  before 
the  Idng  and  queen,  who  were  on  a 
goodly  stage ;  and  the  aueen  stood  so 
that  all  men  might  see  her,  and  won- 
dered at  her  beauty,  and  the  king  was 
feeble,  and  \9j  upop  a  couc^  for 
weakness.'*  In  this  tourney,  the 
Duke  of  Suffolk  and  Marquis  of  D(M^t 
and  other  Englishmen  bore  a  gallant 
part,  doing,  says  a  chronicler,  "  as 
well  as  the  best  of  any  other."  And 
a  trifle  better,  too,  judging  from  re- 
sults ;  but  old  Hall,  m  his  quaintness, 
is  a  firiend  to  anything  but  exaggera- 
tion. And  Suffolk  himself,  in  a  letter 
to  Wolsey,  after  the  tournament, 
merely  savs,  with  praiseworthy  mo- 
desty, **  blessed  be  God,  all  our  Eng- 
lishmen sped  well,  as  I  am  sure  ye 
shall  hear  by  other.**  He  himself 
was  the  hero  of  the  jousts.  It  was  no 
bloodless  contest,  with  bated  weapons, 
but  a  right  stem  encounter,  with 
sharp  spears.  **  Divers,**  says  the 
cool  chronicler,  in  a  parenthesis, 
**  were  slain,  and  not  spoken  of." 
The  folony  charged  on  Frauds  was, 
that  on  the  second  day  of  the 
tourney,  when  he  himself,  by  reason 
of  a  hurt  in  the  hand,  was  compelled 
to  leave  the  lists,  he  **  secretly  bad  a 
certdn  Oerman,  who  was  the  tallest 
and  strongest  man  in  all  the  court  of 
France,  brought  and  put  in  the  place 
of  another  person,  in  the  hope  of  giv- 
ing  Suffolk  a  check."     The  bulky 


champion  met  his  match,  and  more. 
After  several  fierce  encounters,  **  Suf- 
folk, by  pure  strength,  took  his  anta- 
gonist round  the  neck,  and  pummelled 
him  so  about  the  head  that  the  blood 
issued  out  of  his  nose.**  This  **  co^ 
ventiy**  practice,  then  adopted,  we 
believe,  for  the  first  time,  settled  the 
German,  who  was  conveyed  away  in 
lamentable  plight — by  the  dauphin, 
Hall  affirms,  and  secretly,  lest  he 
should  be  known.  The  supposed  mo- 
tive of  Francis,  in  seeking  Suffolk's 
life,  was  his  passion  for  his  father-in- 
law's  bride,  which  Brantome  and  other 
French  writers  have  asserted  to  have 
been  reciprocated  by  Maiy — a  base 
Iving  statement,  there  can  be  little 
doubt.  There  is  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve the  French  queen's  conduct  to 
have  been  hrrquroachable.  At  any 
rate,  her  husband  found  no  fault  with 
her,  declaring,  on  the  contraiy,  in  a 
letter  to  Harry  the  Eishth,  how  greatly 
pleased  and  contented  he  was  with  her, 
and  lauding  at  the  same  time,  in  the 
highest  tems,  his  excellent  cousin  of 
Simblk.  Four  days  after  writing  this 
letter,  and  twelve  weeks  after  his  mar- 
riaffe,  Louis,  who  was  much  troubled 
with  gout,  and  who,  for  the  sake  of  his 
young  queen,  had  completely  changed 
his  habits,  dining  at  the  extravagantly 
late  hour  of  noon,  and  remaining  out 
of  bed  sometimes  until  neariy  mid- 
night, departed  this  life.  Upon  which 
event  Mr  Craik  strikes  another  splin- 
ter out  of  the  romantic  lens  through 
which  we  have  always  loved  to  con- 
template Mary  Tudor,  by  insinuating 
she  may  have  been  not  quite  pleased 
to  lose  the  dazzling  position  of  queen- 
consort  of  France ;  and  that  it  would 
have  been  equally  satisfactoiy  to  her 
if  Suffolk  and  Louis  had  Ungered  a 
little  longer— the  one  in  the  ^angs  of 
disappointed  love,  the  other  in  those 
of  the  gout.  But  if  a  diadem  had  such 
charms  for  Marv,  that  of  Spain  was 
at  her  command,  by  Mr  Craik*s  own 
confession.  ^^  Both  theEmperor  Max- 
imilian and  Ferdmand  of  Spain  would 
now  have  been  glad  to  secure  her  hand 
for  her  old  suitor  the  Prince  of  Cas- 
tile." Now,  as  ever,  her  behaviour 
was  correct,  proving  both  good  sense 
and  good  feelmg.  She  remained  seve- 
ral weeks  in  Paris  without  giving  the 
least  indication  of  an  intention  to 
many  again,  although  Wolsey  had  no 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


476 


Arkioeratic  Atmak. 


[April, 


sooner  heard  of  her  being  a  widow 
than  he  wrote  to  her  on  the  Bubjed 
of  a  second  union.  Of  coarse,  nobody 
expected  she  would  allow  the  usuid 
term  of  mourning  to  expire  before  be- 
stowing her  hand  on  Suffolk,  for  thar 
mutual  and  long-standing  attachment 
was  wdl  known.  Exactly  three 
months  after  the  death  of  Louis,  they 
were  privatebr  married.  At  the  last 
moment  Suffolk  hesitated,  through 
fear  of  offending  Henry  VlJJ. ;  and 
idthough  Francis  himself  advised  him 
to  many  the  queen,  he  still  demurred, 
with  a  degree  of  irresolution  hardly  to 
have  been  expected  in  one  of  his  ad- 
Tenturous  character,  until  Mary  her- 
sdf  took  energetic  measures,  giving 
him  four  dajrs,  and  no  more,  to  make 
up  his  mind.  Thus  urged,  heran  the 
ndc,  and  had  no  cause  to  repent. 
Heniy  was  easUy  reconciled  to  the 
marriage,  which  he  had  doubtless  fore- 
seen as  inevitable;  and  Mary,  the 
French  queen,  as  she  continued  to 
sign  herself,  was  happy  with  the  hus- 
^  band  of  her  dioice  until  her  early  death 
at  the  age  of  thirty-five. 

The  nobility  of  Great  Britain  need 
no  advocate  to  vaunt  their  virtues 
and  exalt  their  fame.  Ever  foremost 
in  the  field  and  at  the  council-board, 
they  long  since  achieved,  and  still 
maintain,  the  first  place  amongst  the 
worid's  aristocracy.  Their  illustrious 
deeds  are  blazoned  upon  the  page  of 
history.  Beady  alike  with  purse  and 
blade,  they  have  never  fllndhed  firom 
Bheddkg  their  blood  and  expending 
their  treasure  in  the  cause  of  loyalty 
and  patriotism.  Measure  them  with 
the  nobUity  of  other  countries,  and 
they  gain  in  grandeur  by  the  compari- 
son. Whilst  in  neariy  every  other 
European  land  the  aristocracy  is  fallen, 
as  in  France,  by  its  vices  and  heart- 
lessness;  degenerate  and  incapable, 
as  in  Spain;  or,  as  in  Russia,  but 
lately  emerged  firom  barbarism,  and 
with  its  reputation  yet  to  make,  the 
nobles  of  Great  Britain  proudly  main- 
tain their  eminent  position,  not  by  fac- 
titious advantages  alone,  but  because 
none  more  than  they  deserve  it— be- 
cause they  are  not  more  conspicuous 
for  high  rank  and  illustrious  &scent, 
than  for  dignified  conduct  and  dis- 
tfaigoished  talents.  We  have  heard 
of  setf-st^ed  liberals  scowling  down 
from  the  gallery  of  the  House  (tt  Lords 


upon  the  distinguished  assembfy,  and 
with  an  envious  grimace  pledgiitg^ 
their  utmost  exertions  to  its  extinc- 
tion. Fortunately  the  renown  of  sndt 
gentlemen  is  not  equal  to  their  spite, 
or  the  British  constitution,  there  can 
be  little  doubt,  would  soon  be  abro- 
gated in  favour  of  some  hopeful  scheme 
coined  in  a  Brummagem  mint  For- 
tunately there  is  still  enough  right 
feeling  and  good  sense  in  the  country 
to  guard  our  institutions  against  Man- 
diester  machinations. 

Accustomed  as  we  have  been  of 
late  years  to  meet  all  manner  of  radi- 
calism and  mischievous  trash,  in  tiM 
disguise  of  polite  literature,  in  weeklr 
parts  and  monthly  numbers,  in  half- 
guinea  volumes  and  twopenny  tracts, 
tricked  out,  gilt,  and  illustrated,  just 
as  a  cunning  quack  coats  his  destruc- 
tive pills  in  a  morsel  of  shining  tinsel, 
we  took  up  Mr  Peter  Burke's  book 
with  a  slight  mistrust,  which  did  not, 
however,  survive  the  pennal  oi  his 
prefiMse.  Therein  he  disclaims  all  in- 
tention of  depreciating  the  character 
of  the  British  aristocribcy.  Had  such 
been  his  view,  he  says,  it  had  been 
signally  defeated  by  the  statistics  con- 
tamed  in  his  book,  which  proves  to  be 
a  most  triumphant  vindication  of  the 
class  referred  to.  ^'  llie  volume  em- 
braces a  period  of  three  hundred  years, 
and  during  the  whole  of  that  time  we 
find  but  three  peers  convicted  of  mur- 
der: the  very  charge  against  them, 
if  we  except  Lord  Ferrers'  crime — the 
act  of  a  madman — and  some  cases  of 
duelling,  is  unknown  for  more  than 
two  hundred  years  back.  Moreover, 
setting  aside  these  murders,  and  also 
the  night-broils  peculiar  to  the  begin- 
ning of  the  last  century,  the  aristo- 
cratic classes  of  society  have  scarcely 
a  sin^e  instance  on  record  agamst 
them  of  a  base  or  degrading  nature, 
beyond  the  misdemeanour  of  Lcnrd 
Grey  of  Werke,  and  the  misdeeds  of 
two  baronets.  .  .  .  The  judgments 
pronounced  againstthem  are  the  judg- 
ments, not  of  felony,  but  of  treason. 
Crimes  they  may  have  committed,  but 
they  are  almost  invariably  the  crimes, 
not  of  villany,  but  of  misapplied  ho- 
nour and  misguided  devotion."  Mr 
Burice  steers  clear  of  politics,  and 
limits  his  investigations  to  the  offances 
against  society.  The  first  trial  he  re- 
cords took  place  in  IMl— the  last 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1S49.3 


Arkiocnaic  Aimak, 


All 


occonred  in  1846.  Besides  treasonable 
offences,  he  has  excluded  snoh  cases  as 
could  not  be  given,  even  in  outline, 
without  manifest  offence  to  his  reader^s 
delicacj.    With  these  exoeptions,  he 
intimates  that  he  has  noticed  all  the 
trials  connected  with  the  aristocracy 
that  have  occurred  during  the  last 
three  centuries.    We  cannot  contra- 
dict him,  without  more  minute  refer- 
ence to  authorities  than  we  at  this 
moment  have  opportunity  to  make; 
bat  Tfe  thought  the  criminal  records 
of  the  seventeenth  and  ei^teenth  cen- 
turies had  been  richer  in  this  respect ; 
and  indeed  his  brother  Bernard's  book 
of  anecdotes  reminds  us  of  two  or 
three  cases — that  of  the  Countess  of 
Strathmore,  and  of  Mure  of  Auchin- 
drane— which,  it  seems  to  us,  would 
have  been  in  their  place  in  his  c(^lec- 
tion.    The  trials  given  by  Mr  Peter 
Burke  are  thirty-three  in  number,  and 
it  is  not  uninteresting  to  sort  them 
according  to  Uie  offences.    In  many 
instances,  it  is  to  be  observed,  the 
members  of  the  aristocracy  concerned 
were  siihied  against,  not  sinnhig,  as  in 
the  murder  of  Lord  William  Russell, 
the  singular  attempt  to  extort  money 
from  the  second  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
the  recent  action  for  breach  of  promise 
against  Earl  Ferrers.   There  are  nine 
cases  of  murder,  most  of  them  of  an- 
cient date ;  five  duel  cases,  be^^inning 
with  Lord  Mohun  and  termmating 
with  the  Earl  of  Cardigan;  two  trials 
for  bigamy,*  (Bean  Fielding  and  the 
Duchess  of  Euigston ;)  two  parricides, 
and  sundry  brawls.    Fhrst  in  the  list 
is  the  trial  of  Sir  Edmond  Kneves, 
knight,  of  Norfolk,  arraigned  before 
the  king's  justices  ^^  for  stnking  of  one 
Master  Clerc,  of  Norfolk,  servant  with 
the  Earle  of  Smrey,  within  the  king's 
house  in  the  Tenice-court."    Sir  Ed- 
mond was  found  guilty,  and  condemned 
to  lose  his  right  hand.    In  cases  of 
decapitation,  a  headsman  and  his  aid, 
or  two  aids  at  most,  have  generally 
been  found  sufficient.  The  cutting  off 
of  a  hand  involved  much  more  cere- 
mony, and  a  far  greater  staff  of  offi- 
cials.   A  curious  list  is  given,  from 
the  state  trials,  of  the  persons  in 
attendance  to  assist  in  Sir  Edmond's 
mutOation.    *^  First,  the  seijeaat  chir- 
nrgion,  with  his  instruments  apper- 
taming  to  his  office ;  the  seijeant  of 
the  woodyard,  with  the  mallet  and  a 


blocke,  whereupon  tiie  hand  should 
lie ;  the  master  cooke  for  the  king,  with 
the  knife ;  the  seijeant  of  the  larder, 
to  set  the  knife  right  on  the  joynt ;  the^ 
seijeant  farrier,  with  his  searing-yrpufr 
to  seare  the  veines ;  the  seijeant  of  the 
poultry,  with  a  cocke,  which  cocke 
should  have  his  head  smitten  off  vpoa 
the  same  blocke,  and  with  the  same 
knife;  the  yeoman  of  the  chandry, 
with  seare-clothes ;  the  yeomen  of  the 
scullery,  with  a  pan  of  fire  to  heat  the 
yrons,  a  chafer  of  water  to  cool  the 
ends  of  the  yrons,  and  two  fourmes  for 
all  officers  to  set  their  stnffe  on ;  the 
seijeant  of  the  seller,  with  wine,  ale, 
and  beere ;  the  yeoman  of  the  ewry,  in 
the  Serjeant's  steed,  who  was  absent, 
with  bason,  ewre,  and  towels."  A 
dozen  persons  or  more  to  assist  at  poor 
Sir  Edmond*8  manumission.  Every- 
body remembers  Sir  Mungo  Mala- 
growther's  charitable  visit  to  Lord 
Glenvarloch,  when  he  had  incurred  a 
like  penalty,  and  his  description  of  the 
"  pretty  pageant"  when  oneTubbs  or 
Sliibbes  lost  his  right  hand  for  a 
^^pasquinadoe"  on  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Sir  Edmond  Kneves  was  more  fortu- 
nate. When  condemned,  he  prayed 
that  the  kmg,  (Henry  Vin.,)  "  of 
his  benigne  grace,  would  pardon 
him  of  his  right  hand,  and  take  the 
left ;  for,  (quoth  he,)  if  my  right  hand 
be  spared,  I  may  hereafter  doe  such 
good  service  to  his  grace,  as  shall 
please  him  to  appoint."  A  request 
which  his  majesty,  ^^  considering  the 
gentle  heart  of  the  said  Edmond,  and 
the  good  report  of  lords  and  ladies," 
was  graciously  pleased  to  meet  with  a 
firee  pardon.  Sir  Edmond  was  a  man 
of  high  rank  and  consideration,  and 
his  descendants  obtained  a  peerage 
and  a  baronetcy,  both  now  extinct. 

Fifteen  years  later,  under  the  reign 
of  Queen  Mary,  hi^pened  the  trial 
and  execution  of  Lord  Stourton  and 
four  of  his  servants,  for  the  murder  of 
WiUiam  and  John  Hartsill.  The 
motive  was  a  private  grudge.  Lord 
Stourton  was  a  zealous  Cawolic,  and 
great  interest  was  made  with  Muy  to 
save  his  life,  but  in  vain :  she  would 
only  grant  him  the  favour  to  be  hung 
with  a  silken  rope.  Next  comes 
^^  llie  great  case  of  the  poisoning  of 
Sir  Thomas  Overbury,"  concerning 
which  much  has  been  written;  and 
then  the  investigation  of  a  base  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


478 


Aristocratie  Atmals, 


[April, 


diagraceful  conspiracy  got  up  by  Sir 
John  Croke  of  Chilton,  Baronet,  to 
accuse  the  Reverend  Robert  Hawkins 
of  felony.    We  pass  on  to  the  case  of 
Jjord  Mohun — twice  tried  for  homi- 
cide, and  finally  slain  in  a  duel,  in 
which  his  antagonist  also  perished. 
Cases  of  brawlins—not  the  ofience  to 
which  the  word  h  now  generally  ap- 
plied, and  of  which  Doctors^  Commons 
takes  cognisance,  but  bloody  brawls, 
with  sword-thmsts  and  mortal  wounds 
— ^were  of  freanent  occurrence  towards 
the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  several  of  the  more  important 
trials  they  gave  rise  to  are  related  by 
Mr  Peter  Burke.    Lord  Mohun  was 
one  of  the  most  turbulent  spirits  of  a 
period  when  gentlemen  carried  swords, 
nrequented  taverns,  drank  deep,  and 
swore  high,  and  when  a  fray,  with 
bare  sted  and  bloodshed,  was  as  com- 
mon an  occurrence  in  London  streets 
as  is  now  the  detection  of  a  pick- 
pocket or  thebreaking-down  of  a  hack- 
ney cab;  when  hot-headed  youngmen 
— the  worthy  descendants  of  the  Wild- 
rakes  of  a  previous  reign — ^met  on 
tavern  stairs,  piimed  with  good  liquor, 
quarrelled  about  nothing,  rushed  into 
the  street,  and  slew  each  other  in- 
continently.    After  this  fashion  did 
Sir  Charles  Pym  of  Brymmore,  So- 
mersetshire, lose  his  life,  after  a  din- 
ner at  the  Swan,  upon  Fish  Street 
Hill;  his  decease  extinjruishing  the 
baronetcy,  and  terminatmg  the  male 
line  of  an  ancient  and  honourable 
house.     The  cause  of  quarrel  was 
trivial  in  the  extreme— a  veir  dog^s 
quarrel,   it  may  be  called,  for  the 
whole  ground  of  dispute  was  a  plate 
of  meat.     However  fashionable   a 
house   of  entertainment   the  Swan 
upon  Fish  Street  Hill  may  in  those 
days  have  been  deemed,  its  larder 
seems  to  have  been  conducted  upon  a 
most  economical  scale;  for  on  the 
trial,  a  Mr  Mirriday  deposed  that, 
upon  going  there  to  dine  m  company 
with  Sir  Charles  and  other  gentlemen, 
and  asking  for  meat,  they  were  told 
they  might  have  fish,  but  there  was 
no  meat  save  what  was  bespoke  by 
Ml*  Rowland  Walters,  a  person  of 
station  and  family,  who  was  dining 
with  some  friends  In  another  room. 
The  evidence  on  this  trial,  which  is 

S*ven  at  length,  is  curious  as  a  quaint 
nstration  of  the  manners  of  the 


time.    ^^  He  deaired  him  (the  tavern- 
keeper)  to  help  US  to  a  pUte  o(^  it,  if 
it  might  be  got,  which  we  had  brought 
up  stahrs :  after  dinner  we  drank  the 
gentlemen's  health  that  sent  it,  and 
returned  them  thanks  for  it.    A  little 
while  after,  Sir  Thomas  Mlddleton 
went  away,  and  about  an  hour  after 
that,  or  thereabouts.  Sir  Charles  Pym 
and  the  rest  of  vm  came  down  to  go 
away;  and  when  we  were  in  the  entry, 
Mr  Cave  met   as,  and   asked  Sir 
Charles  how  he  liked  the.  beef  that 
was  sent  up— who  answered,  we  did 
not  know  3rou  sent  it,  for  we  have 
paid  for  it :  then  the  boy  that  kept 
the  bar  told  as  that  he  did  not  reckon 
it  in  the  bill ;  npon  which  Mr  Cave 
seemed  to  take  it  ill ;  but,  my  lord,  I 
cannot  be  positive  whether  Mr  Brad- 
shaw  and  Mr  Palms  were  at  any 
words.    Then  I  took  Mr  Cave  to  one 
side  into  the  entry,  and  he  thought 
that  I  had  a  mind  to  fight  him,  but  I 
did  what  I  could  to  make  an  end  of 
Uie  quarrel.    [Upon  whioh%  the  court 
highly  commended  Mr  Mirriday.]*' 
The  quarrel  continued,  however,  and 
Su:  Charles  Pym  was  run  throng  the 
body  by  Mr  Walters,  ^*  and  fell  down 
criiMng    (writhing)   immediately,** 
deposed  a  Mr  Fletcher,  who  saw  the 
fight.    It  was  urged  in  extenuation, 
that  Sir  Charles  had  previously  run 
Walters  eight  inches  into  the  thigh. 
»*  *  Pray,  mv  lord,'  said  Walters,  *  let 
Sir  Charles^  sword  be  seen,  all  blood.' 
[But  that  gave  no  satisfaction   on 
either  side.]"    So  much  malice  was 
shown,  that  the  jniy  would  fain  have 
returned  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder ; 
but  Justice  Allibone  overruled  their 
wish,  and  laid  down  the  law,  and 
they  brought  it  in  manslaughter.  The 
sentence  is  not  ^ven ;  bot  such  of- 
fences were  then  very  leniently  looked 
upon,  and  it  is  not  likely  to  have  been 
severe.     Lord   Mohun's  two   trials 
were  of  a  different  nature  fix>]ii  this 
one ;  for  in  the  first— ibr  the  murder 
of  Mountford,  the  actor,  which  has 
been  often  told,  and  which  arose  out 
of  an  attempt  to  carry  off  Congreve's 
friend,  Mrs  Bracegirdle,  the  beautiful 
actress— the  blow  was  struck  by  Cap- 
tain HiU,  who  escaped,  and  Mohun 
was  indicted  for  aiding  and  abetting. 
*^My  Lord  Mohun,"  the  murdered 
man  deposed,  ^'ofibred  me  no  vio- 
lence ;  but  while  I  was  talking  with 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


AriitocroHc  AmtaU. 


479 


my  Lord  Mohim,  Hill  stnick  me  with 
his  left  hand,  and  with  his  rifffat  hand 
xan  me  throogh  before  I  conld  pat  my 
hand  to  my  sword.**    Not  only  in 
street  sqnabblee,  bnt  in  encounters  of 
a  more  regnlar  character,  fonl  play 
mpears  to  have  been  not  nnfreqnent. 
There  was  strong  suspidon  of  it  in  the 
dael  in  which  Lord  Mohan  met  his 
death.     After  he  had  received  his 
mortal  wonnd,   his  second,   Miyor- 
Oeneral  Macartney,  is  said  to  hare 
basely  stabbed  the  Dnke  of  Hamilton, 
ahready   grievonsly   hart.      Colonel 
Hamilton,  the  Dake*s  second,  ^^  de- 
clared upon  oath,  before  the  Priry 
Council,  that  when   the   principals 
engaged,  he  and  Macartney  followed 
their  example;  that  Macartney  was 
immediately  disarmed ;  but  the  co- 
lonel, seeing  the  dakefall  upon  his 
antagonist,  threw  away  the  swords, 
and  ran  to  lift  him  ap ;  that  while  he 
was  employed  in  raising  the  Dnke, 
Macartney,  having  taken  ap  one  of 
the  swords,  stabbed  his  grace  over 
Hamilton's  shoalder,  and  retired  im- 
mediately.**    This  was  one  of  the 
aoconnts  given  of  the  affair.    **  Ac- 
cording to  some,**  says  the  author  of 
Anecxbte$  of  the  ArUtocmof^  ^^  Lord 
Mohan   shortened  his   sword,    and 
stabbed  the  wounded  man   to   the 
heart  while  leaning  on  his  shoulder, 
and  unable  to  stand  without  support ; 
others  said  that  a  servant  of  Lord 
Mohnn*s  played  the  part  attributed 
by  the  more  credible  accounts  to  Ma- 
cartney.**    Some   years  later.  Ma- 
cartney stood  his  trial  at  the  King*s 
Bench;  and  as  the  jniy  found  him 
guilty  only  of  manslaughter,  it  is  pre- 
sumable they  discredited  Colonel  Ha- 
milton*s  evidence.    The  truth  is  now 
difficult  to  be  ascertained,  for   the 
whole  affair  is  mixed  up  with  the 
fierce  party-politics  of  the  time.    The 
Whigs  are  said  to  have  instigated 
Mohun,   *<who   had   long  laboured 
under  the  repute  of  being  at  once  the 
tool  and  bully  of  the  party,**  to  pro- 
voke the  duke,  and  force  him  into  a 
quarrel.    Mohun  primed  himself  with 
wine,  and  took  a  pnbUc  opportunity 
of  insulting  his  grace,  in  order   to 
make  him  the  challenger:   then,  as 
the  duke  seemed  disp^ed  to  stand 
upon  his  own   high  character,  and 
treat  the  disreputable  brawler  with 
contempt,  Mohun  sent  him  a  cartel 
VOL.  Lxv. — ^No.  coccn. 


by  the  hands  of  the  above-named 
Macartnev,  a  fire-eater  and  scamp  of 
his  own  kidney.  The  motive  of  Whig 
hatred  of  the  duke  was  his  recent  ap- 
pointment as  ambassador  extraordi- 
nary to  the  court  of  France,  and  their 
fear  that  he  would  favour  the  Pre- 
tender. Daring  Macartney*s  absence 
in  Holbtnd,  £800  were  offiered  for  his 
apprehension — £500  by  the  govern- 
ment of  the  day,  and  £800  by  the 
Dnchess  of  Hamilton ;  and  Swift  tells 
an  anecdote  of  a  gentleman  who, 
being  attacked  by  highwaymen,  told 
them  he  was  Macartney,  "  upon  which 
they  brought  him  to  a  justice  of  peace 
in  hopes  of  a  reward,  and  the  rogues 
were  sent  to  gaol.** 

But  the  most  wanton  and  perse- 
vering brawler  of  that  quarrelsome 
period  was  no  less  a  person  than 
Philip,  seventh  Earl  of  Pembroke, 
and  fourth  of  Montgomeiy.  Head- 
breaking  and  rib-piercing  were  his 
daily  diversions:  for  in  those  days, 
when  all  gentlemen  wore  swords,  the 
superabundant  pugnacity  of  bloods 
about  town  did  not  exhale  itself  on 
such  easy  terms  as  in  the  present 
pacific  age.  Now,  the  utmost  excesses 
of  "fast**  youths — whether  right 
honourables  or  linen-shopmen — ^when, 
after  a  superabundance  of  daret  or 
gin  .  twist,  a  supper  at  an  opera- 
dancer*s,  or  a  Newgate  song  at  a 
night-tavern,  they  patrol  the  streets, 
on  rollicking  intent,  never  exceed  a 
"  round**  with  a  cabman,  the  abstrac- 
tion of  a  few  knockers,  or  a  **  mill** 
with  the  police ;  and  are  sufficiently 
expiated  by  a  night  in  the  station- 
hoase,  and  a  lectare  and  fine  from 
Mr  Jardine  the  next  morning.  But 
with  the  Pembrokes,  and  Mohuns, 
and  Walters,  when  the  liquor  got 
uppermost,  it  was  out  bilbo  directly, 
and  a  thrust  at  their  neishbours* 
vitals.  And,  doubtless,  the  lenity  of 
the  judges  encouraged  such  rapier- 
practice;  for  unless  malice  afore- 
thought was  proved  beyond  possibility 
of  a  doubt,  the  summing-up  was 
usually  very  merciful  for  the  prisoner, 
as  in  the  trial  of  Walters  for  Sir 
Charles  Pym*s  death,  when  Mr  Baron 
Jenner  told  the  jury  that  "  he  rather 
thought  there  was  a  little  heat  of  wine 
amongst  them,**  (the  evidence  said 
that  nine  or  ten  bottles  had  been 
drunk  amongst  six  of  them,  which,  in 
2a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


180 


Mrit$[fcr9t9C  Jiiiiioii* 


lApM, 


^  ctm  of  Bei0oned  topers,  m  tlrey 
doobtlen  wore,  night  htrdl^r  be  een* 
Bldered  an  excolpi^ry  doee ;)  ^^  aad 
this  whole  action  wm  oirried  on  bf 
nothfaig  etoe  Imt  by  a  hot  and 
sodden  firoMe  ;  and  he  was  ▼^"T 
8OT17  that  ft  shoiM  Ml  apon  nek 
«  worthy  genilenan.**  Between 
nerciM  Jndm  and  prlrilege  of 
peerage,  Lord  Pembroke  got  soo*- 
froe,  or  nearly  so,  ont  of  vartons 
scrapes  which  wo«dd  hare  been  Tory 
serious  matters  a  eentnry  and  a  half 
later.  The  first  note  taken  of  his 
ecoentriddes  is  an  entry  in  the  Lords' 
Journals,  dated  the  28th  January  167S, 
recording  that  the  house  was  that  day 
informed  by  the  Lord  Cbanoettor,  in 
the  name  of  his  maje^,  of  ^  the  com- 
mitment of  the  Earl  of  Pembr^ce  to 
the  Tower  of  London,  for  uttering 
such  horrid  and  tdaspbemous  words, 
and  other  actions  proyed  upon  oath, 
as  are  not  fit  to  be  repeated  hi  any 
Christian  assembly."  After  four 
weeks*  imprisonment,  his  lordship  was 
set  ttee  upon  his  humble  petition.  In 
which  he  asked  pardon  of  God,  the 
King,  and  the  House  of  Peers,  and 
declared  his  health  ««much  impaired 
by  the  long  restrahit.**  His  convales- 
cence was  rather  boisterous,  for 
exactfy  one  week  after  his  release,  a 
complaint  was  made  to  the  house  by 
PhUlp  Rycaut,  Esq.,  to^the  efkct  that, 
on  the  evening  of  the  preceding 
Saturday,  "he  being  to  visit  a  friend 
in  the  Strand,  whilst  he  was  at  the 
door  taking  his  leave,  the  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  coming  by,  came  up  to 
the  door,  and  with  his  fist,  without 
any  provocation,  struck  the  said 
Philip  Rycaut  such  a  blow  upon  the 
eye  as  almost  knocked  it  out;  and 
afterwards  knocked  him  down,  and 
then  fbll  upon  him  with  such  violence 
that  he  ahnost  stifled  him  with  his 
gripes,  in  the  dirt ;  and  likewise  his 
foroship  drew  his  sword,  and  was  in 
danger  of  Idllinff  him,  had  he  not 
slipped  into  the  house,  and  the  door 
been  shut  imon  him.^'  One  cannot 
but  admire  the  sort  of  ascendfaig  scale 
observable  in  this  assault.  The  con- 
siderate Pembroke  evidently  shunned 
proceeding  at  once  to  extreme  mea- 
sures ;  so  he  first  knocked  the  man^ 
eye  out.  then  punched  his  head,  then 
tried  a  little  gentle  strangulation,  and 
finally  drew  ms  sword  to  put  the  poor 


wretch  oot  of  Ms 

assauH  and  battery, 

(joite  insufilcient  to  diqMi  the 

accumulated  during  the  mvath 

in  ^e  Tower.     Twenty-fiMnr' 

after  the  atlaek  on  Ityoavt,  sad  1 

that  tll-«sed  person  had  time  to  lodge 
Mb  eonpiafait,  tiie  taxiom  eaii  had  get 
invoivea  in  an  tMk  of  a  muoh  1 
verions  nature,   for  which   he  w 
brought  to  trial  before  the  Peas, 
Westminster  Han.    The  Lord 
Steward  appohited  on  the  ooc 
was  the  Lmxl  Chancellor,  Lord  Fteeh, 
afterwards  Eari  of  Noltinghan,  fbr 
whose  address  to  the   prboner  w« 
would  gladly  make  room  here,  tar  it 
is  a  masterpiece  of  terse  and  d^^- 
fied  eloquence,  and  one  of  the  Bioet 
strikhig  pages  of  Mr  Peter  Bmke's 
compilation.    The  crime  fanpnted  to 
Lord  Pembroke  was  the  mwder  of 
one   Nathaniel   Cony,    by  stvfldng, 
kicking,  and  stampmg  upon  him ;  ai^ 
the  evidence  for  the  proseentloB  w«8 
so  strong  that  a  verdict  of  gidlty  was 
inevitable.     But  it  was  bron^  in 
manslaughter,  not  murder;  aiMl  the 
earl,  claiming  his  privilege  of  peerage, 
was  discharged.    It  is  diilioult  to  say 
what  was  considered  murder  at  ^at 
time ;  notliing,  apparently,  short  of 
homicide  committed  fasting,  and  after 
long  and  clearly  established  premedi- 
tation.   A  decanter  of  whM  on  the 
table,  or  the  exchange  of  a  few  angiy 
words,  reduced  the  capital  crime  to  a 
slight  ofltoce,  got  over  by  privil^e  of 
peerage  or  benefit  of  clergy.    The 
death  of   Cony  was    ^e  result   of 
most  brutal  and  unprovoked  ill-treat- 
ment.   ^^It  was  on  Sunday  the  8d 
of  February,"    said  the   Atteniey- 
G^eral,  Shr  William  Jones,  in  his 
qmdnt  but  able  address  to  the  peers, 
**'  that  my  Lord  of  Pembroke  and  his 
company  were  drinking  at  the  house 
of  one  Long,  in  the  Haymarfcet,  (I  am 
sorry  to  hear  the  day  was  no  better 
employed  by  tiiem,)  and  it  was  the 
misfbrtune  of  this  poor  gratleman, 
together  with  one  Mr  Goring,  to  eome 
Into  this  house  to  drink  a  bottle  of 
wine."    The  said  Gk>ring  was  one  of 
the  chief  witnesses  for  the  prosecution, 
but  his  evidence  was  not  veiy  dear, 
for  he  had  been  excessively  dnmk  at 
the  time  of  the  sonflle,  ajid  indeed 
poor  Cony  seems  to  have  been  the 
same ;  ana  It  was  Ms  maidttnwndety 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Afktoemik  Aimah, 


461 


to  see  his  friend  home,  and  to  take  a 
parting-glass  at  Long's,  **  which  it 
teems^'  said  Goring,  **was  on  the 
waj,"  (he,  the  said  Goring,  beinff 
anything  but  confident  of  what  had 
been  on  or  ^  the  way  on  the  nig^t 
in  question)— that  Iwoogfat  himato 
the  dangerous  society  of  Lord  Fem- 
br^LO.  Gk)riag  got  mto  dilate  with 
the  earl,  reoeiv^  a  glass  of  wine  in 
his  &ce,  had  his  sword  farolcen,  lost 
his  hat  and  periwig,  and  was  hiutled 
out  of  the  room.  ''Whilst  I  was 
thrusting  him  out  of  doero,"  deponed 
Mr  Richard  Sava^,  one  of  Lord 
Pembroke's  compamons,  *'  I  saw  my 
Lord  of  Pembroke  rtrike  Cooy  with 
his  right  hand,  who  immediately  fell 
down,  and  then  gave  him  a  kick ;  and 
BO  upon  that,  finding  him  not  stir,  I 
took  Mr  Cony,  being  on  the  ground, 
(I  and  my  lord  together,  for  I  was 
not  strong  enough  to  do  it  myself^) 
and  laid  him  on  the  chain,  and 
covered  him  up  warm,  and  so  left 
him.''  The  tender  attention  of  cover- 
ing him  up  warm,  did  not  suffice  to 
save  the  life  of  0<my,  who  had  evi- 
dently, from  his  acoount  and  that  of 
the  medical  men,  received  a  vast  deal 
more  ill-usage  than  Savage  chose  to 
acknowledge.  The  earl  got  off,  how- 
ever, as  au'eady  shown,  and  was  in 
trouble  again  before  the  end  of  the 
same  year — this  time  with  a  man  of 
his  own  rank,  Chaiies  Sackville,  Earl 
of  Dorset,  the  wit  and  poet,  who 
received  a  message  late  one  night,  to 
the  effect  that  Lord  Pembroke  was 
desirous  to  speak  with  him  at  Lockel's 
tavern.  After  inqulrinff  whether 
Pembroke  were  sober,  and  receiving 
an  affirmative  reply,  Dorset  went  as 
requested,  but  only  to  be  insulted  by 
his  veiy  drunken  lordship  of  Pem- 
broke, who  insisted  on  his  fighting 
him  forthwith  for  some  imaginary 
aflfront.  The  matter  came  heme  the 
-  House  of  Peers,  and  the  disputai^ 
were  put  under  arrest  in  their  reapee- 
tive  dwellings,  until  Lord  Pembroke, 


declaring  himself  unconscious  of  ail 
that  had  passed  on  the  night  in  ques- 
tion, tendered  apologies,  and  craved 
to  be  allowed  to  retire  to  his  house  at 
WUton,  whither  he  accordindy  was 
permitted  to  go,  and  wfasve  4be  may 
possibly  have  remained — as  no  other 
firolics  are  related  of  him— «til  his 
death,  which  occurred  three  or  four 
years  afterwards. 

Few  of  the  remarkable  trials  given 
in  tiie  AMBcdotm  •/  the  Ariaf^ertiey 
will  obtain  much  attention  fh>m  per- 
sons who  have  read  Mr  Peter  Bike's 
book,  whence  most  of  them  are  bor- 
rowed and  condensed,  with  here  and 
there  a  slight  alteration  or  addition. 
Li  a  note  towards  the  dose  of  his 
second  volume,  Mr  Bernard  Burke 
somewhat  tardily  acknowledges  his 
obligations  to  his  brother.  Consider- 
ing the  reoent  publication  of  the 
Cdebrmted  TriaU^  jnc,  it  would  per- 
haps have  been  judicious  of  him  to 
have  altogether  omitted  the  criminal 
cases  in  question.  As  told  by  him, 
they  do  not  constitute  the  best  portion 
of  his  book,  whose  most  interesting 
chM>ter8,  to  our  mind,  are  those  in- 
cluding sudi  wild  old  fragments  as  A 
Oarums  Tntditiony  The  Mysterious 
Story  of  LUOecot^  An  Irish  Water- 
Jwsdy  and  othere  of  a  similar  kind, 
l^e  short  anecdotes  arei  generally 
better  than  those  that  have  been 
worked  up  into  a  sort  of  tale.  Many 
of  the  stories  have  of  course  been 
afaneady  thrice  told;  but  by  persons 
who  have  not  met  with  &em,  and 
who  are  not  likely  to  take  the  trouble 
of  himting  ttan  up  in  old  memoirs 
and  magarfnea,  tiicgrwill  be  read  with 
I^eaaure,  and  dn^  prized.  And 
whilst  Mr  Craik's  bo<^  may  fairly 
daim  to  rank  as  histoiy,  and  lAx 
Peter  Burke's  as  a  well-arrangea  and 
interesting  compilation,  it  were  hardly 
fair  to  xefue  brother  Bernard  the 
modicum  of  praise  usually  awarded  to 
a  painstaking  and  amusing  gossip. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


•i62  LtfeoftJitSea.  [AprO, 


THE  UFB  OF  THK  8EA. 
BT  B.  SIMMONS. 

^^  A  very  intelligent  jonng  lady,  born  and  bred  in  the  Orkney  islands,  who 
lately  came  to  spend  a  season  in  this  neighbourhood,  told  me  nothing  in  the 
ciaiiiiand  scenery  bad  so  mnch  disappointed  her  as  woods  and  trees,  ^e  fonnd 
them  so  dead  and  lifeless,  that  she  never  could  help  pining  after  the  eternal 
motion  and  variety  of  the  ocean.  And  so  back  she  has  gone ;  and  I  believe 
nothing  will  ever  tempt  her  from  the  wind-swept  Orcades  again."— Sm  Wai.- 
TER  SooTT.  Lockharfa  Life^  vol.  ii. — [Although  it  is  of  a  female  this  strikins^ 
anecdote  is  related,  it  has  been  thought  more  suitable  to  give  the  amplified 
expression  of  the  seutimeut  in  the  stanzas  a  masculine  application.] 

I. 
Thesk  grassy  vales  arc  warm  and  deep, 
Where  apple-orchards  wave  and  glow ; 
Upon  sott  uplands  whitening  sheep 
Drift  in  long  wreaths. — Below, 
Sun-fronting  beds  of  garden-thyme,  alive 
With  the  small  humming  merchants  of  the  hive, 
And  cottage-homes  in  every  shady  nook 
Where  willows  dip  and  kiss  the  dimples  of  the  brook. 

II. 
But  all  too  close  against  my  face 

My  thick  breath  feels  these  crowding  trees, 
They  crush  me  in  their  green  embrace.— 
I  miss  the  Life  of  Seas ; 
The  wild  free  life  that  round  the  flinty  shores 
Of  my  bleak  isles  expanded  Ocean  pours — 
So  free,  so  far,  that,  in  the  lull  of  even. 
Naught  but  the  rising  moon  stands  on  your  path  to  heaven. ' 

III. 
In  summer's  smile,  in  winter's  strife, 

Unstirr'd,  those  hills  are  walls  to  me ; 
I  want  the  vast,  all-various  life 
Of  the  broad,  circling  Sea, — 
Each  hour  in  mom,  or  noon,  or  midnight's  range. 
That  heaves  or  slumbers  with  exhaustless  change, 
Dash'd  to  the  skies— steep'd  in  blue  morning's  rays — 
Or  back  resparkling  far  Orients  lovely  blaze. 

IV. 

I  miss  the  madd'ning  Life  of  Seas, 

When  the  red,  angrv  sunset  dies, 
And  to  the  storm-lash'd  Orcades 
Resound  the  Seaman's  cries : 
Mid  thick'ning  night  and  fredh'ning  gale,  upon 
The  stretch'd  ear  bursts  Despair's  appealing  gun, 
O'er  the  low  Reef  that  on  the  lee-beam  raves 
With  its  down-crashing  hills  of  wild,  devouring  waves. 

V. 

How  then,  at  dim,  exciting  mom, 
Suspense  will  question— as  the  Dark 

Is  clearing  seaward — ^^  Has  she  wom 
The  tempest  through,  that  Bark?" 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18490  Life  of  the  Sea.  4i83^ 

And,  *mid  the  Breakers,  bulwarks  partiog  fast, 
And  wretches  dinging  to  a  shiverM  mast, 
Give  fnneral  answer.    Qoidc  with  ropes  and  yawl ! 
Laonch !  and  for  life  stretch  out !  they  shall  not  perish  all  ? 

VI. 

These  inland  love-bowers  sweetly  bloom, 

White  with  the  hawthorn's  sommer  snows ; 
Along  soft  tnrf  a  pnrple  gloom 
The  elm  at  sunset  throws : 
There  the  fond  lover,  listening  for  the  sweet 
Half-soundless  coming  of  his  Maiden's  feet. 
Thrills  if  the  linnet's  rustling  pinions  pass, 
Or  some  light  leaf  is  blown  rippling  along  the  grass. 

vn 
But  Love  his  pain  as  sweetly  tells 

Beneath  some  cavern  beetling  hoar, 
Where  silver  sands  and  rosy  shells 
Pave  the  smooth  glistening  shore — 
When  all  the  winds  are  low,  and  to  thy  tender 
Accents,  the  wavelets,  stealing  in,  make  slender 
And  tinkling  cadence,  wafting,  eveiy  one, 
A  golden  smile  to  thee  from  the  fast-sinking  sun. 

VIII. 

Calm  through  the  heavenly  sea  on  high 

Comes  out  each  white  and  quiet  star — 
So  calm  up  Ocean's  floating  sky 
Come,  one^y  one,  afar, 
White  quiet  sails  from  the  grim  icy  coasts 
That  hear  the  battles  of  the  Whaleinff  hosts. 
Whose  homeward  crews  with  feet  and  flutes  in  tune 
And  spirits  roughly  blithe,  make  music  to  the  moon. 

IX. 

Or  if  (like  some)  thou'st  loved  in  vain. 

Or  madly  wooed  tho  abreadv  Won, 
— Go  when  the  Passion  and  the  Pain 
Their  havoc  have  begun. 
And  dare  the  Thunder,  rolling  up  behind 
The  Deep,  to  match  that  hurricane  of  mind : 
Or  to  the  sea- winds,  raging  on  thy  pale 
Grief- wasted  cheek,  pour  forth  as  bitter-keen  a  tale. 

z. 

For  in  that  sleepless,  tumbling  Ude — 
When  most  thy  fevered  spirits  reel. 
Sick  with  desires  unsatisfied, 
— Dwell  life  and  balm  to  heal. 
Raise  thy  free  Sail,  and  seek  o'er  ocean's  breast 

— It  boots  not  what those  rose-clouds  in  the  West, 

And  deem  that  thus  thy  spirit  freed  shall  be, 
Ploughing  the  stars  through  seas  of  blue  Eternity. 

XI. 

This  mainland  life  I  could  not  live. 
Nor  die  beneath  a  rookery's  leaves, — 

But  I  my  parting  breath  would  give 
Where  chainless  Ocean  heaves ; 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


484  LtMoH  Cries.  [Aprils 

In  some  gray  tiinefc,  where  my  finding  sight 
Could  see  the  Lighthouse  flame  into  the  ni^it, 
Emblem  of  goidanoe  and  of  hopOt  to  save ; 
Type  of  the  Besooer  bright  who  walked  the  howling^  wave. 

xn. 
Nor,  dead,  amid  the  chamel^s  breath 

Shall  rise  my  tomb  with  lies  befooFd, 
But,  like  the  Greek  who  faced  in  death 
The  sea  in  life  he  ruled,* 
High  on  some  peak,  wave-girded,  will  I  sleep, 
My  dirge  song  ever  by  the  choral  deep  ; 
There,  sullen  mourner !  oft  at  midnight  lone 
Shall  my  fiuniliar  friend,  the  Thunder,  come  to  groan. 

xin. 

Soft  Vales  and  sunny  mils,  farewell ! 

Long  shall  the  Mendship  of  your  bowers 
Be  sweet  to  me  as  is  the  smell 
Of  theur  strange  lovely  flowers  ; 
And  each  kind  fisice,  like  every  pleasant  star 
Be  bright  to  me  Uiou^  ever  bright  afiEur : 
True  as  the  sea-bird's  wing,  I  s<^  my  home 
And  its  glad  Life,  once  more,  by  boundless  Ocean's  fioam ! 


LONDON   CUES. 
BT  B.  SIMMONS. 
I.  • 

What  trifles  mere  are  more  than  treasure, 

To  .curious,  eager-hearted  boys  I 
I  yet  can  single  out  the  pleasure. 

From  memory's  store  of  childish  joys. 
That  thriU*d  me  when  some  gracious  guest 

First  spread  before  my  dazzled  eyes, 
In  cov^  crimson  as  the  West, 

A  gloriooa  book  of  London  Criet. 

n. 
For  days  that  gift  was  not  resigned, 

As  stumbling  on  I  spelt  and  read ; 
It  shared  my  cushion  while  I  dined, — 

I  took  it  up  at  night  to  bed; 
At  noon  I  conn'd  it  half-awake, 

Nor  thought,  while  poring  o'er  the  prize, 
How  oft  m^  head  and  heart  should  adie 

In  listenmg  yet  to  London  Cries^ 

in. 
Imprinted  was  the  precious  book 

By  sreat  John  Harris,  of  St  Paul's, 
(The  Aldus  of  the  nursery-nook ;) 

I  still  revere  the  shop's  gray  walls. 
Whose  wealth  of  story-books  had  power 

To  wake  my  longing  boyhood's  sighs : — 
But  Fairy-lwid  lost  every  flower 

Beneath  your  tempests — London  Cries ! 

*  ThemisioolM  ^his  tomb  wat  on  the  ahore  at  Salamif. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  lAmdon  Crk$.  4dft 

IV. 

I  learn'd  bj  rote  eaeh  bawling  wOid — 

And  with  a  rapture  tnm'd  the  broad, 
Great  staring  woodcuts,  dark  and  blarr*dt 

I  never  since  derived  fitwi  Claude. 
^-That  Cheny-seller's  balanced  acale^ 

Poised  nicely  o*er  his  wares^  rich  dfes^ 
Gave  useful  hints,  of  slight  avail. 

To  riper  years  'mid  London  Criee. 

V. 

The  Newsman  wound  his  noi^  horn, 

And  told  how  slaughtered  finends  Midfoea 
Lay  heapM,  five  thousand  men,  one  mom, 

In  thy  red  trenches,  Badajoa. 
Twas  Famb,  and  had  its  fond  abettors ; 

Though  some  folk  now  would  think  it  wise 
To  change  thai  f  for  other  letters. 

And  hear  no  more  such  London  Cries. 

VI. 

Here  chimed  the  tiny  Sweep ; — ainoe  tiien 

I've  loved  to  drop  that  trifling  balm. 
Prescribed,  lost  Elia,  by  thy  pen. 

Within  his  small  half-perish'd  pahn.* 
And  there  the  Milkmaid  tripp'd  and  iplash'd, 

— All  milks  that  pump  or  pail  snppliea, 
(Save  that  with  hui^an  kindwega  daeh'd,) 

Twas  mine  to  quaff  'mid  London  Cries. 

vu. 
That  Dustman— how  he  rang  his  ball. 

And  yawn'd,  and  bellow'd  *'  dnil  below  I " 
I  knew  the  very  fellow's  yell 

When  first  I  beard  it  years  ag». 
What  fruits  of  toil,  and  tears,  aad  trust, 

Of  cunning  hands,  and  studious  ^yeA» 
Like  J)eath,  he  dailv  sacks  to  dust, 

(Here  goes  »ff  mite)  'mki  LoBChon  Ciisa  I 

VI1£. 

The  most  vootferous  of  the  prints 

Was  He  who  chaunted  Savoys  sweat, 
The  same  who  stunn'd,  a  centnry  sinoa, 

That  proud,  poor  room  in  Bider  Street : 
When  morning  now  awakes  his  notOi 

Like  bitter  Swift,  I  often  rise, 
.  And  wish  his  wares  w&^  in  tinit  throat 

To  stop  at  least  bii  London  Grie6.t 

*  ^  If  thon  meetest  one  of  those  small  gentrj  in  thj  early  rambles,  it  is  good  to 
jfive  him  a  pennj — it  it  hotter  to  givo  hira  twopence.  If  it  be  storny  weather/'  adds 
Lamb,  in  that  tone  of  teader  humoor  ao  exelnaiTely  hit  own — ''If  it  be  atormy 
weather,  and  to  the  proper  tronhlea  of  hia  oecupatioa  a  pair  of  kibed  heela  (no  unaaaal 
aeoompaaimeat)  be  anpwadded,  the  demand  on  thy  hamaaily  will  anrely  rise  to  a 
tester." — Essats  bt  £ua — The  pram  of  Ckimrndg  Swteptn. 

t  "  Morning  "—[in  bed.]  **  Here  is  a  restless  dog  crying  *  Cabbages  and  Savoys,* 
plagues  me  every  morning  about  this  time.  He  is  now  at  it.  I  wish  his  largest 
cabbage  were  sticking  in  his  throat  1  "—Journal  to  SteUa^  \Ztk  Dteetnber  1712.  Swi^ 
at  this  period  (he  was  then  at  the  loftiest  summit  of  his  importance  and  expectationSy 
the  caressed  and  hourly  companion  of  Harley  and  Bolingbroke,  and  a  chief  stay  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


486  London  Cries.  [Aprfl^ 

nc. 
That  Orange-girl— far  different  powers 

Were  hers  from  those  that  once  coold  win 
His  worthless  heart  whose  arid  hours 

Were  fed  with  dew  and  light  by  Gwynn ; 
The  dew  of  feelings  fresh  as  day— 

The  light  of  those  surpassing  eyes — ' 
The  darkest  raindrop  has  a  ray, 

And  Nell  had  hers  'mid  London  Cries.  * 

X. 

Here  sued  the  Violet-vender  bland- 
It  fills  me  now-a-days  with  gloom 

To  meet,  amid  the  swarming  Strand, 
Her  basket's  magical  perfume : 

— ^The  close  street  spreads  to  woodland  dells. 
Where  early  lost  Affection's  ties 

Are  round  me  gathering  violet-bells, 
— ^I'il  rhyme  no  more  of  London  Cries. 

XI. 

Yet  ere  I  shut  from  Memory's  sight 

That  cherish'd  book,  those  pictures  rare— 
Be  It  recorded  with  delight 

The  OnOAN-fiend  was  wanting  there. 
Not  till  the  Peace  had  closed  our  quarrels 

Could  slaughter  that  machine  devise 
(Made  from  his  useless  musket-barrels) 

To  slay  us  'mid  our  London  Cries. 

XII. 

Why  did  not  Martin  in  his  Act 

Insert  some  punishment  to  suit 
This  crime  of  being  houriy  rack'd 

To  death  by  some  melodious  Brute  ? 
Fh>m  ten  at  mom  to  twelve  at  night 

His  instrument  the  Savage  plies, 
From  him  alone  there's  no  respite, 

Since  '<u  the  Victim^  here,  that  cries. 

xni. 
Macaulay !  Talfourd !  Sm3rthe  I  Lord  John ! 

If  ever  yet  your  studies  brown 
This  pest  has  broken  in  upon, 

Arise  and  put  the  Monster  down. 
By  all  distracted  students  feel 

When  sense  crash'd  into  nonsense  dies 
Beneath  that  ruthless  Orqan's  wheel, 

We  call !  O  hear  our  London  Cries ! 


their  ministry)  lodged  *<  in  a  siagle  room,  up  two  pair  of  stairs/'  **  over  agaiiist  th» 
house  in  Little  Rider  Street,  where  D.D.  [Stella]  had  lodged.'* 

*  For  several  instances  of  the  true  untainted  feeling  displayed  throndi  life  by  this 
eharming  woman,  see  the  pleasing  memoirs  of  her^  in  Mrs  Jamieson's  Aavtm  <if  CAr 
Court  of  King  CkarUt  JL^  4to  EditioD,  1883. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.3 


CltuuUa  and  Pitdens, 


487 


CLAUDIA  AJW  PUDKN8. 


Wb  gladly  welcome  this  essay  fh)m 
tho  hand  of  an  old  friend,  to  whom 
Scotland  is  under  great  obligations. 
To  Archdeacon  Williams,  so  many 
years  the  esteemed  and  efficient  heaid 
of  our  Edinburgh  Academy,  we  are  in- 
debted for  a  large  part  of  that  in- 
creased energy  and  success  with  which 
onr  countrymen  have  latterly  prose- 
cuted the  study  of  the  classics ;  and 
ho  is  more  especially  entitled  to  share 
with  Professor  Sandford,  and  a  few 
others,    the   hi^  praise  of  having 
awakened,  in  our  native  schools,  an 
ardent  love,  and  an  accurate  know- 
ledge, of  the  higher  Greek  literature. 
We  do  not  grudge  to  see,  as  the  first 
fraits  of  Mr  Williams's  dignified  re- 
tirement and  well-earned  leisure,  a 
book  devoted  to  an  interesting  pas- 
sage in  the  antiquities  of  his  own 
land. 

The  students  of  British  history, 
particularly  in  its  ecclesiastical 
branch,  have  long  been  familiar  with 
the  conjecture  that  Claudia,  who  b 
mentioned  by  St  Paul,  in  his  Second 
Epistle  to  Timothy,  in  tho  same  verse 
with  Pudens,  and  along  with  other 
Christian  friends  and  brethren,  may 
be  identified  in  the  epigrams  of  Mar- 
tial as  a  lady  of  British  birth  or  de- 
scent. The  coincidences,  even  on  the 
surface  of  the  documents,  are  strong 
enough  to  iustify  the  supposition. 
Claudia  and  Pudens  are  mentioned 
together  by  St  Paul.  Martial  lived 
at  Rome  at  the  same  time  with  the 

S»ostle;  and  Martial  mentions  first 
e  marriage  of  a  Pudens  to  Claudia, 
a  foreigner,  and  next  the  amii^)le  cha- 
,  racter  of  a  matron  Claudia,  whom  he 
describes  as  of  British  blood,  and  as 
the  worthy  wife  of  a  holy  husband. 
These  obvious  resemblances,  with 
some  other  scattered  rays  of  illustra- 
tion, had  been  eariy  observed  by  his- 
torians, and  may  be  met  with  in  all  the 
common  books  on  the  subject,  such  as 
Thackeray  and  Giles.  But  the  Arch- 
deacon has  entered  deeper  into  the 


matter,  and  with  the  aid  of  local  dis- 
coveries long  ago  made,  but  hitherto 
not  fully  used,  and  his  own  critical 
comparison  of  circumstances  lying  far 
apart,  but  mutually  bearing  on  each 
other,  be  has  brought  the  case,  as  we 
think,  to  a  satisfactory  and  successful 
result;  and  has,  at  the  same  time, 
thrown  important  light  on  the  posi- 
tion and  character  of  the  British 
people  of  that  early  period. 

It  seems  remarkable  that  neither 
Thackeray  nor  Giles  has  noticed  the 
argument  derived  from  the  singular 
lapidary  inscription  found  at  Chi- 
chester in  1723,  and  described  in 
Horsley's  Britannia  Romano,  Ac- 
cording to  the  probable  reading  of 
that  monument  it  was  erected  by 
Pudens,  the  son  of  Pndentinus,  un- 
der the  authority  of  Cogidunus,  a 
British  king,  who  seems,  according 
to  a  known  custom,  to  have  assumed 
the  name  of  Claudius  when  admitted  to 
participate  in  the  rights  of  Roman  citi- 
zenship, and  who  may  be  fairiy  identi- 
fied with  the  Cogidunus  ofTacitus,  who 
received  the  command  of  some  states 
in  Britain,  as  part  of  a  province  of  the 
empire,  and  whom  the  historian  states 
that  he  remembered  *^  as  a  most  faith- 
ful ally  of  the  Romans."  The  inscrip- 
tion is  to  be  found  in  Dr  Giles's  ap- 
pendix, but  he  seems  ignorant  of  the 
inference  which  DrStukeley  drew  fi*om 
it  when  it  was  first  brought  to  light. 
From  Dr  Giles's  plan,  perhaps,  we 
were  wrong  in  expecting  anything 
else  than  a  compilation  of  the  ma- 
terials which  were  readiest  at  hand ; 
but,  even  with-  our  experience  of  his 
occasional  love  of  paradox,  we  were 
not  prepared  for  his  attempt  to 
cushion  the  question  as  to  the  con- 
version of  the  early  Britons,  by  as- 
suming the  improbability  **  that  the 
first  teachers  and  the  first  converts 
to  Christianity  adopted  the  prepos- 
terous conduct  of  our  modem  mis- 
sionaries, who,  neglecting  vice  and 
misery  of  the  deepest  dye  at  home. 


Claudia  and  Pud€n$.  An  Attempt  to  tkow  that  Gaudia,  nuntioned  in  St  PauPi, 
Second  Epittle  to  Tiwoiky,  woi  a  Britifh  Prinetti,  By  John  Williams,  AM.,  Oxon^ 
Archdeacon  of  Cardigan,  F.R.S.E.,  Su,  Llandovery :  William  Rees.  London : 
1848.    Longman  &  Co. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


4d& 


ClmdiM  ami  Pudmi 


[April, 


expend  their  own  overflowing  feelings, 
and  exhaoBt  the  treasures  of  the  bene- 
volent, in  carrying  their  .deeds  of 
charity  to  the  Negro  and  the  Hindoo." 
Dlflereiioetf  of  <q>inion  may  be  enter- 
tained 88  to  the  mode  in  which  some 
modem  missions  have  been  oondncted ; 
and  those  who  think  there  should  be 
no  missions  at  all,  are  at  liber^  toaay 
flo.  Bat,  as  a  matter  of  fiMst,  11  seons 
strange  that  any  one  shonld  be  fonnd 
to  lay  it  down  that  either  St  Paul  or 
his  brethren,  or  their  disciples,  oonld 
confine  themselves  merely  to  vioe  and 
misery  at  hamt^  or  could  have  reoon- 
oiled  their  consciepces  to  so  narrow  a 
sphere  oi  exertion,  while  the  last 
words  of  their  Master  were  still  echo- 
ing in  their  ears,  ^^  Go  ye,  therefore, 
and  teach  all  nations."  The  ar- 
gument seems  peculiaiiy  absurd 
in  the  month  of  one  who  has  edited, 
and  with  some  success,  the  works  of 
the  venerable  Bede— the  worthy  his- 
torian of  those  great  changes  whidi 
flowed  from  the  Bomaa  pontiff's  reso- 
IntioB  to  look  beyond  vioe  and  misery 
at  home,  and  convey  Christianity  to 
the  British  shores ;  and  who  has  also 
edited,  we  will  not  say  so  well^  tiie 
rraiains  of  l^e  excellent  Bonilue, 
whose  undying  fiune  rests  on  his  self- 
devotion,  in  leaving  his  native  land 
to  seek  the  conversion  of  the  German 
pagans* 

If  the  only  ot^ectton  to  the  Britan- 
nic nativity  of  the  Christian  Claudia 
rested  on  thesi4>posed  indisposition  of 
the  apostles  and  their  converts  to 
diffuse  the  gospel  over  the  remoter 
parts  of  the  Koman  empire,  the  case 
would  be  a  dear  on&  But,  even 
taking  all  difficulties  into  view,  the 
probabilities  in  its  favour  are  of  a 
very  decided  character.  The  con- 
nexion between  a  Claudia  and 
Fudens  in  Britain  and  a  Pudens  and 
Claudia  in  Bome,  with  the  imnro- 
babili^  that  these  names  should  be 
brought  together  in  Paul's  epistle  in 
reference  to  other  parties,  goes  fiur  to 
support  the  conclusion;  and  it  is 
aided  by  the  collateral  fisct,  that  the 
nameof  Bufua— the  friend  of  Martial's 
married  Pair— has  a  connexion  with 
the  suspected  Christianity  of  Pom- 
ponia,  the  wife  of  one  of  the  Boman 
governors  of  Britain.  But,  without 
ourselves  enteringinto  details,  we  shall 
Bnbmit  the  summary  which  Mr  Wil- 


liams has  made  of  the  argument  The 
latter  part  of  it  relates  to  traditions  or 
ooi^ectures  as  to  other  parties,  and  as 
to  ulterior  consequences  from  the  pre- 
ceding theory,  in  reiorence  to  tiie 
eariy  conversion  of  the  Britons,  which 
are  deserving  of  serious  attention, 
but  in  the  accuracy  of  which  we  do 
not  place  equal  ooaideaoe,  though 
we  think  there  is  a  general  proba- 
bility that  a  Christian  matron  of  high 
rank  and  British  birth  wo«ld  not  for- 
get the  religions  intevests  of  her 
oonntrymen. 

^  We  know,  oa  oertahi  eridtaM,  iStaX, 
ia  the  yew  A  J>.  67,  there  were  at  Rome 
two  Ghrietiaas  named  Qaadia  md 
Padeai.  That  a  Romaa,  illoatrione  by 
birth  and  position,  married  a  dandii^  a. 
"  stranger  **  or  "  foreigner, "  who  was 
also  a  British  maiden;  that  an  inscrip- 
tion was  found  in  the  year  1723,  at  Cbi- 
ohester,  testifying  that  the  supreme  mler 
of  tiiat  place  was  a  "Hb.  Claud.  Cogi« 
dnnns  ;  that  a  Roman, by  name  ''Pudens, 
the  son  of  Pndent{nus,was  a  landholder 
under  this  ruler ;"  that  it  is  impossibly 
to  aeooont  for  snch  facts,  without  sup- 
poaing  a  very  close  connexion  between 
this  British  diief  and  his  Roman  su1]jeot; 
that  the  supposition  that  the  Qandia  of 
Martial,  a  British  maiden,  married  to  a 
Roman  Pudens,  was  a  daughter  of  this 
British  chief,  would  clear  aU  difficulties ; 
that  there  was  a  British  chief  to  whom, 
about  the  year  A.D.  52,  some  states, 
either  in  or  closely  adjacent  to  ^e 
Roman  Prorince,  were  giren  to  be  held 
by  him  in  subjection  to  the  Roman  autho- 
rity; that  these  states  occupied,  partly  at 
least,  the  ground  covered  by  the  counties 
of  Surrey  and  Sussex ;  that  the  capital 
of  these  states  was  "  Regnum,"  the  modem 
Chichester;  that  it  is  very  probable  that 
the  Emperor  Claudius,  ia  accordance 
with  his  known  practice  and  principles, 
gave  also  his  own  name  to  this  British 
chief,  called  by  Tacitus,  Cogidunus;  that, 
alter  the  termination  of  the  Claudian 
dynasty,  it  was  impossible  that  any 
British  chief  adopted  into  the  Roman 
oofluaunity  oould  have  reeeived  the 
naaaa  ''Tib.  CUuidins;"  that  dni^ 
the  same  period  there  lired  at  Rome  a 
Pomponia,  a  matron  of  high  fomily,  the 
wife  of  Aulns  Plautius,  who  was  the 
Roman  gOTemor  of  Britain,  from  the 
year  A.D.  43  until  the  year  62;  that  Uiis 
lady  was  accused  of  being  a  votary  of  a 
foreign  superstition  ;  that  ^is  foreign 
superstition  was  supposed  by  all  the  com- 
mentators of  Tacitus,  both  Britidi  and 
Continental,  to  be  the  Christian  religion; 
that  a  flourishing  branch  of  the  Qeaa 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


184&;J' 


atrndm  <md  Piukm. 


4^ 


PoiiKpoiii%  bore  in  tluU  age  the  eognomev 
of  Rufuft;  that  (he  ChdsUanity  of  Pom- 
ponia  being  ooce  allowed,  taken  in  oon- 
nexion  with  the  fkct  that  she  was  the 
wife  of  A.  Plaatias,  renders  it  highly  pro- 
bable that  the  daughter  of  Tib.  Claudias 
Ck>gidanii8,  the  fHend  of  A.  Plaatins,  if 
she  went  to  Rome,  woold  be  placed  under 
the  protection  of  this  Pomponia,  wonld 
be  edneated  like  »  Roman  lady,  and  be 
thus  made  aa  eligible  flnich  for  a  Roman 
senator ;  and  that,  when  fnlly  adopted 
into  the  sooial  system  of  Rome,  she 
flbonld  take  the  cognomen  Rufina,  in 
honour  of  the  cognomen  of  her  patroness; 
and  that,  as  her  patroness  was  a  Chris- 
tian, she  also,  from  the  priyileges  an- 
nexed to  her  location  in  such  a  family, 
would  herself  become  a  Christian;  that 
tiie  British  Claudia,  married  to  the  Roman 
Pudens,  had  a  family,  three  sons  and 
daughters  certainly,  perhaps  six  accord- 
ing to  some  commentators ;  that  there 
are  traditions  in  the  Roman  Church,  that 
a  Timotheus,  a  presbyter,  a  holy  man  and 
»  saint,  was  a  son  of  Pudens  the  Roman 
senator;  that  he  was  an  important  instru- 
ment in  conTcrting  the  Britons  to  the 
fikith  in  Christ ;  that,  intimately  con- 
nected with  the  narrow  circle  of  Chris- 
tians tiien  liying  at  Rome,  was  an  Aristo- 
bulus,  to  whom  the  Christian  Claudia  and 
Pudens  of  St  Paul  must  haye  been  well 
known  ;  that  the  traditions  of  the  Greek 
Ghnrch  of  the  Tcry  eariiest  period  re- 
cord, that  this  Aristobnlns  was  a  sno- 
cessfiil  preacher  of  Christianity  in  Bri* 
tain ;  that  there  are  British  traditions 
that  the  return  of  the  family  of  Caractacus 
into  Britain  was  rendered  famous  by  the 
fkct  that  it  brought  with  it  into  our 
island  a  band  of  Christian  missionaries, 
of  which  an  Aristobulus  was  a  leader ; 
that  we  may  suppose  that,  upon  Christian 
principles,  the  Christianised  families  of 
both  Cogidunus  and  Caractacus  should 
hare  forgotten,  in  their  common  faith, 
their  proTinciid  animosities,  and  haye 
united  in  sending  to  their  common  coun- 
trymen the  word  of  life,  the  gospel  of  lore 
and  peace." 

We  believe  that  the  Archdeacon  is 
perfectly  correct  in  his  assertion  that 
the  Bridsh  were  not  then  either  so  bar- 
barous, or  so  lightly  esteemed  by  the 
Romans,  as  has  been  sometimes  sup- 
posed. The  undoubted  idliance  be- 
tween Pudens  and  Claudia,  celebrated 
by  Martial  as  a  subject  of  joyous  con- 
gratulation, and  the  analogous  case  of 
the  kindred  Gauls,  who  were  cheer- 
fully acknowledged  to  deserve  all  the 
privileges  of  imperial  naturalisation, 
Beem  to  leave  no  room  for  doubt  upon 


tills  qneatioii.  Britain,  therefore,  we 
may  aasume,  was^  in  the  first  c^itury, 
both  worthy  and  well  prepared  to  re- 
ceive any  valuable  boon  of  spiritual 
illmmnation  which  ber  Mends  at 
Rome  od^  be  ready  to  conunnnl- 
cate. 

But,  while  we  so  tar  go  along  witb 
MrWilliamt  in  his  historical  oonjeo- 
tores,  we  are  not  so  much  inclfaied  to 
symfMithise  with  him  in  some  of  the 
usee  to  which  he  wishes  to  put  them. 
We  rejoice  to  think  diat  Chiistiaaity 
waa  largely  diffoaed  through  Britun 
before  the  Saxon  invasion.  But  we 
know  too  little  of  the  British  Chnroh, 
exc^t  in  the  time  of  Pelagins,  to 
have  much  oonfideoce  in  her  doctrine 
or  discipline,  or  to  regret  deejay  that 
the  En^luk  peqple — for  such  is  mi- 
donbtedly  the  fact— were  for  the  most 
part  Christianisad,  not  by  the  British 
clergy,  bat  by  tha  misnonaries  of 
Borne.  We  qnestion  if  the  historiaoB 
of  the  aster  isle  wEl  admit,  or  if  im- 
partial critics  will  unhesitatingly 
adopt  the  Archdeacoa's  assertion,  that 
^^  this  British  ohrardi  sent  forth  her 
missionaries  into  Irelasd,  and  con- 
veyed into  that  most  interesting 
islaBd  both  the  fiuth  of  Christ  and  the 
learning  of  anei^t  Bome."  With 
every  ^Usposition  to  acknowledge  the 
sffirvicas  of  the  Irish  in  the  conversifm 
of  the  Picts,  and  partially  also  of 
the  Angles,  we  must  have  more  evi- 
dence befiure  w«  can  allow  to  the 
British  Church  even  the  indirect  merit 
of  those  exertions. 

But  the  material  point  in  this  ques- 
tion is,  whether  it  be  true  that  the 
British  clergy  refused  or  declined  to 
exert  themselves  in  the  conversion  of 
their  conquerors.  That  they  did  so, 
is  Indicated  by  the  absence  of  any 
evidence  of  such  an  attempt ;  and  it 
was  expressly  made  a  subject  of  re- 
proach to  them,  in  the  conference  with 
Augustine,  that  they  would  not  preach 
"  the  way  of  life  to  the  Angles."  If 
this  be  the  case, — and  it  is  half  ad- 
mitted by  Mr  Williams,  when  he 
says,  that  *Uhe  Irish  Church,  the 
members  of  which  were  less  hostile  to 
the  Saxon  invaders  than  were  the 
Christian  Britons^  sent  back  into 
Britain  the  true  faith," — then  such  a 
course,  so  directly  at  variance  with 
the  spirit  of  Christianity,  however 
humanly  excusable,  was  sufficient  to 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


490 


ChauUa  and  PudeHS. 


[Aprfl, 


seal  the  doom  of  the  diarch  that 
practised  it.  It  forms  a  remark- 
able contrast  to  the  conduct  of 
the  Saxons  themselves,  who,  when 
they  in  their  torn  were  a  prey  to  in- 
vasion, became  the  teachers  of  the 
very  tyrants  under  whom  they  groaned, 
and  even  sent  their  missionaries  into 
Scandinavia,  to  convert  the  countries 
which  were  the  source  of  their  suflfbr- 
ings.  Nor  were  they  in  this  respect 
without  their  reward.  Their  success- 
ful labours  softened  the  oppression  of 
their  lot,  and  the  sons  of  heathen  and 
iiithless  pirates  became  the  beneficent 
and  refined  occupants  of  a  Christum 
throne.  If  the  British  Church  refused 
the  opportunity  afforded  her,  of  at  once 
converting  and  civilising  her  oppres- 
sors, she  deserved  her  lot,  and  her  ad- 
vocates cannot  now  complain  that  the 
glory  of  founding  Saxon  Christianity 
must  be  awarded,  not  at  all  to  her, 
but  mainlv  to  the  Roman  Gregory, 
who,  whether  from  policy  or  piety,  or 
both,  entertained  and  perfected  that 
missionary  enterprise  which  influenced 
so  beneficially  the  destiny  of  England 
and  of  Europe. 

To  us,  and,  we  should  think,  to 
many  men,  it  must  be  matter  of  little 
moment  through  what  channel  the 
stream  of  Christianity  has  been  con- 
veyed to  us,  if  we  possess  it  at  our 
doors  in  purity  and  abundance.  We 
would  give  the  Pope  his  due,  as  well 
as  others ;  but  no  antiquity  of  tradi- 


tion, or  dignity  of  authoritjr,  should  re- 
strain us  from  revising  the  doctrines 
transmitted  to  us,  by  a  reference  to 
the  unerring  standard  of  written  truth. 
We  adopt  here  the  simple  words  and 
sound  opinions  of  old  Fuller  :  "  We 
are  indebted  to  God  for  his  goodness 
in  moving  Gregory ;  Gr^ory's  care- 
fulness in  sending  Augustine ;  Augua- 
tine^s  forwardness  hi  preaching  here  ; 
but,  above  all,  let  us  bless  G<^*s  ex- 
ceeding great  favour  that  that  doctrine 
which  Augustine  planted  here  but  im- 
pure, and  his  successors  made  worse 
with  watering,  is  since,  by  the  happy 
Reformation,  cleared  and  refined  to  the 
purity  of  the  Scriptures." 

Ttus,  however,  is  not  an  essential 
part  of  our  present  subject,  and  these 
feelings  cannot  interfere  with  our  due 
appreciation  of  what  Mr  Williams  has 
done  to  throw  light  on  a  most  impor- 
tant subject  of  hiquiry.  If  he  gives 
us  what  he  further  promises,— a  Ufe  of 
Julius  Caesar, — be  will  add  a  valuable 
contribution  to  the  elucidation  of  Bri- 
tish antiquities.  The  history  and 
character  of  our  Celtic  fellow-country- 
men, whether  in  the  south,  the  north, 
or  the  west,  have  yet  much  need  of 
illustration;  and  the  task  is  well 
worthy  of  one  who,  with  national 
predilections  to  stimulate  his  exertions, 
can  bring  to  his  aid  the  more  refined 
taste  and  correcter  reasoning  which 
are  cherished  by  a  long  familiarity 
with  classical  pursuits. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Sir  Ailky  Cooper, 


491 


SIR  ASTLBT  COOPER. 


PART  I.. 


Sir  Astlet  Cooper  died  in  bis  se- 
venty-third year,  on  the  12th  of  Feb- 
rnary  1841 — ^that  is,  upwards  of  eiffbt 
years  ago— and  with  him  was  extln- 
goisbed  a  great  light  of  the  age.  He 
was  a  thorongh  EDglisbman:  his  cha- 
-racter  being  pre-eminently  distin- 
gnisbed  by  simplicity,  coorage,  good 
nature,  and  generosity.  He  was  very 
straightforward,  and  of  wonderful  de- 
termination. His  name  will  always 
be  mentioned  with  the  respect  dne  to 
signal  personal  merit,  as  that  of  a 
truly  illustrious  surgeon  and  ana- 
tomist, devoting  the  whole  powers  of 
his  mind  and  body,  with  a  constancy 
and  enthusiasm  which  never  once 
flagged,  to  the  advancement  of  his 
noble  and  beneficent  profession.  His 
personal  exertions  and  saciifices  in 
the  pursuit  of  science,  were  almost  un- 
precedented ;  but  he  knew  that  they 
were  producing  results  permanently 
benefiting  his  fellow- creatures,  at  the 
same  time  that  he  must  have  felt  a 
natural  exultation  at  the  pre-eminence 
which  they  were  securing  to  himself 
over  all  his  rivals  and  contemporaries, 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  and  the  pro- 
spect of  his  name  being  transmitted 
with  honour  to  posterity.  What  an 
amount  of  relief  firom  suffering  he 
secured  to  others  in  his  lifetime  I  not 
merely  by  his  own  masterly  personal 
exertions,  but  by  skilfolly  training 
many  thousands  of  others*  to— ^,  and 
do  Hkewucy  furnished  by  him  with  the 
principles  of  sound  and  enlightened 
surgical,  anatomical,  and  philological 
knowledge !  And  these  pnnciples  he 
has  eml^ed  in  his  admirable  writ- 


ings, to  train  succeeding  generations 
of  surgeons,  so  as  to  assuage  agony, 
and  avert  the  sacrifice  of  life  and 
limb.  Let  any  one  turn  firom  this  as- 
pect of  his  character,  and  look  at  him 
in  a  personal  and  social  point  of  view, 
and  Sir  Astley  Coopr  will  be  found, 
in  all  the  varied  relations  of  life — in 
its  most  difficult  positions,  in  the  face 
of  every  temptation — ^uniformly  ami- 
able, honourable,  high-spirited,  and  of 
irreproachable  morals.  His  manners 
fascinated  all  who  came  in  contact 
with  him ;  and  his  personal  advantages 
were  very  great:  tall,  well-proportion- 
ed, of  graceful  carriage,  of  a  presence 
unspeakably  asntring^  —  with  very 
handsome  features,  wearing  ever  a 
winning  expression ;  of  manners  bland 
and  courtly— without  a  tinge  of  syco- 
phancy or  affectation— the  same  to 
monarch,  noble,  peasant — ^in  the  hos^ 
pital,  the  hovel,  the  castle,  the  palace. 
He  was  a  patient,  devoted  teacher, 
during  the  time  he  was  almost  over- 
powered by  the  multiplicity  of  his 
harassing  and  lucrative  professional 
engagements!  Such  was  Sir  Astley 
Cooper— a  man  whose  memory  is 
surely  entitled  to  the  best  exertions 
of  the  ablest  of  biographers.  Oh  that 
a  Southey  could  do  by  Astley  Cooper 
as  Southey  did  by  Nelson  I 

"No  one,"  observes  Mr  Cooper, 
the  nephew  of  Sir  Astley,  and  author 
of  the  work  now  before  us,  **  has  hith- 
erto attempted  to  render  the  history 
of  any  surgeon  a  matter  of  interest  or 
amusement  to  the  general  pnblic.**t 
We  cannot  deny  the  assertion,  even 
after  having  perused  4he  two  volumes 


Life  of  Sir  Aitley  Cooper,  inUrtperted  icitA  Sketches  from  hit  Note-Bookt  of  />«- 
tin^uithfd  Contemporary  Characters.  By  Bransbt  Lake  Coopbb,  Esq.,  F.K.S.  2 
Tols.    London  :  1843. 

*  **  Sir  Astley  Cooper  has,  on  one  occasion,  stated,  in  his  memorandai  that  he  had 
educated  eight  thousand  surgeons  !*'^ Memoirs,  vol.  ii.,  p.  426. 

t  **  From  the  period  of  Astley's  appointment  to  QvLfs,**  says  Dr  Roots,  in  a  oommu* 
nieation  to  the  anther  of  this  work,  (rol.  i.,  p.  315,)  **  nntil  the  moment  of  his  latest 
breath,  he  was  OTerythtng  and  all  to  the  suffering  and  afflicted  :  his  name  was  a  host, 
but  his  presence  brought  confidence  and  comfort ;  and  I  hare  often  observed,  that  on 
an  operating  day,  should  anything  occur  of  an  untoward  character  in  the  theatre^ 
the  moment  Astley  Cooper  entered,  and  the  instrument  was  in  bis  band,  erery  diffi- 
culty was  OTcrcome,  and  safety  generally  ensued." 
t  Introd,  p.  zi. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


492 


SirAtOey 


under  consideration,  which  are  the 
production  of  a  gentleman  who,  after 
making  the  remark  just  quoted,  pro- 
ceeds truly  to  observe,  that  "no 
author  has  had  so  favourable  an  op- 
portunity"— ^1.  «.  of  rendering  the  his- 
tory of  a  surgeon  a  matter  of  general 
interest— as  himself,  "ftnr  few  medical 
men  in  this  country  have  ever  hdd 
so  remarkable  a  podtion  in  the  eyes 
of  their  comtrymen,  for  so  long  a 
period,  or  endeared  ftonselves  by  so 
many  acts  of  conduct,  independent 
of  their  professton,  as  Bh*  Astley 
CocjKsr."* 

Mr  Bransby  Ck>oper  became  the 
biographer  of  his  uncle,  at  tfaatimde's 
own  i^tte8t,t  who  also  left  behind 
him  rkh  materials  for  the  fmrpose. 
We  are  rductantly  oompetted  to 
own  that  we  cannot  complimeBt  Mr 
Cooptf  on  the  manner  in  whidi  he 
has  executed  the  task  thus  imposed 
upon  him.  He  is  an  amiable  and 
highly  faonoiirable  man,  every  way 
WOTthy  of  the  high  estimation  in 
which  he  was  held  by  his  distinguish- 
ed kinsman,  and  whose  glorious  devo- 
tion to  his  profession  he  shares  in  no 
small  degi^.  He  is  also  an  able 
man,  and  a  surgeon  of  great  reputa- 
ti<m  and  eminence.  He  must,  how- 
ever, with  the  namliness  which  dis- 
tinguishes his  character,  bear  with  ns 
while  we  express  our  belief  that  he 
cannot  himself  be  satisfied  with  the 
result  of  hiB  labomrs,  or  the  reception 
of  them  by  the  public.  He  evidently 
lacks  the  leading  qualities  of  the  bio- 
grapher ;  who,  at  tiie  same  time  that  he 
has  a  true  and  hearty  flseling  for  his 
sul^ect,  must  not  suffer  it  to  overmaster 
him ;  who,  ccmsdous  that  he  is  writ- 
ing fbr  tiie  public  at  large,  instinctively 
perceives,  as  himself  one  of  that  pub- 
lic, what  is  likely  to  interest  and  in- 
struct it— to  hit  the  happy  medium 
between  personal  and  professional 
topics,  ana  to  make  both  subordinate 
to  the  development  of  the  max,  so 
that  we  may  not  lose  him  among  the 
incidents  of  his  life.  It  is,  again,  ex- 
tremely difficult  for  a  man  to  be  a 
good  biographer  of  one  who  was  of  his 
own  profession.  He  is  apt  to  take 
too  much,  or  too  little,  for  granted ; 
to  regard  that  as  generally  interesting 


Cbopcr.  Id 

which  is  so  only  to  a  veiylimited  circle, 
and,  often  halting  between  two  opir- 
moos — whether  to  write  for  the  genenl 
or  the  special  reader — to  dissatisfy 
both.  From  one  or  two  passages  in  his 
^^  Introduction,"  Mr  Cooper  seems  to 
have  Mt  some  raeh  embarrasuMnt,  X 
and  also  to  have  experieneed  mnoCliei 
difficulty— whetiier  to  write  for  tiiosc 
who  had  personally  known  fiir  Astley 
or  for  strangers.!     Mr  Cooper,  mgtin^ 
tiiough  it  may  seem  paradoxical  to 
say  so,  knows  really  too  mmeh  of  Sfar 
Astley— 4faat  is,  has  so  identified  hiaa- 
sdf  with  Sir  As^,  his  habits,  feel- 
ings, character,  and  doings— as  boy 
snd  man,  as  the  affectionate  Mjmaiiw^ 
XMipil,  oompanioo,  and  kinsmaa — that 
he  has  lost  the  power  of  removiai^ 
hiflttself,  as  it  were,  to  such  a  dlsftaaee 
from  his  subject  as  would  enable  Mm 
to  view  it  in  its  true  coIodtb  and  jmtt 
proportioos.      These    disadvantages 
should  have  occasioned  him  to  rdieet 
veiT  gravely  on   the   nspmaStiSSHj 
which  he  was  about  to  nadertafce,  in 
committing  to  the  press  amesaoiror 
Sir  Astley  Cooper.    He  did  so  sadfy 
too  predpitateiy.     Withm   sixteen 
months*  time  he  had  completed  Us 
labours,  and  they  were  printed,  rea^ 
for  distribution  to  the  pnWc.    This 
was  an  interval  by  no  means  too 
lAortforamasterof  hisoraH — a  ready 
and  experienced  biographer,  but  ten 
times  too  short  for  one  who  was  not 
such.    A  picture  for  posted^  eaonot 
be  painted  at  a  moment's  notioe,  md 
in  five  minutes^  time:  which  might 
perhaps   suffice  for  a  gaudy  dnib, 
which  is  glanced  at  for  a  moment,  and 
forgotten  for  ever,  orremembered  oiriy 
with  feelmgs  of  displeasure  and  regret. 
Mr  Cooper  felt  it  necessary  to  pot 
forward  some  excuses,  which  wemust 
frankly  tell  him  are  insufficieBt.  **Fro- 
fessional  duties,    engagements,  and 
other  circumstances  of  a  more  private 
nature,*'  cannot  ^^  be  accepted  as  an 
apology  for  the  many  dtfects  to  be 
found  in  these  volumes.^J    A  memoir 
of  Sir  Astley  Cooper,  by  Mr  Brmsby 
Cooper,  ought  never  to  have  stood  in 
need  of  snch  apoloflea.    If  te  had 
not  suffideat  timeat  his  oommaad,  he 
shoidd  have  csndderably  ddayed  tbe 
pr^aratimi  (rf  the  Memofar,  «r  eiai- 


♦  Introd.  p.  xi.        f  76.  p.  ix.        t  ^'  Pp.  x.  j3.       '%Tb.        n  7b.  pp.  xv.^. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Sbr  A»S0^  Coaptr. 


49$ 


mitted  Us  m9JtxMa  to  other  hnids, 
or  sabjected  his  performance  to  com- 
petent reviBion.  As  it  is,  we  look  in 
Tain  for  discrininatioii,  and  enboidi- 
nation,  and  method.  Topics  are  in* 
trodaced  which  shoidd  liare  been 
discuded,  or  handled  yeiy,  very  dif- 
forently.  Innomerable  commimka- 
tioBS  fix>m  frimds  and  associates  of 
Sir  Astley  are  incorporated  iato  the 
W(»rk,  in  their  writere^  iptmma  foerha; 
and  this  is  poeitiyelj  treated  hy  Mr 
CkxMper  as  a  matter  of  oongratolation  I* 
A^^am,  the  progrees  of  the  Memoir  Is 
conthuuily  interrupted  bjsabsidiary 
memoirs  of  persons  wl»  had  been 
casoallj  or  profo88i<mally  connected 
with  Shr  Astiej,  but  of  whom  the 
pnbUo  at  large  knows  nothing,  nor 
cares  for  them  one  straw.  We  mo- 
dify our  comi^aint,  on  tids  score,  as 
far  as  concerns  the  sketches  of  his 
oontemponoies  by  %  Asttey  himself, 
which  are  ffenerally  interesdng  and 
foithfol,  and  occastonaUy  Tery  strik- 
ing.— It  grieyes  ns  to  speak  thns 
plainly  of  a  gentleman  so  estimable 
and  eminent  as  Mr  Bvansby  Cooper, 
and  justly  enjoying  so  much  infloenoe 
and  rqmtation;  but,  alas  I  Maga 
knows  not  friend  from  foe,  the  mo- 
ment that  she  has  seated  hersdf 
in  her  critical  chair.  Unworthy  wonld 
she  be  to  sit  there,  as  she  has  for 
now  fomr  hundred  moons,  were  it 
otherwise. 

Hie  work  before  as  isame  under  omr 
notice  at  the  time  when  it  was  pnb- 
lished  —  early  in  tiie  year  1843 ;  and 
the  very  first  passage  which  attracted 
our  attention  was  the  followmg,  lying 
onthethreshold— faithefirstpafpeofthe 
Prefooe.  It  appeared  to  ns  to  indicale 
a  wrher  who  had  formed  strange 
notions  of  the  objects  and  asee  of  bio- 
m^hy.  Spealdng  of  the  ''morai 
60*^"  to  be  derived  from  perasing 
memofars  of  those  whose  erertioos 
had  raised  them  to  eminenoe,  Mr 
Co<H[>er  proceeds  to  make  tlieee  edi- 
fyingjuid  phSosophical  obaervaticns : 
<—'' Those  who  are  hi  the  meridian  of 
their  career,  mieaocmr  to  dkcover  a 
gratifymg  paroUel  Sn  themselves; 
whilst  the  aged  may  still  be  veceociled 
to  the  resalt  of  tlMlr  i^lgrimage,  if  less 


snooessfol,  byadq^tingihe  eomJhrtiMf 
Qyself-^MSsurxxm^thAtthefiwtmsofJbr' 
ttme^  mtome  trnJooked-forfa^jJity,  have 
alone  prevented  them  frmn  enjoying  a 
similar  diitinc^n,  orbecoming  eqndly 
nsefal  members  of  BOciety."t  Indeed ! 
if  fftese  be  the  uses  of  biography, — 
thns  to  pander  to  a  complaint  over- 
weening vanity,  or  <* minister ^^  poison 
to  minds  diseased,  embittered,  and 
darkened  by  disappointment  and  de- 
span*,  let  ns  have  no  more  of  it.  No, 
no,  Mr  Cooper,  snch  are  not  the  nses 
of  biography,  which  are  to  entertain, 
to  interest,  to  instmct ;  and  its 
"  moral  benefit"  is  to  be  found  in 
teaching  the  snccessiU  in  life  humility, 
moderation,  gratitnde;  and  stimu- 
lating them  to  a  more  active  discharge 
of  their  duties,  —  to  higher  attain- 
ments, and  more  beneficial  uses  of 
them  on  behalf  of  their  fellow-crea- 
tures ;  and  also  to  remind  them  that 
their  sun,  then  glittering  at  its  high- 
est, is  thenceforward  to  descend  the 
horizon!  And  as  for  those  who  have 
failed  to  attain  the  obfects  of  their 
hopes  and  wishes,  the  contemplation 
of  others^  success  should  teach  les- 
sons of  resignation  and  self-know- 
ledge ;  set  them  upon  tracing  their 
failure  to  their  fauUa  —  faults  which 
have  b^n  avoided  by  him  of  whom 
they  read;  cause  them  to  form  a 
lower  estimate  of  their  own  pretensions 
and  capabilities ;  and  if,  after  all,  un- 
able to  account  for  failure,  bow  with 
cheerfril  resignation — not  beneath  the 
**  frowns  of  fortune,"  or  yielding  to 
"  fatality,"  but  to  the  will  of  God, 
who  gives  or  withholds  honour  as  He 
pleaseth,  and  orders  all  tiie  events  of 
our  lives  with  an  infinite,  an  awfiil 
wisdom  and  equity.  We  regard  this 
use  of  tiie  words  •*  frowns  of  fortune," 
and  ''  unlooked-for  fatality,"  as  in- 
considerate and  objectionable,  and 
capable  of  behig  misunderstood  by 
younger  readers.  Mr  Cocmer  is  a 
gentieman  of  perfootiy  orthodox  opi- 
nions and  correct  feeling,  and  all  that 
we  compUiin  of,  is  hb  hasty  use  of 
unmeaning  or  objectionaMe  phreae- 
dogy.  In  the  veiy  next  paragrafA 
to  that  from  whidi  we  have  be«n 
qaothig,  he  thus  landabty  expresses 


'  Introd,  pp.  xiy.  xv. 


4  "PrefcM,  pp.  T.  ri. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Sir  A$Uejf  Cooper. 


Mmflelf  upon  the  subject.  ^^  It  will  be 
a  useful  lesson  to  observe  that  such 
distinction  is  the  reward  of  early  assi- 
dnons  application,  determined  self- 
denial,  unwearied  industry,  and  high 
principle,  without  which,  talents,  how- 
ever brilliant,  will  be  of  slight  avail, 
or  prove  to  be  only  the  ignes  fatui 
which  betray  to  danger  and  destruc- 
tion." And  let  us  here  place  con- 
spicuously before  our  readers — would 
that  we  could  write  in  letters  of 
gold! — the  following  pregnant  sen- 
tences with  which  Sir  Astley  Cooper 
was  wont,  as  President  of  the  College 
of  Surgeons,  to  address  those  who  had 
successfully  passed  their  arduous  ex- 
amination, in  announcing  to  them 
that  happy  event : — 

*'Now^  gentlemen,  give  me  leare  to  tell 
70a  on  what  yonr  success  in  life  will 
depend. 

*^  Firstly,  upon  a  good  and  constantly 
increasing  knowledge  of  your  profession. 

^  Secondly,  on  an  industrious  discharge 
of  its  duties. 

'*  Thirdly,  upon  the  preserration  of 
your  moral  character. 

**  Unless  you  possess  the  first,  Know- 
ledge, you  ought  not  to  succeed,  and  no 
honest  man  can  wish  you  success. 

*'  Without  the  second,  Industry,  no 
one  will  CTer  succeed. 

"  And  unless  you  preserve  your  Moral 
CuARAcrER,  even  if  it  were  possible  that 
you  could  succeed,  it  would  be  impossible 
you  could  be  happy."  • 

Peace  to  your  ashes,  good  Sir 
Astley !  honour  to  your  memory,  who 
from  your  high  eminence  addressed 
these  words  of  warning  and  goodness 
to  those  who  stood  trembling  and  ex- 
cited before  yon,  and  in  whose  memory 
those  words  were  engraved  for  ever  1 

The  passage  which  we  have  above 
first  quotedfrom  the  preface  of  the  work 
before  us,  was,  we  own,  not  without 
its  weight  in  disinclining  us  to  read 
that  work  with  care,  or  notice  it  in 
Maga.  Our  attention,  after  so  long  an 
interval,  was  recalled  to  the  work 
quite  accidentallv,  and  we  have  lately 
read  it  through,  m  an  impartial  spirit; 
rising  from  the  perusal,  with  a  strong 
feeling  of  personKl  respect  for  Wr 
Cooper,  and  of  regret  that  he  had  not 
given  himself  time  to  make  more  of 
his   invaluable    materials  — thereby 


[ApriU 


doing  something  like  justice  to  the 
memory  of  his  iuustrious  relative,  and 
making  a  strong  effort,  at  the  same 
time,  to  *' render  the  history  of  & 
surgeon  a  matter  of  interest  and 
amusement  to  the  general  public.*' 
While,  however,  we  thus  censure 
freely,  let  us  do  justice.  Mr  Cooper 
writes  in  the  spirit  of  a  gentieman, 
with  siuffolar  ficankness  and  fidelity. 
His  mamy  expressions  of  affection  and 
reverence  for  the  memory  of  Sir  Astiey, 
are  worthy  of  both.  When,  too,  Mr 
Cooper  chooses  to  make  the  effort,  he 
can  express  himself  with  vigour  and 
propriety,  and  comment  very  shrewdly 
and  ably  on  events  and  characters. 
One  of  the  chief  faults  in  his  book  is 
that  of  showing  himself  to  be  too  much 
immersed  in  his  subject :  he  writes  as 
though  he  were  colloquially  addressing, 
ui  the  world  at  large,  a  party  of 
hospital  surgeons  and  students.  For 
this  defect,  however,  he  scarcely 
deserves  to  be  blamed ;  the  existence 
of  it  is  simply  a  matter  of  regret,  to 
the  discriminating  and  critical  reader. 

The  two  vdumes  before  us  are  rich 
in  materials  for  the  biographer.  We 
can  hardly  imagine  the  life  of  a  pub- 
lic man  more  varied,  interesting,  and 
instructive,  than  that  of  the  great 
surgeon  who  is  gone ;  and  we  have 
resolved,  after  much  consideration,  to 
endeavour  to  present  to  our  innumer- 
able readers,  Tfor  are  they  not  so?)  as 
distinct  and  vivid  a  portraiture  of  Sir 
Astley  Cooper  as  we  are  able,  guided 
by  Mr  Bransby  Cooper.  If  our  read- 
ers aforesaid  derive  gratification  from 
our  labour  of  love,  let  them  give 
then*  thanks  to  that  gentieman  alone, 
whose  candour  and  fidelity  are,  we 
repeat  it,  above  all  praise.  We  are 
ourselves  not  of  his  craft,  albeit*  not 
wholly  ignorant  thereof,  knowing  only 
so  much  of  it  as  mav  perhaps  enable 
us  to  select  what  will  interest  general 
readers.  Many  portions  of  these 
volumes  we  shall  pass  over  altogether, 
as  unsuitable  for  our  purposes ;  and 
those  with  which  we  thus  de^  we 
may  indicate  as  we  go  along.  And, 
finally,  we  shall  present  some  of  the 
results  of  our  own  limited  personal 
knowledge  and  observation  of  the 
admirable  deceased. 

Astiey  Fasten  Cooper  came  of  a 


'  Vol.  ii.  pp.  260,  261. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1819.]  Sir  AstUy 

good  family,  long  established  in  Nor- 
folk, and  there  is  reason  for  belieying 
that  there  ran  in  his  veins  some  of  the 
blood  of  the  immortal  Sir  !l^aac  New- 
ton.* He  waa  bom  on  the  23d  Au- 
gust 1768,  at  a  manor-house  called 
Brooke  Hall,  near  Shottisham,  in 
Norfolk.  He  was  the  sixth  of  ten 
children,  and  the  fourth  son.  His  fa- 
ther was  the  Rev.  Samuel  Cooper, 
D.D.,  (formerly  a  pensioner  of  Mag- 
dalen College,  Cambridge,)  then 
rector  of  Yelverton  in  that  county,  and 
afterwards  perpetual  curate  of  Great 
Yarmouth— a  large  cure  of  souls, 
numbering  sixteen  thousand,  among 
whom  he  discharged  his  pastoral  du- 
ties with  exemplary  faithfulness  and 
vigilance,  and  was  universally  be- 
loved and  respected.  He  was  also  a 
magistrate,  in  which  capacity  he  was 
conspicuous  in  suggesting  and  sup- 
porting schemes  of  public  utility  and 
benevolence.  He  was  one  of  two  sons 
of  Mr  Samuel  Cooper,  a  surgeon  at 
Norwich,  a  person  of  considerable 
professional  reputation,  and  possessed 
of  some  literanr  pretensions.  He  left 
a  handsome  fortune  to  each  of  his 
sons,  Samuel  and  William,  and  spent 
the  evening  of  his  life  in  the  house  of 
his  elder  son,  at  Yarmouth,  but  died 
at  Dunston,  in  Norfolk,  in  1785.  The 
youn^r  son  became  an  eminent  sur- 
geon m  London,  and  exercised,*as  will 
be  presently  seen,  considerable  influ- 
ence on  the  fortunes  of  his  cdebrated 
nephew.  Dr  Cooper  was  the  author 
of  various  works  on  the  reli^ous  and 
political  subjects  principally  discussed 
at  that  eventful  period,  f  In  the  year 
1761,  while  yet  a  curate,  he  married 


Cooper, 


496 


a  lady  of  large  fortune,  Maria  Susan- 
nah, the  eldest  dau^ter  and  heiress 
of  James  Bransby,  Esq.,  of  Shottis- 
ham, who  was  descended  from  an  an- 
cient Yorkshire  family,  the  head  of 
which  was  Geoflfrey  de  Brandesbee. 
She  appears  to  have  been  a  lovdy 
woman,  equally  in  person,  mind,  and 
character,  and  possessed  also  of  some 
literary  reputation,  as  the  author  of 
several  works  of  fiction,  of  a  moral 
and  religious  character.  She  was  an 
exemplary  and  devoted  mother,  and 
exercised  a  powerful  and  salutary  in- 
fluence over  all  her  children,  especially 
her  son  Astley,  the  dawn  of  whose 
eminence  she  lived  to  see,  with  just 
maternal  pride  and  exultation ;  dying 
in  the  year  1807,  when  he  was  in  his 
thirtieth  year.  Several  of  her  letters 
to  him  are  given  in  these  volumes, 
and  they  breathe  a  sweet  spirit  of 
piety  and  love.  Thus,  on  both  sides, 
he  was  well  bom,  and  his  parents 
were  also  in  affluent  circumstances, 
enabling  them  to  educate  and  pro- 
vide satisfactorily  for  their  large 
family. 

Astley  took  his  Christian  name  from 
liis  godfather.  Sir  Edward  Astley, 
then  M.P.  for  the  county  of  Norfolk, 
and  the  grandfather  of  the  present 
Lord  Hastings.  His  second  name. 
Fasten,  was  the  maiden  name  of  his 
maternal  grandmother,  who  was  re- 
lated to  the  Earl  of  Yarmouth.  As 
his  mother*s  delicate  health  would  not 
admit  of  her  nursing  biro,  as  she  had 
nursed  all  her  other  children,  the  little 
Astley  was  sent,  for  that  purpose,  to  a 
Mrs  Love,  the  wife  of  a  respectable 
farmer,  a  parishioner  of  Dr  Cooper's  ;t 


*  His  great-grandfather,  Samnel  Cooper,  married  Henrietta  Maria  Newton,  the 
daughter  of  Thomas  Newton,  Esq.,  of  Norwich,  a  relation— it  is  belioTed  the  nepkeyo 
— of  the  great  philosopher. — Vol.  i.,  p.  1. 

t  His  works  are  highly  spoken  of,  and  a  list  of  them  giren,  in  the  GmtiemanU  Mctga- 
jtiw,  vol.  Ixx.,  pp.  89, 177. 

t  Sir  Astley  Cooper  always  strongly  reprobated  the  practice  of  a  mother's  neglect- 
ing to  snekle  her  child,  when  able  to  do  so  ;  and  we  thank  his  biogn^pher  for  giTing 
ns  the  following  convincing  and  instmctiTe  passage  from  one  of  the  illnstrions  sur- 
geon's latest  publications.  We  commend  it  to  the  attention  of  erery  fine  lady  mother, 
who  may  stand  in  need  of  the  reproof :— <*  If  a  woman  be  healthy,  and  she  has  milk  in 
her  breast,  there  can  be  no  question  of  the  propriety  of  her  giring  suck.  If  such  a 
question  be  put,  the  answer  should  be,  that  all  animals,  cTcn  those  of  the  most  fero- 
cious character,  show  affection  for  their  young— do  not  forsake  them,  but  yield  them 
their  milk— do  not  neglect,  but  nurse  and  watch  over  them  ;  and  shall  woman,  the 
loveliest  of  Nature's  creatures,  possessed  of  reason  as  well  as  instinct,  refbse  that 
nourishment  to  her  offspring  which  no  other  animal  withholds,  and  hesitate  to  perform 
that  duty  which  all  of  the  mammalia  class  invariably  discharge  f  Besides,  it  may  be 

VOL,  Lxv.— NO.  ccccn.  2 1 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


496 


Sir  AstUy  Cooper, 


[April, 


and  on  retorniDg  home  he  received 
the  zealous  and  affectionate  attentions 
of  his  exemplary  mother,  who  per- 
sonally instrocted  him,  as  soon  as  he 
was  able  to  profit  by  her  exertions, 
in  English  grammar  and  history,  for 
the  latter  of  which  he  always  evinced 
a  partiality.  He  was  initiated  by  his 
father  into  Greek  and  Latm ;  but  his 
classical  acquirements  never  enabled 
him  to  do  more  than  read  a  little  in 
Horace  imd  tiie  Greek  Testament. 
As  soon,  in  foct,  as  his  boyish  at- 
tention had  ceased  to  be  occupied  with 
the  classics,  he  seems  to  have  bade 
them  far  ewell,  and  never,  at  any  pe- 
riod of  his  life,  did  he  renew  or  in- 
crease his  acquaintance  with  them. 
His  only  other  preceptor,  at  this  early 
period,  was  Mr  Larke,  the  village 
schoolmaster,  who  taught  writing, 
arithmetic,  and  mathematics  to  Dr 
Cooper*s  children,  of  all  of  whom 
Astley  seems  to  have  done  him  the 
least  credit.  Astley  was  about  thir- 
teen years  old  when  he  ceased  to  re- 
ceive the  instructions  of  Mr  Larke, 
and  was  of  a  gay,  volatile  disposition, 
full  of  ftin  and  frolic,  and  utterly  reck- 
less of  danger.  He  had  a  charming 
deportment  from  his  earliest  youth ; 
his  manners  were  so  winning,  and  his 
disposition  was  so  amiable,  that  he 
was  a  universal  favourite,  even  with 
those  who  were  most  frequently  the 
victims  of  his  frolicsome  pranks. 
Wherever  danger  was  to  be  found, 
there  was  Astley  sure  to  be — the 
leader  in  every  mischievous  expedi- 
tion which  he  and  his  companions  could 
desire.  His  adventurous  cUsposition  fre- 
quently placed  his  limbs,  and  even  his 
life,  in  danger.  He  would  often,  for  in- 


stance, drive  out  the  cows  ih>m  a  field, 
himself  mounted  on  the  back  of  the 
bull ;  and  run  along  the  eaves  of  lofty 
bams,  from  one  of  which  he  once  fell, 
but  luckily  on  some  hay  lying  beneath . 
He  once  climbed  to  the  roof  of  one  of 
the  aisles  of  the  church,  and,  losing 
his  hold,  fell  down,  to  the  mani* 
fest  danger  of  his  life — escaping, 
however,  with  a  few  Imilses  only. 
Once  he  caught  a  horse  grazing  on  a 
common,  mounted  him,  and  with  his 
whip  urged  the  animal  to  leap  over  a 
cow  lying  on  the  ground.  Up  jumped 
the  cow  at  the  moment  of  the  startling 
tnmsit,  and  overthrew  both  horse  and 
rider ;  the  latter  breaking  his  collar- 
bone in  the  fall.  K  vicious  and  high- 
mettled  horses  were  within  his  reach, 
he  would  fearlessly  mount  them, 
without  saddle  or  bridle,  guiding  them 
with  a  stick  only.  Was  there  a  gar- 
den or  orchard  to  be  robbed,  young 
Astley  was  the  chieftain  to  phoi  the 
expedition,  and  divide  the  spoil. 
"Who  can  say,"  observes  his  bio- 
grapher,*^ "  that  the  admiration  and 
applause  which  young  Astley  obtuned 
from  his  fellows  for  his  intrepidity  in 
these  youthful  exploits,  were  no^  in 
truth,  the  elements  of  that  love 
of  superiority,  and  thirst  for  fame, 
which  prevented  him  ever  afterwards 
firom  being  contented  with  any  but  the 
highest  rank  in  every  undertaking 
with  which  he  associated  himself  ?^^ 
There  may  be  some  truth  in  this  re- 
mark ;  but  let  it  also  be  borne  in 
mind — (tl^at  youth  may  not  be  led 
astray  by  false  notions)  —  that  this 
love  of  adventure  and  defiance 
of  danger  have  often  been  exhibited 
in  early  years,  by  those  who  have 


truly  said,  that  nursing  the  infant  is  most  beneficial  both  to  the  mother  and  the  child, 
and  that  wonm  who  have  been  pieriouBly  delicate,  oflen  become  strong  and  healthy 
while  they  suckle. 

*^  A  female  of  luxury  and  refinement  is  often  in  this  respect  a  worse  mother  than  the 
inhabitant  of  the  meanest  hovel, who  nurses  her  children,  and  brings  them  up  healthy 
under  privations  and  bodUy  exertions  to  obtain  subsistence,  which  might  almost  ex- 
cuse her  reftnaL 

^  The  f^qnent  sight  of  the  child,  watching  it  at  the  breast,  the  repeated  calls  for 
attention,  the  dawn  of  each  attack  of  disease,  aUd  the  cause  of  its  little  cries,  ai«  c<m- 
ataatly  begettmg  liselings  of  affection,  which  a  mother  who  does  not  siiokls  seldom 
feels  in  an  equal  degree,  when  she  allows  the  can  of  her  child  to  dtvolye  upon  another, 
and  snftiB  her  maternal  feelings  to  give  plaee  to  iadoknoa  w  cifrioe,  on  ibe  «PP^ 
calls  of  a  fiMttonaMe  aad  hixuioiui  life." 

♦Pp.  47-4$, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  Sir  AMiUy 

turned  oat  yery  differently  from  Astley 
Cooper,  and  proved  themselves  to 
be  the  silliest,  *most  mischievous,  and 
most  degraded  of  mankind — ^the  very 
corses  of  society. 

One  of  the  earliest  incidents  in 
yonng  Astley's  life,  was  one  which 
exposed  him  to  great  danger.  While 
playing  with  an  elder  brother,  who 
happened  to  have  an  open  knife  in 
his  hand,  Astley  ran  heedtossly  against 
it ;  the  blade  entering  the  lower  part 
of  his  cheek,  passing  upwards,  and 
being  stopped  only  by  the  socket  of 
the  eye.  The  wonnd  bled  profosely, 
and  the  injury  sustained  was  so  great, 
as  to  keep  him  a  close  prisoner,  and  un- 
der  surgical  treatment,  for  a  long  time; 
and  Sir  Astley  bore  with  him  to  the 
grave  the  scar  which  had  been  made 
by  the  wound.  Two  other  incidents 
h]^pening  about  the  same  time,  when 
he  was  in  his  twelfth  or  thirteenth 
year,  present  young  Astley  in  an  in- 
teresting and  striking  point  of  view. 
Some  of  the  8ch(dars  belonging  to  a 
boarding-school  in  the  village,  were 
playing  together  one  day  near  a  large 
pond,  when  the  bell  had  summoned 
them  to  return  to  their  duties.  As 
they  were  going,  one  of  them  snatched 
off  the  hat  of  one  of  his  oonipanions, 
and  flung  it  into  the  pond.  The  lat- 
ter cried  bitterly  for  the  loss  of  his 
hat,  and  from  fear  of  being  punished 
for  not  returning  with  the  others  to 
school.  At  this  moment  came  up  a 
young  gentleman  dressed,  according  to 
the  fashion  of  that  day,  in  a  scarlet 
coat,  a  three-cocked  hat,  a  glazed 
blade  collar  or  stock,  nankeen  small- 
clothes, and  white  silk  stockings,  his 
hair  hanging  in  ringlets  down  his 
back.  This  was  no  other  than  Astley 
€kx>per,  returning  from  a  dancing- 
school  held  at  a  neighbouring  inn,  by 
B  teacher  of  the  art,  who  used  to  come 
from  Norwich.  Observing  the  trouble 
of  the  despoiled  youngster,  Astley  in- 
quired the  cause ;  and  having  his  at- 
tention directed  to  the  hat  in  the  water, 
he  marched  in  with  great  deliber- 
ation, and  succeeded  in  obtaining  the 
hat,  having  waded  above  his  knees, 
and  presmting  a  somewhat  droll  ob- 
jeet  as  he  came  out,  his  gay  habiliments 
bedaubed  with  mud  and  water.  The 
other  drcnmstance  alluded  toiscer- 


Coapef, 


497 


tainly  very  remarkable,  when  coupled 
with  his  subsequent  career.  One  of 
his  foster-brothers,  while  condncting 
a  horse  and  cart  conveying  coals  to 
some  one  in  the  village,  unfortunately 
stumbled  in  frx>nt  of  the  cart,  the 
wheel  of  which  passed  over  his  thigh, 
and,  among  other  severe  injuries,  la- 
cerated t^  principal  artery.  The 
danger  was  of  course  imminent.  The 
poor  boy,  sinking  under  the  loss  of 
bk)od,  which  the  few  bystanders  in- 
effectually attempted  to  stop  by  ap- 
plying handkerchiefs  to  the  wound, 
was  carried  into  his  mother's  house, 
whither  young  Astley,  having  heard 
of  the  accident,  quickly  followed.  He 
alone,  amidst  the  terror  and  confusion 
which  prevailed,  had  his  wits  about 
him,  and  after  a  few  moments'  re- 
flection took  out  his  pocket  handker- 
chief, encircled  with  it  the  thigh 
above  the  wound^  and  bound  it  round 
as  tightly  as  possible,  so  as  to  form  a 
ligature  upon  the  wounded  vessel. 
This  stopped  the  bleeding,  and  kept 
the  little  sufferer  alive  till  the  arrival 
of  a  surgeon.  The  self-possession, 
decision,  and  sagacity,  displayed  by 
little  Astley  Cooper  on  this  occasion, 
are  above  all  praise,  and  must  have 
produced  a  deep  impression  on  the 
minds  of  his  parents,  and  indeed 
upon  any  one  who  had  heard  of 
the  occurrence.  It  is  barely  possible 
that  he  might  have  originally  caught 
the  hint  through  overhearing  such  sub- 
jects mention^  by  his  grandfather  or 
his  uncle,  the  surgeons.  This  is  hardly 
likely ;  but,  even  were  it  so,  it  leaves 
the  self-possessed  and  courageous 
youth  entitled  to  our  highest  admira- 
tion. In  after  years,  Sir  Astley 
Cooper  frequently  spoke  of  this  dr- 
cnmstance as  a  very  remariLable  event 
in  his  life,  and  that  which  had  first  bent 
his  thoughts  towards  the  profession  of 
surgery.*  This  is  veiy  probable. 
The  inward  delight  which  he  must 
have  experienced  at  having  saved  the 
life  of  his  foster-brother,  and  receiv- 
ing the  grateful  thanks  and  praises  of 
his  foster-mother  and  her  family, 
must  have  contributed  to  fix  the  oc- 
currence in  his  mind,  and  to  surround 
it  with  pleasing  assodations. 

In  the  year  1781,  Dr  Cooper  and 
his  ilMnily  quitted  Brooke  for  Yar- 


'  Vol. !.,  p.  57. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


498 


Sir  Aitiey  Cooper. 


[AjMrO, 


month,  on  his  being  appointed  to  the 
perpetnal  curacy  of  the  latter  place. 
Astley  was  then  in  his  thirteenth  year. 
Sixty  years  afterwards,  the  great  sur- 
geon, who  had  a  strong  attachment  to 
particular  places,  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  scene  of  his  gay  and  happy  boy- 
hood at  Brooke,  at  that  time  a 
pretty  and  retured  villaee,  and  hal- 
lowed by  every  early  and  tender  as- 
sociation. He  found  it,  however, 
strangely  altered,  as  he  gazed  at  it, 
doubtless  with  a  moistened  eye  and  a 
throbbing  heart.  Lict  him  speak  for 
himself:  for  he  has  left  on  record  his 
impressions.  Having  dined  at  the 
viUage  inn,  he  says, — 

"  I  walked  down  the  village,  along  an 
enclosed  road,  dall  and  shadowed  by 
plantations  on  either  side  ;  instead  of 
those  commons  and  open  spaces,  orna- 
mented here  and  there  by  clean  cottages. 
The  little  mere'^  was  so  much  smaller 
tiian  in  my  imagination,  that  I  could 
hardly  bellcTe  my  eyes ;  the  great  mere 
was  half  empty,  and  dwindled  also  to  a 
paltry  pond.  On  my  right  were  the 
plantations  of  Mr  Ketts,  overshading  the 
Toad,  and  for  which  nnmeroos  cottages 
liad  been  sacrificed;  on  my  left,  cot- 
tages enclosed  in  gardens.  Still  pro- 
ceeding to  the  scenes  of  my  early  years, 
on  the  right  was  a  lodge  leading  to  Mr 
Holmes's  new  honse,  and  water  with  a 
boat  on  it — a  fine  mansion,  bnt  overlook- 
ing the  lands  of  Mr  Ketts.  I  then  walked 
on  to  the  vicar's,  Mr  Castell,  bnt  he  was 
out.  I  looked  for  the  church  mere,  and 
it  was  filled  np,  pUnted,  and  conrerted 
into  a  mden.  I  looked  for  the  old 
Brooke  Hall,  the  place  of  my  nativity, 
and  the  seat  of  the  happiness  of  my 
early  years ;  for  the  road  which  led  to  it 
and  its  forecourt — its  flower-gardens  and 
kitchen-gardens,  its  stable-yard  and 
coach-houses — and  all  were  gone.  The 
very  place  where  they  once  were  is  for- 
gotten. Here  we  had  our  boat,  our 
awimming,  our  shooting— excellent  par- 
tridge-shooting— in  Brooke  wood  tolerable 
pheasant-shooting — w  oodcocks ;  in  Seeth- 
ing Fen  abunduice  of  snipes — a  good 
neighboyrhood,  seven  miles  flrom  Norwich, 
almost  another  London,  where  my  grand- 
father lived;  we  knew  everybody,  kept  a 
carriage  and  chaise,  saw  much  company, 
•and  were  almost  allowed  to  do  as  we 
liked;  but  the  blank  of  all  these  gratifi- 
cations now  only  remains. 

**  The  once  beautifVil  Tillage  is  swallowed 


np  by  two  parks— cottages  cut  down-  to 
make  land  for  them^-eommons  endoeed,'* 
&c. 

On  the  page  opposite  to  that  on 
which  these  remarks  are  written,  Sir 
Astley  4as  roughly  sketched  the  vil- 
lage as  it  had  stood  in  his  childhood, 
and  as  he  found  it  on  the  occasion  of 
his  revisitine  it. 

On  reachmg  his  new  residence  at 
Yarmouth,  this  apparently  incorrigible 
Pidde  betook  himself  with  renewed 
energy  to  mischief  and  fun ;  "  indnlg- 
ing  more  easily,"  says  Mr  Cooper, 
"  and  on  a  larger  scale,  in  those  levi- 
ties, the  ofi^nng  of  a  buoyant  heart 
and  thoughtless  youth,  which  had  al- 
ready distinguished  him  in  the  more 
limited  sphere  which  he  had  just 
quitted These  irregu- 
larities, however,  were  never  strict- 
ly opposed  to  the  interests  of  virtue 
and  honesty — nor,  indeed,  ever  ex- 
hibited anything  but  repugnance  to 
those  mean,  though  less  serious  faults, 
which  oft;en  intrude  into  schoolboy 
sports  and  occupations.  They  were, 
on  the  contrary,  characterised  by 
cheerfulness  of  temper,  openness  of 
character,  sensibility  of  disposition, 
and  every  quality  of  an  ingenuous 
tnind."t  Very  soon  after  his  arrival, 
his  temerity  led  him  into  a  most 
perilous  adventure — one  which  might 
have  been  expected  to  cure  his  pro- 
pensity to  court  danger. 

**  Soon  after  Dr  Cooper's  arrival  in 
Yarmouth,  the  church  underwent  certain 
repairs,  and  Astley  having  constant  access 
to  the  building  fVom  his  influence  with 
the  sexton,  used  firequently  to  amuse  him- 
self by  watching  the  progress  of  the  im- 
provements. Upon  one  occasion  he  as- 
cended by  a  ladder  to  the  ceiling  of  the 
chancel,  (a  height  of  seventy  feet,)  and 
with  foolish  temerity  walked  along  one 
of  the  joists — a  position  of  danger  to  which 
few  but  the  workmen,  who  were  accus- 
tomed to  walk  at  such  an  elevation,  would 
have  dared  voluntarily  to  expose  them- 
seWes.  While  thus  employed,  his  foot 
suddenly  slipped,  and  he  fell  between  the 
rafters  of  the  ceiling.  One  of  his  legs, 
however,  fortunatelv  remained  bent  over 
the  joist  on  which  he  had  been  walking, 
while  the  foot  was  caught  beneath  the 
next  a4Joining  rafter,  and  by  this  en- 
tanglement alone  he  was  preserved  from 


"  A  common  term  in  Norfolk  for  an  isolated  piece  of  water. 
+  Vol.  i.,  pp.  61, 62.  t  ^Mi-j  PP-  «5>  70. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Sir  Asil&f  Cooper, 


499 


instant  deatmotion.  He  remained  for 
some  time  suspended  with  his  head  down- 
wards, and  it  was  not  ontil  after  repeated 
and  Tiolent  efforts  that  he  sncceeded  in 
jerking  his  hod/  upwards,  when,  hy 
catching  hold  of  the  rafter,  he  was  en- 
abled to  recoTer  his  footing.  I  belieye, 
from  the  manner  in  which  Sir  Astley  nsed 
to  refer  to  this  adventore,  that  he  always 
re-experienced  to  a  great  degree  the 
horror  which  filled  his  mind  at  seeing 
the  distance  between  him  and  the  floor  of 
the  chance],  when  he  was  thos  suspended 
from  its  ceiling."— (Pp.  70-1.) 

Very  soon  afterwards  he  nearly 
lost  his  life  in  an  adventure  on  the 
sea,  characterised  by  his  nsnal  semi- 
Insane  recklessness.*  By-and-by  he 
betook  himself  to  pranks  serioosly  an- 
noying to  his  neighbours  and  towns- 
folk— ^breaking  lamps  and  windows, 
ringing  the  church  bells  at  all  hours, 
slyly  altering  the  town  dock,  and  so 
forth  —  whereby  "  Master  Astley 
Cooper"  became,  as  lawyers  would 
style  it,  the  "  common  vouchee"  when- 
ever any  mischief  had  been  perpe- 
trated. Mr  Cooper  gives  an  account 
of  several  whimsical  exploits  of  jroung 
Astley  at  this  period,  one  of  which  we 
shall  quote ;  but  all  display  an  amus- 
ing sense  of  the  humorous  on  the  part 
of  their  perpetrator. 

^Haying  taken  two  pillows  from  his 
mother's  Iwd,  he  carried  them  up  to  the 
spire  of  Yarmouth  church,  at  a  time  when 
the  wind  was  blowing  from  the  north- 
east, and  aa  soon  aa  he  had  ascended  as 
high  as  he  could,  he  ripped  them  open, 
and,  shaking  out  their  contents,  dispersed 
them  in  the  air.  The  feathers  were  car- 
ried away  by  the  wind,  and  fell  far  and 
wide  over  the  surface  of  the  market- 
place, to  the  great  astonishment  of  a  large 
number  of  persons  assembled  there.  The 
timid  looked  upon  it  as  a  phenomenon 
pre'dictire  of  some  calamity — the  inqui- 
sitire  formed  a  thousand  conjectures — 
while  some,  curious  in  natural  history, 
actually  accounted  for  it  by  a  gale  of 
wind  in  the  north  blowing  wild-fowl 
feathers  fh>m  the  island  of  St  Paul's  I 
It  was  not  long,  however,  before  the  diffi- 
culty was  cleared  up  in  the  doctor's  house, 
where  it  at  first  gare  rise  to  anything  but 
those  expressions  of  amusement  which  the 
explanation,  when  circulated  through  the 
town,  is  reported  to  have  excited.  I 
think  my  uncle  used  to  say  that  some 
extraordinary  account  of  the  affair,  before 


the  secret  was  discovered,  found  its  way 
into  the  Norwich  papers  I "— <Pp.  73-4.) 

On  one  occasion  he  was  imprisoned 
in  his  own  room  by  his  father,  as  & 
punishment  for  a  very  thoughtless 
joke  which  had  occasioned  serious 
darm  to  his  mother.  Shortly  after 
locking  the  door  upon  the  young^ 
scapegrace,  his  father,  walking  with  a 
friend  in  his  favourite  walk  near  the 
house,  was  astonished  at  hearing,  from 
above,  a  cry  of  "Sweep — sweep!"  in 
the  well-known  voice  of  a  neigh- 
bouring chimney-sweeper.  On  look- 
ing up,  he  beheld  his  hopeful  son 
in  the  position  of  a  sweep,  who  had 
reached  the  summit  of  the  chimney ! 
and  was  calling  out  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  passers-by  in  the 
street  below.  "  Ah,"  quoth  the  good 
doctor  to  his  friend^  "  there  is  my  boy 
Astley,  again !  He  is  a  sad  rogue, — 
but,  in  spite  of  his  roguery,  I  have 
no  doubt  that  he  will  yet  be  a  shining 
cliaracter!"'\ 

Though  thus  partial  to  rough  sports 
and  adventures,  he  was,  even  at  this 
early  age,  very  susceptible  of  the  ef- 
fect of  female  beauty,  and  the  charms 
of  female  society.  A  lad  so  handsome 
as  he,  and  of  such  elegant  and  winning 
manners  and  address,  could  not  fail  ta 
be  a  great  favourite  with  the  softer  sex. 
So,  indeed,  he  was.  And  as  a  proof  of 
his  attachment  to  them^ — shortly  after 
he  had  left  Brooke  for  Yarmouth,  being 
then  only  thirteen  years  old,  he  bor- 
rowed  his  father*s  horse,  and  rode  adis* 
tance  of  forty-eight  miles  in  one  day,  to^ 
pay,  unknown  to  his  parents,  a  visit  to 
a  girl  of  his  own  age,  a  Miss  Words- 
worth, the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  re- 
siding in  a  village  near  that  which  the 
Coopers  had  quitted  for  Yarmouth.  la 
after  life,  he  never  mentioned  this  little 
circumstance  without  lively  emotion ; 
and  Mr  Cooper  expresses  himself  as 
at  a  loss  to  explaUi  how  this  early^ 
intimacy  had  failed  of  leading  to  the 
future  union  of  the  youthful  couple. 
Such  was  young  Astley  Cooper  in  his 
early  years:  blessed  with  an  exem- 
plaiy  mother,  who  sedulously  instilled 
into  his  mind,  as  into  those  of  all  her 
children,  the  precepts  of  virtue  and 
religion ;  equally  blessed  with  an  ami- 
able and  pious  father,  and  happy  in 
the  society  of  his  brothers  and  sisters; 


•  Vol.  I.  pp.  71, 72. 


t  Ibid.  p.  81. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


500 

with  cheerlxil,  baoyant  animal  spirits, 
whose  exuberance  led  him  into  the 
pursuit  of  comparatiTelj  innocent 
adventure,  untinged  by  mean  or  vi- 
cious characteristics ;  and  exhibiting, 
under  all  his  wild  love  of  fan,  an 
nnder-cnrrent  of  intellectual  energy, 
warranting  that  prediction  of  ftitnre 
distinction  which,  as  we  have  seen, 
was  uttered  by  his  father  about  the 
period  of  which  we  are  speaking.  It 
was  not  likely  that  a  boy  of  this  char- 
acter should  always  remain  satisfied 
with  the  position  which  he  then  occu- 
pied. He  must  have  felt  inward 
promptings  to  something  worthy  of 
the  c^abilities  of  which  he  was 
secretly  consdous ;  and  it  is  interest- 
ing and  satisfactory  to  be  able  to 
point  out  the  circumstances  which  de- 
termined him  to  enter  that  particular 
walk  of  life,  and  department  in  science, 
which  he  afterwards  occupied  with 
such  transcendant  distinction.  The 
very  interesting  incident  which  first 
bent  his  thoughts  in  that  direction 
has  been  already  mentioned.  It  has 
been  already  stated  that  he  had  an 
nude,  Mr  Samuel  Cooper,  an  eminent 
surgeon  in  London,  the  senior  surgeon 
of  Guy's  Hospital.  This  gentleman 
was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  Ms  brother, 
Dr  Cooper,  at  Yarmouth  ;  and  with 
his  varied  and  animated  conversa- 
tion young  Astley  became  more  and 
more  delighted,  as  he  recounted  the 
exciting  inddents  of  London  sodal 
and  professional  life.  The  unde  seems, 
in  turn,  to  have  been  pleased  with  the 
vivadty  and  spirit  of  his  nephew ;  and 
thus  it  was  that  Astley  concdved  an 
intense  desire  to  repair  to  the  great 
metropolitan  scene  of  action,  of  whith 
he  was  hearing  so  much,  and  could  so 
easily  imagine  much  more.  It  does 
not  seem  to  have  been  any  particular 
enthusiasm  for  surgery  and  anatomy 
that  actuated  him  at  this  early  period, 
but  probably  nothing  more  than  a 
taste  for  pleasure  and  excitement,* 
which  he  felt  could  be  gratified  to  an 
indefinite  extent  in  London  life.  He 
had  even  committed  himself  to  the 
adoption  of  his  nucleus  profession, 
without  having  indicated  any  desire 
to  achieve  excellence  or  eminence  in 
it.  The  sparic  of  ambition  seems  to 
have  fallen  into  his  ardent  tempera- 

•  Vol.  i.  p.  867 


Sir  Astley  Cooper.  [April, 

ment,  on  witnessing  the  terrible  ope- 
ration for  stone,  performed  by  a  I)r 
Donnee,  of  Norwich.  This  fiwt  we 
have  on  his  own  authority.!  In  the 
year  1836,  he  payed  a  visit  to  Norwich^ 
and  on  quitting  it,  wrote  the  foUowing^ 
letter,  endosmg  £30  for  the  hospital^ 
to  Dr  YeUoly. 

<"  My  dear  Sir.— It  was  at  the  Norfolk 
and  Norwich  hospital  that  I  first  saw  Dr 
Dotmee  operate,  in  a  masterly  manner  \ 
and  it  was  this  which  inspired  me  with  » 
strong  impression  of  the  utility  of  surgery, 
and  led  me  to  embark  in  it  as  my  profes- 
sion." 

How  mysterious  the  impulse  which 
thus  determines  men  to  the  adoption 
of  particular  pursuits  I — ^some  to  music, 
others  to  poetry,  to  painting,  to  sculp- 
ture :  some  to  the  moral,  others  to 
the  physical  sciences :  some  to  the  art 
of  war,  others  to  divinity,  law  or 
physic;  some  to  criticism  and  belles 
lettres,  others  to  simple  money- making. 
It  is  rarely  that  a  man  achieves  real 
distinction  in  a  purstut  which  is  forced 
upon  him.  He  may  follow  it  credit- 
ably, but  eminence  is  generally  out  of 
the  question :  it  is  only  where  a  man 
voluntarily  adopts  a  walk  in  life,  in 
accordance  with  inward  promptings, 
that  a  likelihood  of  success  and  dis- 
tinction is  begotten.  Dr  Johnson  ob- 
served that  genius  was  great  natural 
powers  accidentidly  directed ;  but 
this  can  hardly  be  accepted  as  a  true 
or  sufficient  definition.  A  man  of 
wonderful  musical  or  mathematical 
capabilities,  may  have  his  attention 
acddentally  directed  to  a  sphere  of 
action  where  those  capabilities  will 
never  have  the  opportunity  of  deve- 
loping themsdves.  It  would  seem,  in 
truth,  as  if  Providence  had  implanted 
in  many  men  great  aptitudes  and  in- 
clinations for  particular  pursuits,  and 
given  them  special  opportunities  for 
gratifying  such  inclinations.  Look,  for 
instance,  at  a  lad  witnessing  the  opera- 
tion to  which  we  have  alluded ;  nine 
out  of  ten  would  look  on  with  dismay 
or  disgust,  and  fly  terrified  fix)m  a 
scene  which  exdtes  profound  interest, 
and  awakens  all  the  mental  powers 
of  a  youth  standing  bedde  him.  And 
this  was  the  case  with  Astiey  Cooper^^ 
whose  enthusiasm  for  the  profei 

~t  mil.  P.42L 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


i 


ISft.] 


Sir  Asiiey  Cooper. 


501 


surgery  was  kindled  on  witnessing 
one  of  its  most  formidable  and  appal- 
ling exhibitions. 

Donbtless  the  two  brothers — the 
parson  and  the  snrgeon — themselves 
sons  of  a  surgeon  of  provincial  celebrity, 
made  short  work  of  it  as  soon  as  they 
had  ascertained  yonng  Astley*s  strong 
inclination  for  the  profession  of  which 
his  uncle  was  so  eminent  a  member, 
and  in  which  he  possessed  such  facili- 
ties for  advancing  the  interests  of  that 
nephew.  It  was  therefore  agreed 
that  Astley,  then  in  his  sixteenth 
year,  shotdd  become  his  uncle's  ar- 
ticled pupil.  As,  however,  it  was 
inconvenient  for  Mr  Cooper  to  receive 
pupils  into  his  own  house,  he  effected 
an  arrangement  with  a  very  eminent 
brother  surgeon,  Mr  Cline,  one  of  the 
surgeons  of  the  neighbouring  hospital, 
(St  Thomas',)  by  means  of  which 
young  Astley  became  an  inmate  with 
the  latter  genUeman.  This  matter 
proved  to  have  been,  in  one  respect, 
managed  very  prudently.  Mr  Cooper 
intimates*  that  yonng  Astley  would 
have  found  his  own  mercurial  dispo- 
sition, and  flighty  habits,  incompatible 
with  those  of  his  rough  and  imperious 
uncle,  who  was,  moreover,  a  very  se- 
vere disciplinarian.  Mr  Cline,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  a  man  of  easy  and  en- 
gaging manners,  of  amiable  disposi- 
tion, and  perhaps  the  finest  operating 
surgeon  of  the  day.  To  these  advan- 
tages, however,  there  were  very  dismal 
drawbacks,  for  he  was  both  a  Deist 
and  a  democrat  of  the  wildest  kind 
— associating,  as  might  be  expect- 
ed, with  those  who  entertained  his 
own  objectionable  and  dangerous 
opinions — ^with,  amongst  others,  such 
notorious  demagogues  as  Home  Tooke 
and  Thelwall.  It  is  probablef  that 
Astley's  worthy  father  and  mother 
were  ignorant  of  these  unfavourable 
characteristics  of  Mr  Cline,  or  they 
never  would  have  consented  to  their 
son  entering  into  sudi  contaminating 
society.  We  shall  here  present  our 
readers  with  a  strilung  sketch,  from 
the  pencil  of  Sir  Astley  himself  in 
after  life,  of  the  gentleman  to  whom 
his  uncle,  Mr  Coopei^— who  could  not 
have  been  ignorant  of  Mr  Cline's  dis- 
fignring  peculiarities — had  thought 
proper  to  intrust  his  nephew : — 

"  Vol.  i.  p.  88. 


^Mr  Cline  was  %  man  of  excellent 
judgment,  <^  great  eaation,  of  aecurate 
knowledge;  piuiiealarly  taettnm  abroad, 
yet  open,  friendly,  aiui  very  conrersa- 
tionable  at  home. 

'*  In  surgery,  cool,  safe,  jndicioua,  and 
cautious;  in  anatomy,  sufiloiently  inform- 
ed for  teaching  and  practice.  He  wanted 
industry  and  professional  zeal,  liking 
other  things  better  than  tiie  study  and 
practice  of  his  profession. 

*^  In  politics  a  democrat,  living  in 
friendship  with  Home  Tooke. 

^  In  morals,  thoroughly  honest;  in  reli- 
gion, a  Deist. 

**  A  good  husband,  son,  and  fkther. 

*'  As  a  friend,  sincere,  but  not  actiYC ; 
as  an  enemy,  most  inyeterate. 

^'  He  was  mild  in  his  manners,  gentle 
in  his  conduct,  humane  in  his  disposition^ 
but  withal  braye  as  a  lion, 

**  His  temper  was  scarcely  CTcr  ruffled. 

*^  Towards  the  close  of  Ufe  he  caught 
an  ague,  which  lessened  his  powers  of 
mind  and  body.**— <P.  98-99.) 

The  poisonous  atmosphere  which  he 
breathed  at  Mr  Cline's,  produced 
effects  upon  young  Astley's  character 
which  we  shall  witness  by-and-by. 
They  proved,  happily,  but  temporary, 
owing  to  the  stren^h  of  the  whole- 
some principles  which  had  been  in- 
stilled into  him  by  his  revered  parents. 
Mr  Cooper  gives  us  reason  to  believe 
that  a  mother^s  eye  had  been  ahnost 
the  earliest  to  detect  traces  of  the 
deleterious  influences  to  which  her 
son  had  become  subject  in  London  \ 
and  perhaps  the  following  little  ex- 
tract, from  a  letter  of  this  good  lady 
to  her  gay  son,  m^  bring  tender  re- 
collections of  similar  warnings  received 
by  himself,  into  the  mind  of  many  a 
reader: — 

**  *  Remember,  my  dear  child/  says  Mrs 
Cooper  to  him,  after  one  of  his  Tisits  to 
Yarmouth,  *  wherever  yon  so,  and  what- 
erer  you  do,  that  the  nappmess  of  yonr 
parents  depends  on  the  principles  and 
conduct  of  their  children.  Remember, 
also,  I  entreat,  and  may  yonr  conversation 
be  influenced  by  the  remembrance,  that 
there  are  subjects  which  ought  always  to 
be  considered  as  sacred,  and  on  no  ac- 
count to  be  treated  withleTity."*—{P.96.) 

Astley  took  his  departure  from  Yar- 
mouth for  London  m  the  latter  part 
of  August  1784,  being  then  in  his 
sixteenth  year.    He  experienced  all 

t  Ibid,,  p.  100. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


502 


Sir  Attley  Cooper, 


[April, 


the  emotion  to  be  expected  in  a  warm- 
hearted boy  leaving  an  affectionate 
home,  for  his  first  enconnter  with 'the 
cold  rough  world.  His  own  grief 
gave  way,  however,  before  the  novelty 
and  excitement  of  the  scenes  in  which 
he  found  himself,  much  sooner  than 
the  intense  solicitude  and  apprehen- 
sion on  his  account,  which  were  felt 
by  the  parents  whom  he  had  quitted  I 
Mr  Cooper  shall  sketch  the  personal 
appearance  of  Astley  at  this  period ; 
no  one  who  ever  saw  Sir  Astley 
Cooper  will  think  what  follows  over- 
strained : — 

^  Hia  maimers  and  appearance  at  this 
period  were  winning  and  agreeable.  Al- 
though only  sixteen  years  of  age,  his 
figure,  which  had  adranced  to  nearly  its 
full  stature,  was  no  less  distinguished  for 
the  elegance  of  its  proportions,  than  its 
healthy  manliness  of  character ;  his  hand- 
some and  expressive  countenance  was 
illumined  by  the  generous  disposition  and 
active  mind,  equally  characteristic  of  him 
then  as  in  aher  life;  his  conversation  was 
brisk  and  animated,  his  voice  and  manner 
of  address  were  in  the  highest  degree 
pleasing  and  gentlemanly;  while  a  soft 
and  graceful  ease,  attendant  on  every 
action,  rendered  his  society  no  less  agree- 
able than  his  appearance  prepossessing." 
--(P.  90.) 

The  period  of  his  arrival  in  London 
had  been  of  course  fixed  with  reference 
to  the  opening  of  the  professional 
season — viz,  in  the  month  of  October, 
when  the  lectures  on  medicine,  sur- 
gery, anatomy,  physiology,  and  their 
kindred  sciences,  commmence  at  the 
hospitals,  and,  in  some  few  instances, 
elsewhere.  Mr  Cline^s  house  was  in 
Jefferies*  Square,  St  Mary  Axe,  in  the 
eastern  part  of  the  metropolis ;  and  in 
that  house  Mr  Astley  Cooper  idfter- 
wards  be^an  himself  to  practise.  His 
propensities  for  fun  and  frivolity 
burst  out  afresh  the  moment  that  he 
was  established  in  his  new  quarters ; 
and  for  some  time  he  seemed  on  the 
point  of  being  sucked  into  the  vortex 
of  dissipation,  to  perish  in  it.  Ho 
quickly  found  himself  in  the  midst  of 
a  host  of  young  companions  similarly 
disposed  with  himsdf,  and  began  to 
indulge  in  those  extravagances  which 
had  earned  him  notoriety  in  the  coun- 
try. One  of  his  eariiest  adventures 
was  the  habitiDg  himself  in  the  uni- 


form of  an  officer,  and  swaggering  in 
it  about  town.  One  day,  while  thus 
masquerading,  he  lit  upon  his  unde 
in  Bond  Street ;  and,  finding  it  too  late 
to  escape,  resolved  to  brazen  the  mat- 
ter out.  Mr  Cooper  at  once  addressed 
him  very  sternly  on  his  foolish  con- 
duct, but  was  thunderatruck  at  the 
reception  which  he  met  with. 

^Astley,  regarding  him  with  feigned 
astonishment,  and  changing  his  voice, 
replied,  that  he  must  be  making  some 
mistake,  for  he  did  not  understand  to 
whom  or  what  he  was  alluding.  '  Why,* 
said  Mr  Cooper, '  you  don't  mean  to  say 
that  you  are  not  my  nephew,  Astley 
Cooper!*  'Really,  sir,  I  have  not  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  any  such  person. 

My  name  is of  the  — ^th,*  replied 

the  young  scapegrace,  naming,  with  un- 
flinching boldness,  the  regiment  of  which 
he  wore  the  uniform.  Mr  William  Cooper 
apologised,  although  still  unable  to  feel 
assured  he  was  not  being  duped,  and, 
bowing,  passed  on.'* — (P.  401.) 

As  soon  as  the  lecture-rooms  were 
opened,  young  Cooper  made  a  show 
of  attention,  but  without  feeling  any 
real  interest  in  them.  His  unde,  at 
the  same  time,  (2d  Oct.,  1784,)  pro- 
posed him  as  a  member  of  the  Physical 
Society,  into  which,  on  the  16th  of 
the  same  month,  he  was  admitted. 
This  was  the  oldest  and  most  distin- 
guished society  of  the  kind  in  London, 
numbering  among  its  supporters  and 
fi*equenters  nearly  all  the  leading 
members  of  the  profession,  who  com- 
municated and  discussed  topics  on 
professional  subjects  at  its  meetings. 
The  rules  were  very  strict:  and  we 
find  our  newly  admitted  friend  in- 
fringing them  on  the  very  first  meet- 
ing ensuing  that  on  which  he  had  been 
introduced,  as  appears  by  the  follow- 
ing entry  in  the  journal  of  the 
society,— "  October  23d,  1784.  Mr 
&c.,  in  the  chair.  Messrs  Astley 
Cooper,  <&c.,  &c.,  fined  sixpence  each, 
for  leaving  the  room  without  permis- 
sion of  the  president."  * 

It  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that 
so  young  and  inexperienced  a  person . 
should  have  found  attendance  at  the 
meetings  of  the  society  very  irksome ; 
the  matters  discussed  being  necessarily 
beyond  his  comprehension.  We  find, 
therefore,  that  during  the  first  session 


•  Vol.  i.,  p.  106. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Sir  Astky  Cooper, 


603 


he  was  continually  fined  for  non- 
attendance.  The  first  paper  which 
he  communicated  was,  singularly 
enough,  on  cancer  in  the  breast — a 
subject  to  which,  throughout  his  life, 
he  paid  great  attention,  and  on  which 
he  was  earnestly  engaged  when  death 
terminated  his  labours.*  Whether 
he  had  selected  this  subject  himself, 
or  any  one  else  had  suggested  it,  does 
not  appear;  but  the  coincidence  is 
curious  and  interesting.  A  very  few 
months  after  Astley's  introduction  to 
the  profession,  he  found  the  yoke  of 
his  stem  and  rigid  uncle  too  heavy 
for  him ;  and,  in  compliance  with  his 
own  request,  he  was  transferred  as  a 
pupil  to  Mr  Cline,  at  the  ensuing 
Christmas,  (1784.)  From  that  mo- 
ment his  character  and  conduct  under- 
went a  signal  change  for  the  better. 
This  wa&  partly  to  be  traced  to  the 
stimulus  which  he  derived  from  the 
superior  fame  of  his  new  teacher,  and 
the  engaging  character  of  his  instruc- 
tions and  professional  example.  Cer- 
tain, however,  it  is,  that  Astley  Cooper 
had  become  quite  a  new  man.  "  After 
six  months,"  says  he  himself,t  ^*I 
was  articled  to  Mr  Cline ;  and  now  I 
began  to  go  into  the  dissecting-room, 
and  to  acquire  knowledge,  though  still 
in  a  desultory  way."  His  biographer 
states  that  *^  Astley  Cooper  seems  at 
once  to  have  thrown  away  his  idleness, 
and  all  those  trifling  pursuits  which 
had  seduced  him  from  his  studies; 
and  at  the  same  time  to  have  devoted 
himself  to  the  acquisition  of  profes- 
sional knowledge,  as  well  by  diligent 
labour  in  the  dissecting-room,  as  by 
serious  attention  to  the  lectures  on 
anatomv,  and  other  subjects  of  study 
in  the  hospitals."  t  He  had,  at  this 
time,  barely  entei^  his  seventeenth 
year;  and  such  was  the  rapidity  of 
bis  proffress  that,  by  the  ensuing 
spring,  (1785,)  he  had  become  as  dis- 
tinffuisbed  for  industry  as  formerly  he 
had  been  notorious  for  idleness,  and 
had  obtained  a  knowledge  of  anatomy 
far  surpassing  that  of  any  fellow- 
student  of  h&  own  standing.§  His 
biographer  institutes  an  interesting 
comparison  between  Astley  Cooper 
and  the  great  John  Hunter,  at  the 
period  of  their  respectively  commen- 
cing theur  professional  studies.    Both 


of  them  threatened,  by  their  idle  and 
dissipated  conduct,  to  ruin  their  pro- 
spects, and  blight  the  hopes  of  thehr 
friends;  both,  however,  quickly  re- 
formed, and  became  pre-eminent  for 
their  devotion  to  the  acquisition  of 
professional  knowledge,  exhibiting 
many  points  of  similarity  in  their  noble 
pursuit  of  science.  Astley  Cooper, 
however,  never  disgraced  his  superior 
birth  and  station,  by  the  coarser  species 
of  dissipation  in  which  it  would  seem 
that  the  illustrious  Hunter  had  once 
indulged — for  illustrious  indeed,  as 
a  physiologist  and  anatomist,  was 
John  Hunter;  a  powerful  and  original 
thinker,  and  an  indefatigable  searcher 
after  physical  truth.  Mr  Cline  had 
the  merit  of  being  one  of  the  earliest 
to  appreciate  the  views  of  this  dis- 
tinguished phUosopber,  whose  doc- 
trines were  long  in  making  their  way;  || 
and  Mr  Cline's  sagacious  opinion  on 
this  subject,  exercised  a  marked  and 
beneficial  influence  on  the  mind  of  his 
gifted  pupil,  Astley  Cooper.  During 
Astley  Cooper's  second  year  of  pro- 
fessional study,  ri785-6,)  he  continued 
to  make  extraordinarily  rapid  progress 
in  the  study  of  anatomy,  to  which 
he  had  devoted  himself  with  increasing 
energy ;  and  his  effbrts,  and  his  pro- 
-gress,  attracted  the  attention  of  all 
who  came  within  his  sphere  of  action. 
From  a  very  early  period  he  saw, 
either  by  his  own  sagacity,  or  through 
that  of  his  skilful  and  experience 
tutor,  Mr  Cline,  that  an  exact  and 
familiar  knowledge  of  anatomy  was 
the  only  solid  foundation  on  which 
to  rest  the  superstructure  of  surgical 
skiU. 

"  We  now  find  him/'  says  his  biogra- 
pher, ''deroting  himself  with  the  moat 
earnest  actirity  to  the  acquisition  of  a 
knowledge  of  anatomy, — one  of  the  most 
valaable  departments  of  stndy  to  which 
the  yonnger  stndent  can  devote  himself^ 
and  withont  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
whlchy  professional  practice,  whether  in 
the  hands  of  the  surgeon  or  physician, 
can  be  little  better  than  mere  empiricism. 
The  intense  application  which  Astley 
Cooper  devoted  to  this  pnrsnit,  in  the 
early  years  of  his  pupilage,  was  not  only 
nsefbl,  inasmuch  as  it  famished  him  with 
a  oorrect  knowledge  of  the  stmcture  of 
the  hnman  fh^me, — the  form  and  situation 
of  its  various  parts,  and  the  varieties  in 


•  VoL  i.,  p.  107.      1 76.,  p.  112.      $J6.,p.ll3.    .§76.,  p.  114.       0  76.,  p.  94. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


504  SirAsOe^ 

poBition  to  whiok  they  tat  oofminmny 
liable, — bat  it  p»yed  the  ¥ray  for  those 
numerous  discoreries  nuMle  by  him  in 
^pathological  anatomy,'  which  have  al- 
ready been,  and  must  continue  to  be,  the 
sources  of  so  many  adrantages  in  the  prac- 
tice of  our  profession."— (Pp.  117-118.) 

He  was  chiefly  stimulated  to  exertion 
In  this  department  by  the  ambition  to 
become  a  *^  demonstrator"  of  anatomy 
in  the  dissecting-room  —  an  office 
greatly  coveted,  being  "  the  first 
public  professional  capacitor  in  which 
anatomical  teachers  of  this  country 
are  en^ed."*  Mr  Cooper  thus 
clearly  mdicates  the  duties  of  this  im* 
portant  functionary : — 

^  There  is  scarcely  any  sdenoe^  in  the 
early  study  of  which  constant  adyice  is 
so  much  required  as  in  the  study  of  ana- 
tomy. The  textures  which  it  is  the  busi- 
ness of  the  young  anatomist  to  unrayel 
are  so  delicate  and  complicated, — the  fila- 
ments composing  them  so  fine,  and  yet  so 
important,  that  in  following  them  ftt)m 
their  sources  to  their  places  of  destina- 
tion, and  tracing  their  rarious  connexions, 
he  is  constantly  in  danger  of  orerlooking 
or  destroying  some,  and  becoming  bewil- 
dered in  the  investigatioB  and  pursuit  of 
others.  To  direct  and  render  assistance 
to  the  inexperienced  student  under  these 
difficulties,  it  is  the  custom  for  one  or 
more  accomplished  anatomists,  Demon- 
gtrators  as  they  are  styled,  to  be  con- 
stantly at  hand.''— (Pp.  119-120.) 

At  the  time  of  which  we  are  speak- 
ing, a  Mr  Haighton,  afterwards  better 
known  in  the  profession  as  Dr  Haigh- 
ton,  was  the  demonstrator  in  the  school 
presided  over  by  Mr  Cline ;  but  he  was 
extremely  unpopular  among  the  stu- 
dents, on  account  of  his  coarse  repul- 
sive manner  and  violent  temper.  Young 
Cooper's  great  affability  and  good  na- 
ture, added  to  his  known  connexion 
with  Mr  Cline,  his  constant  atten- 
dance in  the  dissecting-room,  and  his 
evident  superiority  in  anatomical 
knowledge,  caused  him  to  be  gradually 
more  and  more  cousulted  by  the  stu- 
dents, instead  of  Mr  Haighton,  who 
was  greatly  his  superior  in  years. 
Astley  Cooper  perfectly  appreciated 
his  position.  "  I  was  a  great  favour- 
ite,'^ says  be,t "  with  the  students,  be- 
cause I  was  affable,  and  showed  that 
I  was  desirQus  of  communicating  what 
information  I  could,  while  Mr  Uaigh- 
ton  was  the  reverse  of  this."    AsUey 

*  Vol.  i.  p.  119. 


Cooper.  [AprHy 

Cooper  knew  that,  in  tho  ereni  ci  Mr 
Haighton's  surrendering  his  post,  he 
himself  was  already  in  a  pod^n  ta 
aspire  to  be  his  snooessor,  from  his 
personal  qnalifications,  his  popularity, 
his  growing  reputation,  and  the  infln- 
enoe  which  he  derived  throng  his 
uncle  Mr  Cooper  and  Mr  Cline.  Tet 
was  the  amMtioas  young  anatomist 
barely  in  his  ei^^iteenth  yearl 

Feeling  the  ground  pretty  firm  be- 
neath him— that  he  had  abready  ^^  b^ 
come  an  efficient  anatomist,*'  he  bsgaa 
to  attend  Mr  Cline  in  his  visits  to  the 
patients  in  the  hospital ;  exhibiting  » 
watchful  scrutiny  on  every  such  occa- 
sion, making  notes  of  the  cases,  and 
seizing  eyerj  opportunity  which  pre- 
sented itself  of  testing  the  aocora^  of 
Mr  Cline's  and  his  own  condns^ns, 
by  means  of  post-mortem  examinations. 
At  the  Physical  Society,  also,  he  had 
turned  over  quite  a  new  leaf,  hemg 
absent  at  only  one  meeting  during  the 
session,  and  taking  so  active  a  part 
in  the  business  of  the  Society,  that  he 
was  chosen  one  of  the  managing  com- 
mittee. At  the  dose  of  his  second 
session, — ^vis.  in  the  summer  of  1786 — 
he  went  home  as  usual  to  Yarmouth, 
and  was  received  by  his  exulting 
parents  and  friends  with  all  the  ad- 
miration which  the  rising  young  sur- 
geon could  have  desired.  His  im>ther 
thus  expresses  herself  in  one  of  her 
letters  to  him  at  this  time,  in  terms 
which  the  affectionate  son  must  have 
cherished  as  predous  indeed : — 

**  I  cannot  express  the  deh'ght  you  gave 
your  father  and  me,  my  dearest  Astley^ 
by  the  tenderness  of  yonr  attentions,  and 
the  variety  of  your  attainments.  You 
seem  to  have  improved  every  moment  of 
yonr  time,  and  to  have  soared  not  only 
beyond  onr  expectations,  bnt  to  the  at- 
most  height  of  onr  wishes.  How  mnoh 
did  it  gratify  me  to  observQ  the  very  great 
resemblanoe  in  person  and  mind  you  bear 
to  your  angelic  sister ! — the  same  sweet 
smUe  of  compkcency  and  affection,  the 
same  ever  wakefiil  attention  to  alleyiate 
pain  and  to  communicate  pleasure  I 
Heaven  grant  that  you  may  as  much  re- 
semble her  in  erery  Christian  grace  as 
you  do  in  every  moral  virtue."— (P.  184.) 

During  his  sojourn  in  the  countiy, 
he  seems  to  have  devoted  himself 
zealously  to  the  acquisition  of  profes- 
sional knowledge,  and  to  have  formed 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  Sir  AiOey 

an  acquaintance  with  an  able  fellow- 
stndent,   Mr  Holland,  who    in   the 
ensuing  year  became  his  companion  at 
Mr  Cline's,  at  whose  residence  they 
prosecuted  their  anatomical  studies 
with   the  utmost  zeal  and   system. 
During  this  session,  Astley  Cooper 
found  time,  amidst  all  his  harassmg 
engagements,  to  attend  a  course  of 
lectures  delivered  by  John  Honter, 
near  Leicester  Square.  It  required  no 
slight  amount  of  previous  training,  and 
scientific    acquisition,  to  follow  the 
illustrious  lecturer  through  his  deep, 
novel,   and  comprehensive   disquisi- 
tions, enhanced  as  the  difficulty  was 
by  his  imperfect  and  unsatisfactory 
mode   of  expression   and   delivery. 
Nothing,  however,  could  withstand 
the  determmation  of  Astley  Cooper, 
who  devoted  all  the  powers  of  his 
mind  to  mastering  the  doctrines  enun- 
<dated  by  Hnnter,  and  confirming  their 
truth  by  his  own  dissections.    The 
results  were  such  as  to  affbrd  satis- 
faction to  the  high-spirited  student 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life ;  but^  of 
these  matters  we  shall  have  occasion 
to  speak  hereafter.    During  this  ses- 
sion, he  canght  the  gaol-fever  from  a 
capital  convict  whom  he  visited  in 
Newgate,  and,  but  for  the  affectionate 
attentions  of  Mr  Cline  and  his  family, 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  sunk 
under  the  attack.     As  soon  as  he 
could  be  safely  removed,  he  was  car- 
ried to  his  native  county,  and  in  a 
month  or  two's  time  was  restored  to 
health. 

It  was  during  this  session  that  he 
seems  to  have  commenced  his  experi- 
ments on  living  animals,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  advancing  anatomical  and 
physiological  knowledge.  The  fol- 
lowing incident  we  shall  give  in  the 
language  of  Mr  Holland,  the  companion 
above  alluded  to,  of  Astley  Cooper  :— 

**  I  recollect  one  day  being  out  with 
him,  when  a  dog  followed  us,  and  ac- 
companied 08  home,  little  foreseeing  the 
fate  that  awaited  him.  He  was  confined 
for  a  few  days,  till  we  had  ascertained 
that  no  owner  would  come  to  claim  him, 
and  then  brought  up  to  be  the  subject  of 
various  operations.  The  first  of  these 
was  the  tying  one  of  the  femoral  arteries. 
When  poor  Chance,  for  so  we  appropri- 
ately named  the  dog,  was  sufficiently  re- 
covered from  this,  one  of  the  humeral  ar- 
teries was  subjected  to  a  similar  process. 
After  the  lapse  of  a  few  weeks,  the  ill- 


Cooper. 


505 


fated  animal  was  killed,  the  vessels  in- 
jected, and  preparations  were  made  f^m 
each  of  the  limbs."— (P.  142.) 

It  is  impossible  to  peruse  this  para- 
graph without  feelings  of  pain,  akin 
to  disgust,  and  even  horror.  The 
poor  animal,  which  had  trusted  to  the 
mercy,  as  it  were  to  the  honour  and 
humanity,  of  man — was  dealt  with  as 
thongh  it  had  been  a  mere  mass  of 
inanimate  matter  I  One*s  feelings  re- 
volt from  the  whole  procedure:  but 
the  question  after  all  is,  whether 
reason,  and  the  necessity  of  the  case, 
afibrd  any  justification  for  such  an 
act.  If  not,  then  it  will  be  difficulty 
as  the  reader  will  hereafter  see,  to 
vindicate  the  memory  of  Sir  Astley 
Cooper  from  the  charge  of  systematic 
barbarity.  On  this  subject,  however, 
we  shall  content  ourselves,  for  the 
present,  with  giving  two  passages  from 
the  work  under  consideration — one  ex- 
pressing very  forcibly  and  closely  the 
opinions  of  Mr  Bransby  Cooper,  the 
other  those  of  an  eminent  physican 
and  friend  of  Mr  Cooper,  Dr  Blun- 
dell. 

^^  By  this  means  only,"  says  Mr  Cooper, 
speaking  of  experiments  on  living  ani- 
malS)  ^  are  theories  proved  erroneous  or 
correct,  new  facts  brought  to  light,  im- 
portant discoTeries  made  in  physiology, 
and  sounder  doctrines  and  more  scientific 
modes  of  treatment  arrived  at.  Nor  is 
this  all ;  for  the  surgeon's  band  becomes 
tutored  to  act  with  steadiness,  while  he 
is  under  the  influence  of  the  natural  ab- 
horrence of  giving  pain  to  the  subject  of 
experiment,  and  he  himself  is  thus 
schooled  for  the  severer  ordeal  of  ope- 
rating on  the  human  fVame.  I  may  men- 
tion another  peculiar  advantage  in  proof 
of  the  necessity  of  such  apparent  cruelty — 
that  no  practising  on  the  dead  body  can 
accustom  the  mind  of  the  surgeon  to  the 
physical  phenomena  presented  to  his 
notice  in  operations  on  the  living.  The 
detail  of  the  various  differences  which 
exist  under  the  two  circumstances  need 
hardly  be  explained,  as  there  are  few 
minds  to  which  they  will  not  readily 
present  them8elves."--{P.  144.) 

**  They  who  object,"  says  Dr  Blnndell,. 
**  to  the  putting  of  animals  to  death,  for 
a  scientific  purpose,  do  not  reflect  that 
the  death  of  an  animal  is  a  very  difi'erent 
thing  from  that  of  man.  To  an  animal, 
death  is  an  eternal  sleep  ;  to  man,  it  is 
the  commencement  of  »  new  and  untried 

state  of  existence Shall  it 

be  said  that  the  objects  of  physiological 
science  are  not  worth  the  sacrifice  of  a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


506 


Sir  Astley 


few  animals !  Men  are  constantly  form- 
ing the  most  erroneous  estimates  of  the 
comparative  importance  of  objects  in  this 
world.  Of  what  importance  is  it  now  to 
mankind  whether  Antony  or  Augustus 
filled  the  Imperial  chair  1  And  what  will 
it  matter,  a  few  centuries  hence,  whether 
England  or  France  swept  the  ocean  with 
her  fleets  t  But  mankind  will  always  be 
equally  interested  in  the  great  truthis  de- 
ducible  ftrom  science,  and  in  the  inferences 
derived  from  physiological  experiments. 
I  will  ask,  then,  whether  the  infliction 
of  paiu  on  the  lower  animals  in  experi- 
ments is  not  justified  by  the  object  for 
which  those  experiments  are  instituted, — 
namely,  the  advancement  of  physiological 
knowledge  1  Is  not  the  infliction  of  pain, 
or  even  of  death,  on  man,  often  justified 
by  the  end  for  which  it  is  inflicted !  Does 
not  the  general  lead  his  troops  to 
slaughter,  to  preserve  the  liberties  of  his 
country !  It  is  not  the  infliction  of  pain 
or  death  for  justifiable  objects,  but  it  is 
the  taking  a  savage  pleasure  in  the  in- 
fliction of  pain  or  death,  which  is  re- 
prehensible. .  .  .  Here,  then,  we 
take  our  stand  ;  we  defend  the  sacrifice 
of  animals  in  so  far  as  it  is  calculated  to 
contribute  to  the  improvement  of  science; 
and,  in  those  parts  of  physiological  science 
immediately  applicable  to  medical  prac- 
tice, we  maintain  that  such  a  sacrifice  is 
not  only  justifiable,  but  a  sacred  duty." 
—(Pp.  145-6.) 

We  have  ourselves  thought  much 
upon  this  paiuful  and  difficult  subject, 
and  are  bound  to  say  that  we  feel  un- 
able to  answer  the  reasonings  of  these 
gentlemen.  The  animab  have  been 
placed  within  our  power,  by  our  com- 
mon Maker,  to  take  their  labour,  and 
their  very  lives,  for  our  benefit — abr 
staining  from  the  infliction  of  needless 
pain  on  those  whom  G^  has  made 
susceptible  of  pain.  A  righteous  man 
regardetfi  the  life  of  his  beast^  (Pro- 
verbs, xll.  10,)  that  is  to  say,  does  not 
wantonly  inflict  pain  upon  it,  or  de- 
stroy it;  but  if  a  snrseon  honestly 
believed  that  be  could  successfully 
perform  an  operation  on  a  human 
being,  so  as  to  save  life,  if  he  first 
tried  the  operation  upon  a  living  animiU, 
but  could  not  without  it,  we  appre- 
hend, all  sentimentality  and  prejudice 
apart,  that  be  would  be  justified  in 
making  that  experiment.  Are  not 
Jive  sparrows  sold  for  two  farthings^ 
and  not  one  oftfiem  isforaotten  before 
God  f  But  even  the  very  hairs  of  your 
head   are   aU  numbered.      Fear  not 


Cooper.  [April, 

therefore ;  ye  are  of  more  value  t/icm 
many  sparrows. — (Luke,  xii.  6,  7.) 
The  reader  need  not  be  reminded 
whose  awful  words  these  are;  nor 
shall  we  dilate  upon  the  inferences  to 
be  drawn  from  them,  with  reference 
to  the  point  under  consideration. 

AvaUing  himself  of  a  dause  in  his 
articles  of  pupilage,  entitling  him  to 
spend  one  session  in  Edinburgh,  he 
resolved  to  do  so  in  the  winter  of 
1787, — taking  his  departure  for  the 
north  in  the  month  of  October.  Sel- 
dom has  a  young  English  medical 
student  gone  to  the  Scottish  metro- 
polis under  better  auspices  than  those 
under  which  Astley  Cooper  found 
himself  established  there  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  medical  year.  lie 
had  letters  of  introduction  to  the  most 
eminent  men,  not  only  in  his  own 
profession,  but  in  the  sister  sciences. 
He  was  little  more  than  nineteen 
years  of  age,  and  even  then  an  admir- 
able anatomist,  and  bent  upon  ex- 
tracting, during  his  brief  sojourn, 
every  possible  addition  to  his  profes- 
sional knowledge.  He  instantly  set 
about  his  work  in  earnest,  hiring  a 
room  for  six  shillings  a  week  at  No. 
5  Bristo  Street,  close  to  the  princi- 
pal scene  of  his  studies,  and  dining  for 
a  shilling  a-day  at  a  neighbouring 
eatiog-house.  This  he  did,  not  from 
compulsory  economy,  for  he  was  am- 
ply supplied  with  money,  and  free 
m  spending  it,  but  from  a  deter- 
mination to  put  himself  out  of  tbo 
way  of  temptation  of  any  kind,  and  to 
pursue  his  studies  without  the  chance 
of  disturbance.  His  untiring  zeal  and 
assiduity,  with  his  frequent  manifesta- 
tion of  superior  capacity  and  acquire- 
ments, yery  soon  attracted  the  notice 
of  his  professors,  and  secured  him  their 
marked  approbation.  During  the 
seven  months  which  he  spent  there, 
he  acquired  a  great  addition  to  his 
knowledge  and  reputation.  His  acute 
and  observant  mind  found  peculiar 
pleasure  in  comparing  English  and 
Scottish  methods  of  scientific  pro- 
cedure, and  deriving  thence  new  views 
and  suggestions  for  future  use.  The 
chief  professors  whom  he  attended 
were,  Dr  Gregory,  Dr  Black,  Dr 
Hamilton,  and  Dr  Rutherford;  and 
he  always  spoke  of  the  advantages 
which  their  teaching  and  practiceliad 
conferred  upon  him  with  the  highest 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 

respect.  Of  Dr  Gregory,  Mr  Cooper 
tells  OS  several  interesting  anecdotes, 
illostratiye  of  a  rough  bat  generous 
and  noble  character.*  On  the  1st 
December  1787,  Astley  Cooper  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  Roral  Medical 
Society,  the  meetings  of  which  he 
attended  reffularly;  and  so  greatly 
distingnisheof  himself  in  discnssion, 
by  his  knowledge  and  ability,  that  on  his 
departure  he  wasoffered  the  presidency 
if  he  would  return.  'He  always  based 
his  success,  on  these  occasions,  upon  the 
novel  and  accurate  doctrines  and  views 
which  he  had  obtained  from  John 
Hunter  and  Mr  Cllne.  His  engaging 
manners  made  him  a  universal  favour- 
ite at  the  college,  as  was  evidenced  by 
his  fellow-students  electing  him  the 
president  of  a  society  established  to 
protect  their  rights  against  certain 
supposed  usurpations  of  the  professors. 
He  was  also  elected  a  member  of  the 
Speculative  Society,  where  he  read  a 
paper  in  support  of  Dr  Berkeley*s 
theory  of  the  non-existence  of  matter. 
From  the  character  of  Sir  Astley 
Cooper*s  mind  and  studies,  we  are 
not  disposed  to  give  him  credit  for 
being  able  to  deal  satisfactorily  with 
such  a  subject,  or,  indeed,  with  any- 
thing metaphysical.  Though  a  letter 
from  Professor  Alison  f  represents 
Astley  Cooper  as  having  **  taken  an 
interest  in  the  metaphysical  questions 
which  then  occupied  much  of  the  at- 
tention of  the  Edinburgh  students,** 
we  suspect  that  for  "  metaphysical" 
should  be  substituted  "political.** 
He  himself  speaks  thus  frankly  on  the 
subject, — "  Dugald  Stewart  was  be- 
yond my  power  of  appreciation. 
Meiaphifsict  were  fcftiqn  to  my  mind^ 
wkkn  UHU  never  captivated  by  specula^ 
fton.*'!  Throughout  his  career  he 
proved  himself  to  have  here  taken  a 
proper  view  of  his  capacity  and  ten- 
dency. He  was  pre-eminently  a  proc- 
tical  man,  taught  in  that  spirit,  and 
enjoined  the  cultivation  of  it.  "  That 
is  the  way,  sir,"  he  would  say,  "  to 
learn  your  profession-^ook  for  your- 
self;  never  mind  what  other  people 
may  say— no  opinion  or  theones  can 
interfere  with  information  acquired 
from  dissection.**  §  Again,  in  hb  great 
work  on  Dislocatiaru  and  Fractures^ 
he  speaks  in  the  same  strain : — 


Sir  Astley  Cooper.  607 

"  YouDg  medical  men  find  it  so  mnoh 
easier  a  task  to  speculate  than  to  obserre, 
that  they  are  too  apt  to  be  pleased  with 
some  sweeping  theory,  which  saves  them 
the  trouble  of  observing  the  processes  of 
nature  ;  and  they  have  afterwards,  when 
they  embark  in  their  professional  prac- 
tice, not  only  everything  still  to  learn, 
but  also  to  abandon  those  false  impres- 
sions which  hypothesis  is  sure  to  create. 
Nothing  is  known  in  our  profession  by 
guess;  and  I  do  not  believe  that,  from 
the  first  dawn  of  medical  science  to  the 
present  moment,  a  single  correct  idea  has 
ever  emanated  from  conjecture  alone.  It 
is  right,  therefore,  that  those  who  are 
studying  their  profession,  should  be  aware 
that  there  is  no  short  road  to  knovrledge  \ 
that  observations  on  the  diseased  living, 
examinations  of  the  dead^  and  experi- 
ments npon  living  animals,  are  the  only 
sources  of  true  knowledge  ;  and  that  de- 
ductions fh>m  these  are  the  solid  basis  of 
legitimate  theory."- (P.  53.) 

In  one  respect,  he  excelled  all  his 
Scottish  companions— in  the  quickness 
and  accuracy  with  which  he  judged  of 
the  nature  of  cases  brouffht  into  the 
Infirmarv — a  power  which  he  grate- 
fally  referred  to  the  teaching  and 
example  of  his  gifted  tutor  Mr  Ciine.| 
The  young  English  student  became, 
indeed,  so  conspicuous  for  his  profes- 
sional acquirements  and  capabilities, 
that  he  was  constantly  consulted,  in 
difficult  cases,  by  his  fellow-students, 
and  even  by  the  house-surgeons.  This 
circumstance  had  a  natural  tendency 
to  sharpen  his  observation  of  all  the 
cases  coming  under  his  notice,  and  to 
develop  his  power  of  ready  ^Uscrimi- 
nation.  This,  however,  was  by  no 
means  Ids  only  obligation  to  the  Scot- 
tish medical  school ;  he  was  indebted 
to  the  peculiar  method  of  its  scholastic 
arrangements,  for  the  correction  of  a 
great  fault,  of  which  he  had  become 
conscious — via.,  the  want  of  any  syste- 
matic disposition  of  his  mnlUfadous 
acquirements.  *^This  order,"  says 
Mr  Cooper,  "  was  of  the  greatest 
importance  to  Sir  Astlev  Cooper,  and 
gave  him  not  only  a  facilltv  for  ac- 
quhing  fresh  knowledge,  but  also 
stamped  a  value  on  the  information 
he  already  possessed,  but  which,  from 
its  previous  want  of  arrangement,  was 
scarcely  ever  in  a  state  to  be  applied 
to  its  full  and  appropriate  use.    The 

•  Vol.  i.  pp.  161,164.    t/6.p.Q18.    $  76.  p.  172.    §  Vol.  u.  p.  63.    fl  VoL  L  p.  173. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


508 


Sir  AsiUy  Cooper, 


[April,  1S49. 


correction  of  this  fault,  which  gave 
him  afterwards  his  well-known  facility 
of  using  for  each  particular  case  that 
came  before  him,  all  his  knowledge 
and  experience  that  in  anyway  could 
be  brought  to  bear  upon  it,  Sir  Astley 
always  attributed  to  the  school  of 
Edinburgh.  If  this  advantage  only 
had  been  gained,  the  seven  months 
spent  in  that  city  were,  indeed,  well 
bestowed."* 

At  the  close  of  the  sessi<m,  Astley 
Cooper  determined,  before  quitting 
the  country,  to  mi^e  the  tour  of  the 
Highlands.  He  purchased,  therefore, 
two  horses,  and  hired  a  servant,  and 
-set  off  on  his  exhilarating  and  in- 
vigorating expedition  without  any 
companion.  .  ^^I  have  heard  him," 
says  his  biographer,!  ^^  describe  the 
unalloyed  delight  with  which  he  left 
the  confinement  of  the  capital  to 
enter  into  the  wild  beauties  of  the 
mountain  scenery.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  whole  world  was  before  him,  and 
that  there  were  no  limits  to  the  ex- 
tent of  his  range."  He  has  left  no 
record  of  the  impressions  which  his 
tour  had  produced  on  his  mind.  On 
his  return,  while  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land, he  suddenly  found  himself  in  a 
sad  scrape :  he  had  spent  all  his 
money,  and  was  forced  to  dismiss  his 
servant,  sell  one  of  his  horses,  and 
even  to  pawn  his  watch,  to  enable 
himself  to  return  home!  t  This  dire 
dilemma  had  been  occasioned,  it  seems, 
by  a  grand  entertainment,  inconsider- 
ately expensive,  which  he  had  given 
to  his  Mends  and  acquaintance  on 
quitting  Edinburgh.  He  himself  said, 
that  this  entertainment  made  a  deep 
impression  on  his  mind,  and  pre- 
vented him  from  ever  falling  into  a 
similar  difficulty.§  To  this  little  inci- 
dent may  doubtless  be  referred  a  con- 
siderable change  in  his  disposition 
with  regard  to  pecuniary  matters. 
When  young,  he  was  liberal,  even  to 
extravagance,  and  utterly  careless 
about  preserving  any  ratio  between 
his  expenditure  and  his  means.  Many 


traits  of  his  generosity  are  given  in 
these  volumes. 

Astley  Cooper  always  spoke  of  his 
sojourn  in  6cothind  with  satiBfactiim 
and  gratitude:  not  only  on  acconnt 
of  the  sdid  acqoisltion  of  profanioiial 
knowledge  which  he  had  made  there, 
and  the  generous  cordiality  and  confi- 
dence with  whidi  he  had  been  treated 
by  both  professors  and  students  ;  but 
also  of  the  social  pleasores  which  he 
had  enjoyed,  in  such  few  intervals  of 
relaxation  as  his  ravenous  love  of 
study  permitted.  He  was,  we  repeat, 
formed  for  society.  We  have  our- 
selves frequently  seen  him,  and  re- 
gard him  as  having  been  one  of  the 
handsomest  and  most  fascinating  men 
of  our  time.  Not  a  trace  was  there 
in  his  symmetrical  features,  and  their 
gay,  frank  expression,  of  the  exhaust- 
ing, repulsive  labour  of  the  dissecting- 
room  and  hospital.  Yon  would,  in 
looking  at  him,  have  thought  him  a 
mere  man  of  plea^re  and  fashion ;  so 
courtly  and  cheerfhl  were  his  unafiected 
carriage,  countenance,  and  manners. 
The  instant  that  you  were  with  Mm, 
you  felt  at  your  ease.  How  such  a 
man  must  have  enjoyed  the  so- 
cial circles  of  Edinburgh  I  How 
many  of  its  fair  maid^'  hearts 
must  have  flutt^^  when  in  ]^x- 
imity  to  their  enchanting  Eng- 
lish visitor  I  Thus  their  views  must 
have  been  darkened  by  regret  at  his 
departure.  And  let  us  place  on  record 
the  impressions  which  the  fair  Athe- 
nians produced  upon  Astley  Cooper. 
'*  He  always  spoke  of  the  Edinburgh 
ladies  with  the  highest  encomiums; 
and  used  to  maintain  that  they  pos- 
sessed an  afiability  and  simplid^  of 
manners  which  he  had  not  often  found 
elsewhere,  in  conjunction  with  the  su- 
perior intellectual  attamments  whidi 
at  the  same  time  generally  distin- 
guished thQm.'*§  But,  in  justice  to 
their  southern  sisters,  we  must  hint, 
though  in  anticipation,  that  he  twice 
selected  a  wife  from  among  them. 


•  Vol  i.  pp.  174-175.  1 76.  p.  175.  $/6.p.  178.  $  76.  p.  173-3. 


PrmU9db9WiUkmBh(^tw<i^m^Som,EdM^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  ccccm. 


MAY,  1849. 


Vol.  LXV, 


COLOlOBA'n^OK — ^MR  WAKEFIELD's  THEORY. 


We  agree  with  those,  and  they  are 
the  majority  of  reflective  minds,  who, 
taking  a  survey  of  onr  half-peopled 
globe,  and  considering  the  peculiar 

rition  which  England  occupies  on 
-her  great  mantime  power,  her 
great  commercial  wants,  her  over- 
flowing numbers,  her  overflowing 
wealth — ^have  concluded  that  coloni- 
sation is  a  work  to  which  she  is 
especially  called.  She  is  called  to  it 
by  her  marked  aptitude  and  capa- 
bility for  the  task,  as  well  as  by  an 
enlightened  view  of  her  own  interests. 
Without  too  much  national  partiality, 
without  overlooking  6ur  own  faults, 
and  that  canker  of  a  too  money- 
loving,  too  money-making  morality, 
which  has  eaten  into  our  character, 
(though  perhaps  not  more  so  than  it 
has  corroded  the  character  of  other 
European  nations,  who  have  quite  as 
strong  a  passion  for  gold,  without  the 
^ame  industry  in  obtaining  it,)  we 
may  boldly  say  that  the  best  seed- 
plot  of  the  human  race  that  now 
exists  (\tt  the  best  bo  estimated  as 
it  may  by  the  moralist  and  the  divine) 
is  to  be  found  in  this  island  of  Great 
Britain.  To  plant  the  unoccupied 
regions  &f  the  earth,  or  regions  merely 
wandered  over  by  scattered  tribes  of 
savages,  who  cannot  be  said  to  possess 
a  soil  which  they  do  not  use,  by  off- 
sets from  this  island,  is  itself  a  good 
work.  It  is  laying  no  ill  foundation 
for  the  future  nations  that  shall  thus 


arise,  to  secure  to  them  the  same  lan- 
guage, the  same  literature,  the  same 
form  of  religion,  the  same  polity,  or, 
at  all  events,  the  same  political  tem- 
per (the  love  and  obedience  to  a 
constitution)  that  we  possess;  to 
make  native  to  them  that  literature 
in  which  the  great  Christian  epic  has 
been  written,  in  which  philosophy  has 
spoken  most  temperately,  and  poetry 
most  profusely,  diversely,  and  vigo- 
rously. Nor  will  England  fail  to  reap 
her  own  reward  from  this  enterprise. 
In  every  part  of  the  world  an  Eng- 
lishman will  find  a  home.  It  will  be 
as  if  his  own  native  soil  had  been 
extended,  as  if  duplicates  of  his 
own  native  land  had  risen  from  the 
ocean.  A  commercial  intercourse  of 
the  most  advantageous  character  will 
spring  up;  the  population  and  the 
wealth  of  the  old  country  will  find 
fresh  fields  of  employment  in  the 
new ;  the  old  country  will  itself  grow 
young  again,  and  start  in  the  race 
with  her  own  children  for  competi- 
tors. Neither  will  the  present  age 
pass  by  without  participating  in  the 
benefit,  smce  its  overcrowded  popula- 
tion will  be  relieved  bv  the  departure 
of  many  who  will  exchange  want  for 
plenty,  and  despondency  for  hope. 
Whatever  opinion  may  be  held  of 
the  remedial  efficacy  against  future 
pauperism  of  a  system  of  emigration^ 
It  must  be  allowed  that  this  present 
relief  arrives  most  opportunely,  as  a 


A  Viem  of  the  Art  of  Colonitaiion,  vUh  present  reference  to  the  Brititk  Empire  ; 
in  Letters  between  a  Statesman  and  a  Colonist,  Edited  by  (one  of  the  wnters) 
EdwaBD  OtBBON  WAKxrnsfj). 


VOL.  Lxv. — vo.  ccccm. 


2k 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


510 


CoIomMation—Mr  Wak^fiMi  Theory. 


CMaj, 


balance*  to  that  extraordinary  prees- 
nre  |nx>diiced  by  the  distress  in  Ire- 
land, and  the  inflox  of  its  famine- 
stricken  peasantry  into  other  parts  of 
the  kingaom. 

On  tnis  snbject — the  measnre  of 
permanent  rehef  which  ooloidoiliom 
will  afford  to  this  country  by  carrying 
off  its  sorplns  population — the  degree 
in  which  emigration  may  be  calcn- 
lated  npon  as  the  future  antagonist  of 
pauperism  —  we  would  speak  with 
caution.  We  are  so  far  hopeful  that 
we  see  here  a  great  resource  against 
the  national  evil  of  an  unemployed 
population,  but  it  is  a  resource  which 
must  be  rightly  understood  and  wisely 
taken  advantage  of;  it  is  a  great 
resource  for  an  intelligent  people ;  it 
comes  in  aid  of  that  fundamental 
remedy,  a  good  sound  education  far 
^e  people,  moral  and  religious,  but 
is  no  suDstitnte  for  that  most  neces- 
flanr  of  all  n^asures.  Misonderstoodf 
and  yaguely  relied  on  by  those  who 
know  not  how  properly  to  avail  them- 
selves of  it,  the  xnt>qpect  of  emigra- 
tion may  even  prove  mischievous,  by 
rei^ering  the  thoughtleBS  and  impro- 
vident B&il  more  reckless,  still  more 
Improvident. 

Granted,  it  may  be  said,  that  eni- 
cration  supplies  an  outlet  annuaUv 
for  a  certam  excess  of  population,  it 
supplies,  by  that  very  reason,  an  addi- 
tional and  constant  impulse  to  an 
increase  of  population.  The  old 
country  may  overflow,  but  it  is  ah^ys 
kept  full,  and  to  the  brim.  The 
restraint  of  prudence  is  relaxed. 
**  We  can  feed  ourselves;  and,  as  to 
our  children,  are  there  not  the 
colonies?  *^  may  be  said  by  many  an 
improvident  pair.  Feo|de  even  of 
the  better  sOTt,  who  would  shrink 
from  the  idea  of  their  diildren  sinking 
into  a  lower  grade  of  society  than 
they  themselves  oocni^d,  woidd  And 
in  emigration  a  vague  provision  fbr 
the  future  fiunily — a  provision  which 
would  often  ditappdnt  them,  and 
which  they  would  often  M  in  resolu- 
tion to  embrace. 

Let  it  be  borne  In  mind  that,  when 
we  speak  of  the  duty  of  restraining 
from  improvident  marriage,  we  are 
not  inculcating  any  new  morality 
founded  npcm  the  recent  sd^ioe  of 
political  cooioray.  It  is  a  duty  as 
old  as  the  love  of  a  parent  to  his 


child,  and  needs  only  for  its  enforce- 
ment an  anticipation  of  this  parental 
affection.  No  man  who  has  married, 
and  become  a  &ther,  ever  doubted 
of  the  existence  of  such  a  duty,  or 
ffl[>oke  slightingly  of  it.  Ask  the 
Sootch  i>ea8ast,  ask  the  simplest 
Switzer,  who  knows  nothing  of  read- 
ing-clubs or  mechanics*  institutes — 
who  has  perhi^s  never  quitted  his 
native  valley,  and  all  whose  know- 
ledge is  the  gprowth  of  his  own  roof- 
tree — ^what  he  thinks  of  the  morality 
of  him  who  becomes  the  fiditer  of  a 
family  he  cannot  rear,  or  must  rear 
like  wild  beasts  more  than  men— he 
will  give  you  an  answer  that  would 
satisfy  the  strictest  Malthusian.  The 
prudence*  that  would  avoid  famine^ 
the  just  and  righteous  fear  of  having 
hungry  children  about  our  knees — this 
is  no  new  wisdom  in  tiie  world, 
thoujg^  like  all  our  old  wisdom,  it 
continually  cries  in  vain  in  oar  streets. 
Now  the  operation  of  this,  in  every 
respect,  moral  restraint  would  be 
materially  interfered  with,  if  tiie 
notion  should  prevail,  that  in  the 
colonies  there  existed  (without  any 
distinct  knowledge  how  it  was  to  hb 
secured)  an  inexhaustible  provisimi 
for  human  h§e.  Numbers  would 
many,  trusting  to  this  resource,  yet 
the  offspring  of  such  marriages  might 
never  reach  their  destined  refuge,  or 
reach  it  only  after  mnch  suffering, 
and  in  the  degraded  condition  of  un- 
educated paupers.  And  men  who 
have  calcnkted  that,  at  all  events, 
without  seeking  idd  from  Govemmfflit 
or  tiie  parish,  they  shall  be  able  to 
send  their  child  abroad,  when  the 
child  has  grown  up,  will  hesitate  to 
part  with  it  They  had  calculated 
what]  they  would  do,  whenparents, 
before  they  became  such.  They  had 
not  been  able  to  anticipate  that  bond 
of  parental  affection  which,  we  may 
observe  in  passing,  is  by  no  means 
weakest  in  the  humblest  ranks,  Imt, 
on  tiie  contrary,  until  we  reach  the 
very  lowest,  seems  to  increase  in 
strength  as  we  descend  in  the  sodal 
scale. 

The  fiact  Is,  that  it  is  not  as  a  dis- 
tant provision  fnr  their  children  that 
the  youthful  piur  shotdd  be  taught  to 
look  on  emigration.  If  it  comes  at 
all  into  their  calculation,  they  should 
embrace  it  as  a  provirion  ror  them* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1840.] 


CokmUaikm--Mr  WtA^fiMn  Tkeorp. 


611 


fielTes,  and,  turoQ^  them,  for  thdr 
ftitare  ofl&priog.  Thej  ahonld  carry 
their  hopes  ait  once  to  the  climate 
whidi  is  to  realise  tiiem.  Marriage 
Bhoold  be  the  period  of  emigration. 
At  this  period  a  man  can  readily  leave 
his  country,  for  he  can  leave  his  home. 
The  new^  married  couple,  as  it  is 
commonly  said,  and  with  no  undue 
exaggeration,  are  all  the  world  to 
each  other.  It  is  at  this  period  that 
men  have  double  the  strength,  for 
ihtj  have  twice  the  hope,  and  exhi- 
lantion,  and  enterprise,  that  they 
have  at  any  other  epoch  (mT  their  lives. 
That  slender  hoard,  too,  which  will 
80  soon  be  wasted  in  this  country, 
which  a  few  pleasures  will  drain, 
would  cany  them  creditably  into  an- 
otiier,  and  lay  the  foundation  for  the 
utmost  prosperity  their  burth  and  oon- 
dition  has  led  them  to  wish  for.  To 
tiie  distant  colony  let  them  not  devote 
their  ill-fed  and  ill-taught  children ; 
but,  going  thither  themselves,  rear  a 
healthy  race  for  whooi  they  will  have 
no  cares.  If  at  Hda  period  of  life  it 
should  become  the  fashkm  of  the 
bumbler  dasses  to  emigrate,  it  would 
be  difficult  to  say  how  mr  our  oolontes 
miffht  become  a  leal,  and  effectual, 
and  permanent  resoaroe  against  over- 
populatiom.  At  all  events,  the  mis- 
chievous influence  we  have  been  de- 
Boribmg  coukl  never  arise.  We  see 
not  why  England,  if  she  learns  rightly 
to  use  them,  may  not  reap  from  her 
colonies  all  those  advantages  wfaidi 
the  United  States  have  been  so  fre- 
quently felkdtated  upon  in  their  terri- 
tories in  the  Far  West.  Much  will 
depend  on  the  current  which  public 
c^inion  takes.  Presuming  that  Gov- 
ernment discontinues  entffely  the  old 
system  of  transportation,  whkh  must 
alwavs  render  emigrstion  extremely 
impalfttable;  i»^eeuming  thata  steady, 
equitable  rule  is  adopted  in  dealing 
with  the  unappropriated  land,  so  that 
a  moderate  pnoe,  a  speed  v  possession, 
and  a  secure  title  may  be  dq>ended 
npon—wethink  it  highly  probable  that 
colonisation  will  become  very  popular 
amongst  us.  The  more  that  is  learnt 
about  the  colonies,  the  more  the  ima- 
gination is  fiuniliarised  witii  them  by 
accounts  of  tiidr  climate,  fxroducts, 
and  the  mode  of  life  pursued  in  them, 
the  less  apparent,  and  tiie  less  feuv 
fhl  will  their  distance  become,  ondtiie 


more  frequently  will  men  find  tiiem- 
selves  canyhig  tiieir  hopes  and  enter- 
prises in  that  direction.  If,  therrfore, 
an  intelligent  and  practicable  view  is 
taken  of  colonisation,  we  may  re-echo, 
without  scruple,  the  words  of  our 
thoughtful  poiet — 

"ATMintthefflir 
Of  nmnben  crowded  in  their  natiTe  soil. 
To  the  urevention  of  all  healthful  gnrwtfi 
Through  mutual  injury  1  Rather  in  the  law 
Of  increaae,  and  the  mandate  from  aboTe, 
Rejoice  I~«nd  je  have  ipecial  cawe  for  joj. 
For,  as  the  element  of  air  affords 
An  easj  passage  to  the  indostrions  bees, 
Fraoght  with  their  burdens,  and  s-  my  at 

smooth, 
For  thoae  otdained  to  tike  their  somding 

flight 
From  the  thronged  hive,  and  settle  where 

they  list. 
In  fresh  abodes— their  labour  to  renew; 
So  the  wide  waters  open  to  the  power, 
The  will,  the  instinetB,  and  the  appointed 

needs 
Of  Britain;  do  inyite  her  to  cast  off 
Her  swarms,  and  in  snccession  send  them  forth 
Bound  to  establish  new  commnnities 
On  ereiy  shore  whose  aspect  fitTonrs  hope 
Or  bold  adtentave;  pronuaing  to  skill 
And  pwsevscanoe  thdr  deserved  reward.'* 
Ewatnitfnj  hook  9. 

How  best  to  colonise ;  how  frtr 
Government  should  undertake  the 
regulation  and  control  of  the  enter- 
prise ;  how  far  leave  it  to  the  spirit 
and  intelligence  of  private  individuals, 
separate  or  banded  together  in  groups, 
or  companies ;  and  eq;>ecially  under 
what  terms  it  shall  pmnit  the  occu- 
pation of  the  unappropriated  soil — all 
these  have  become  higfaly  interesting 
topics  of  discussion. 

For  ourselves,  we  will  at  once 
frankly  confess  that  we  have  no  faith 
in  an^  model  colonies,  in  ideals  of  any 
descnption,  or  in  any  "  Art  of  coloni- 
sation.^ What  has  been  done,  may 
be  done  again ;  what  America  is  do- 
inff  every  day  on  the  banks  of  the 
M]ssiss4>pi,  £n^^d  may  do  in  her 
Australian  contment.  \Vlth  regard 
more  paiticulariy  to  the  last  and  most 
important  matter  that  can  afifect  a 
new  settlement,  the  mode  of  dealing 
with  the  land,  it  appears  to  us  that 
the  duties  of  Government  are  few, 
simple,  and  Imperative— as  simple  in 
their  character  as  they  are  indispen- 
sable. A  previous  survey,  a  moderate 
price,  lots  large  and  small  to  suit  all 
purchasers— ti^  aie  what  we  i^ould 
require.    The  land-jobber,  who  faiter- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


512 

poses  between  Government  and  the 
emigrant,  to  make  a  cmel  profit  of  the 
latter,  must  be  kept  oat,  either  by 
laying  a  tax  (as  they  do  in  America, 
under  thedenomination  of  the  *^  Wild- 
land  Tax,")  on  all  laud  not  reclaimed 
within  a  certain  time,  or  by  declaring 
the  purchase  forfeited,  if,  within  that 
4ime,  the  soil  is  not  cultivated.  Grov- 
ernment  also  must  restrain  its  own 
hands  from  large  grants  to  favoured 
Individuals,  who  are  no  better  than 
another  species  of  land  jobbers.  Thb, 
though  a  merely  negative  duty,  will 
probably  be  the  last  performed,  and 
the  most  imperfectly.  Few  readers 
are  perhaps  aware  of  the  criminal  ease 
with  which  the  Government  has  been 
persuaded  into  lavish  grants  of  land 
to  persons  who  had,  and  could  have, 
no  immediate  prospect  of  making  use 
of  it ;  enormous  grants  unjust  to  other 
settlers,  and  ruinous  to  the  young  co- 
lony, by  dispersing  the  emigrants,  in- 
terposing between  them  wide  tracts 
of  barren  property.  We  ourselves 
read  with  no  little  surprise  the  follow- 
ing statement,  which  we  extract  from 
the  work  before  us,  Mr  Wakefield's 
Art  of  Colonisation  : — 

*'  There  are  plenty  of  cases  in  which 
mischievoas  dispersion  has  taken  place, 
but  not  one,  to  my  knowledge,  in  which 
the  great  bulk  of  settlers  had  a  choice 
between  dispersion  and  concentration. 
In  the  founding  of  West  Australia  there 
was  no  choice.  In  disposing  of  the  waste 
land,  the  Govemment  began  hg  granting 
500,000  aerts  {nearly  half  at  muck  as  the 
gnat  county  of  Norfolk)  to  one  person. 
Then  came  the  governor  and  a  few  other 
j)er9ong,  with  grants  of  immense  extent. 
The  first  grantee  took  his  principality  at 
-the  landing-place  ;  and  the  second,  of 
course,  could  only  choose  his  outside  of 
this  vast  property.  Then  the  property 
of  the  second  grantee  compelled  the  third 
to  go  farther  off  for  land  ;  and  the  fourth 
again  was  driven  still  fiirther  into  the 
wilderness.  At  length,  though  by  a  very 
brief  process,  an  immense  territory  was 
appropriated  by  a  few  settlers,  who  were 
so  effectually  dispersed,  that,  as  there 
were  no  roads  or  maps,  scarcely  one  of 
them  knew  where  ho  was.  Each  of 
them  knew,  indeed,  that  he  was  where 
he  was  positiyely  ;  but  his  relatire  posi- 
tion— not  to  his  neighbours,  for  he  was 
alone  in  the  wildemesa,  bat  to  other 
eettlen,  to  the  seat  of  government,  and 
even  to  the  landing-plaoe  of  the  colony — 
was  totally  conoeal«d  from  him.    This 


CohtUicUian^Mr  Wak^ehtg  7%eaiy. 


[May, 


is,  I  believe,  the  most  extreme  ease  of 
dispersion  on  reo<ffd.  In  the  foondiiig  of 
South  Africa  by  the  Dutch,  the  dis- 
persion of  the  first  settlers,  though  la- 
perficially  or  acreaUy  less,  was  as  mis- 
chierous  as  at  Swan  Rirer.  The  mis> 
chief  shows  itself  in  the  fact,  that  two 
of  the  finest  countries  in  the  world  are 
still  poor  and  stagnant  colonies  Bta 
in  all  colonies^  without  exception,  there  hat 
beenimpoveriihing  dispersion^  arising frooL 
one  and  the  tame  eauu" — (P.  43d.) 

Two  very  different  ideals  of  coloni- 
sation have  often  haunted  the  imagi- 
nations of  speculative  men,  and  co- 
loured very  diversely  their  views  and 
projects  on  this  subject.  Both  have 
their  favourable  aspects ;  neither  is 
practicable.  As  is  usual,  the  rough 
reality  rides  zig-zag  between  your 
ideals,  touching  at  both  in  turns,  but 
running  parallel  with  neither. 

With  one  party  of  reasoners,  the 
ideal  of  a  colony  would  be  a  minia- 
ture England,  a  little  model  of  the 
old  country,  framed  here,  at  home, 
and  sent  out  (like  certain  ingeniously- 
constructed  houses)  to.  be  erected 
forthwith  upon  the  virgin  soiL  A 
portion  of  all  classes  would  sally  forth 
for  their  New  Jerusalem.  The  church, 
with  tower  and  steeple,  the  manor- 
house,  the  public  library,  the  town- 
hall,  the  museum,  and  the  hospital, 
would  all  simultaneously  be  repro- 
duced. Science  would  have  its  repre- 
sentatives. Literature  with  its  light 
luggage,  thoughts  and  paper,  would 
be  sure  to  hover  about  the  train. 
Nobility  would  import  its  antique 
honours  into  the  new  city,  and,  with 
escutcheon  and  coat  of  arms,  tradi- 
tionally connect  it  with  knighthood 
and  chivalry,  Agincourt,  and  the 
Round  Table.  There  would  be  phy- 
sicians and  divines,  lawyers,  and 
countiygentlemen  "  who  live  at  ease,'' 
as  well  as  the  artisan  and  ploughman, 
and  all  who  work  in  wood  and  in 
iron.  Dr  Hind,  the  present  Dean 
of  Cariisle,  in  an  elegantly  written 
essay,  incorporated  in  Mr  Wakefield's 
book,  proposes  and  advocates  this 
mode  of  colonisation.  After  remark- 
ing on  the  greater  success  which  ap- 
parently accompanied  the  schemes  of 
the  Gi'eeks  and  Romans  to  found  new 
communities,  Dr  Hind  thus  proceeds. 
—The  italics,  it  may  be  as  well  to  say, 
are  his,  not  ours. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


CoUmisatkm^Mr  Wah^fiMs  Theory. 


"  The  main  cause  of  this  difference 
may  be  stated  in  few  words.  We  send 
oat  colonies  of  the  limbs,  without  the 
belly  and  the  head ;  of  needy  persons, 
man^  of  them  mere  paupers,  or  even 
crimmals;  colonies  made  up  of  a  single 
chxss  of  persons  in  the  community, 
and  that  the  most  helpless,  and  the 
most  unfit  to  perpetuate  our  national 
character,  and  to  become  the  fathers 
of  a  race  whose  habits  of  thinking 
and  feeling  shall  correspond  to  those 
which,  in  the  mean  time,  we  are 
cherishing  at  home.  The  ancients,  on 
the  contrary,  sent  out  a  representa- 
Hon  of  the  parent  state — cohnistsfrom 
aU  ranks^  And  further  on,  after  in- 
sisting on  the  propriety  of  appointing 
to  the  colony  educated  ana  accom- 
plished clergymen,  he  says — "The 
same  may  be  urged  in  respect  of  men 
of  other  professions  and  pursuits. 
The  desirable  consummation  of  the 
plan  would  be,  that  a  specimen,  or 
sample,  as  it  were,  of  all  that  goes  to 
make  up  society  in  the  parent  coun- 
try, should  erf  once  be  transferred  to 
its  colony.  Instead  of  sending  out 
bad  seedlings,  and  watching  their 
uncertain  growth,  let  us  try  whether 
a  perfect  tree  will  not  bear  trans- 
planting.'* 

We  apprehend  that  this  project  of 
*^ transplanting  a  perfect  tree"  is 
none  of  the  most  feasible.  However 
the  Greeks  managed  matters,  we 
modems  find  it  absolutely  necessary 
to  begin  "at  the  beginning,'*  and  with 
somewhat  rude  beginnings.  If  the 
Greeks  had  the  art  in  the  colony,  as 
in  the  epic  poem,  of  rushing  in  mediae 
res— of  starting  with  and  from  ma- 
turity— then  indeed  must  colonisation 
be  reckoned,  as  Dr  Hind  seems  half 
to  suspect,  amongst  the  artes  perdita. 
Anything  more  lamentable  than  a 
number  of  cultivated  men — "samples" 
of  all  kinds,  physicians,  and  divines, 
and  lawyers,  with,  of  course,  their 
severfd  ladies — set  down  upon  the  un- 
cultivated soil,  on  the  long  green 
grass,  we  cannot  imagine.  It  seems 
to  us  quite  ricrht  and  unavoidable  to 
send  out  "  a  smgle  class,"  first — good 
stout  "  limbs,**  without  much  of  "the 
belly** — which  must  mean,we  presume, 
the  idle  folks,  or  much  of  "  the  head,*^ 
which  must  mean  the  tiiinkers.  That 
class,  or  those  clanea 
the  soil,  and 


613? 

what  habitable,  had  better  surely 
precede,  and  act  as  pioneers,  before 
the  gentry  disembark  from  their 
ships.  Other  classes  must  follow  as 
they  are  wanted,  and  find  room  and 
scope.  What  would  the  physician  do 
with  his  elaborate  skill  and  com*tesy, 
without  that  congregation  of  idlers  on 
whose  ailments  he  rides  and  dines? 
AVhat  need  yet  of  eloquent  barrister, 
or  are  his  fees  forthcoming,  when  a 
new  estate  could  be  purchased  witb 
less  money  than  would  serve  to  de- 
fend the  old  one  by  his  pleading? 
Who  would  attend  to  the  man  of 
science,  and  his  latest  experiments  onr 
magnetic  currents,  when  every  one  is 
trying  over  again  the  very  first 
experiment  —  how  to  live? — where 
cora  will  grow,  and  what  the  potato 
will  yield?  Even  your  clergy 
must  be  of  a  somewhat  different 
stamp  from  the  polished  ecclesiastic, 
the  bland  potentate  of  our  drawing- 
rooms.  He  must  have  something  more 
natural — "some  rough-cast  and  a 
little  loam  **  about  him,  be  serviceable, 
accessible.  And  the  fair  "  sample  ** 
partners  of  all  these  classes,  what  is 
to  become  of  them  ?  As  yet,  pin- 
money  is  not.  There  is  nothing  re- 
fined and  civilised ;  men  talk  of  mar- 
liage  as  if  for  prayer-book  purposes. 
Very  gross  ideas ! 

The  ancients,  says  Dr  Hind,  "  be- 
gan by  nominating  to  the  honourable 
ofiSce  of  captain,  or  leader  of  the 
colony,  one  of  the  chief  men,  if  not 
the  chief  man  of  the  state — ^like  the 
queen  bee  leading  the  workers.  Mon* 
archies  provided  a  prince  of  the  blood 
royal ;  an  aristocracy  its  choicest  no- 
bleman ;  a  democracy  its  most  infiu- 
ential  dtixen.*'  In  order  to  entice 
some  one  of  our  gentry — some  one  of 
wealth,  station,  and  cultivated  mind, 
to  act  as  "  queen  bee  **  of  the  colony 
— seeing  that  a  prince  of  the  blood 
royal,  or  a  Duke  of  Northumberland, 
would  be  hard  to  catch — the  Doctor 
proposes  to  bestow  upon  him  a  patent 
of  nobility.  Wealth  ho  has  already, 
and  wealth  would  not  bribe  him,  but 
honour  might.  We  see  nothing  ridi- 
culous whatever  in  the  suggestion.  A 
patent  of  nobility  might  be  much 
worse  bestowed;  but,  unless  we  err 
greatly  in  our  notion  of  what  coloni- 
Bfttion  really  is,  the  bribe  would  be 
»ly  insufficient.    The  English 


Google 


514 


CohmsaUom    Mir  Wak^UUTt  Thoory. 


[M»r, 


gentiemaa  of  jfbrtime  and  of  taste,  wbo 
should  leave  Ids  park  and  mansion  in 
the  county  of  Middlesex,  to  share  the 
sqoabbles  and  discomforts  of  a  crowd 
of  emigrants — ^too  often  turbolent, 
anxious,  and  avaricious — ^wonld  have 
If  ell  earned  his  earldom.  He  would 
be  a  sort  of  hero.  Men  of  such  atem- 
per  you  may  decorate  with  the  straw- 
berry leaf,  but  it  is  not  the  coronet, 
nor  any  possible  bribe — nothing  short 
of*  a  certain  thirst  for  noble  enterprise 
can  prompt  them. 

Hie  other  ideal  of  what  colonisa- 
tion might  be  is  quite  the  reverse, 
presents  a  picture  every  way  opposite 
to  this  of  our  classical  dean.  Many 
energetic  and  not  uncultured  spirits, 
wearied  with  the  endless  anxieties, 
cares,  hypocrisies,  and  thousand  arti- 
ficialities of  life,  are  delighted  with 
the  idea  of  breaking  loose  from  the 
old  trammds  and  conventionalities  of 
civilisation.  Their  romance  is  to  be- 
gin life  afresh.  Far  from  desiring  to 
form  a  part  of  the  little  model-Eng- 
land, they  would  take  from  the  Old 
Worid,  if  possible,  nothing  more  than 
knowledge,  seeds,  and  tools.  To  a 
fresh  nature  they  would  take  a  fresh 
heart,  and  a  vigorous  arm.  Fields 
rescued  by  themselves  fh>m  the  waste 
should  ripen  under  their  own  eyes. 
Thus,  with  a  rude  plenty,  care  and 
luxury  alike  cut  off,  no  heartburnings, 
no  vanity,  a  cultivated  temper  and 
coarse  raiment — they  and  their  fami- 
lies, and  some  neighbours  of  kindred 
dispo^ons,  wouM  reallv  enjoy  the 
earth,  and  the  being  God  had  given 
them.  Not  theirs  the  wish  to  see  a 
matured  society  spring  from  the  new 
soiL  They  regret  to  think  that  thdr 
own  rustic  community  must  inevitably 
advance,  or  decline,  mto  some  one  <^ 
the  old  forms  of  dviiisation ;  butthef 
and  their  children,  and  perhaps  their 
grandchildren,  would  be  partakers  of 
a  peculiar  and  envied  state  of  social 
existence,  where  the  knowledge  and 
amenity  brought  from  the  old  cosntry 
would  be  combined  with  the  healthy 
toil  and  simple  abundance  of  the  new; 
where  life  would  be  unanxious,  labo- 
rious, free;  where  there  would  be  no 
talk  of  wars,  nor  pofitics,  nor  eternal 
remedilefls  distreas ;  but  a  disciplined 
humanity,  in  face  of  %  kindly  nature 
whose  bounty  had  not  yet  been  too 
severely  taxed. 


A  charming  ideall  which  here  and 
there  is  faintly  and  transiently  real- 
ised. Here  and  there  we  catch  s 
description  of  this  simple,  exhUaratii^ 
innoctton^  enterprising  life,  either  m 
some  Canadian  settlement,  or  in  the 
forests  of  America,  or  even  in  Ihe  Butk 
of  Australia.  There  is  rude  health  in 
all  the  family;  hoosekeepingisasortof 
perpetual  pic-nic,  full  <»  amusing 
make-shifts;  there  is  rudeness,  but 
not  barbarism ;  little  upholstery,  but 
wife  and  child  are  caressed  with  aa 
much  amenity  and  gentfe  fondness  aa 
in  caipeted  and  curtained  drawing- 
rooms.  If  the  tin  can  should  substi- 
tute the  china  cup,  the  tea  is  drunk 
with  not  the  less  urbanity.  Sudi 
scenes  we  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  in 
this  or  that  writer.  But  alas!  that 
which  generally  characterises  tbe 
young  settlement,  let  it  be  youns  as 
It  may — tiiat  which  would  so  wondly 
disappohit  our  pastoral  and  romantus 
onigrant,  is  precisely  this :  that,  in- 
stead of  leaving  care  behind  them,  the 
care  to  get  rich,  I9  ^  on,  as  it  is  dis- 
gustingly called — our  colonists  take  a 
double  porticm  of  this  commodity  with 
them.  Comparatively  few  seem  to 
emigrate  simply  to  live  then  and  there 
more  happily.  They  take  land,  as 
they  would  take  a  shop,  to  get  a  profit 
and  be  rich.  And  then,  as  for  the 
little  community  and  its  puUic  or  oom- 
moninterests,  it  istheQuiversal  remark 
that,  if  politics  in  England  are  acrid 
enough,  colonial  politics  are  bitterness 
itself.  Thewaris  carried  on  with  a  per- 
sonal hatred,  and  attended  by  personal 
injuries,  unknown  in  the  old  countiy. 

One  would  indeed  think  that  peo^e, 
fktigued  vrith  this  imxious  passion 
which  plays  so  large  a  part  in  English 
life — this  desire  to  advance,  or  secure, 
their  social  position — would  seize  the 
opportunity  to  escape  from  it,  and 
rejoice  in  their  abili^  to  live  in  some 
degree  of  freedom  and  tranquillity. 
But  no.  The  man  comm^xe  bred 
cares  not  to  enjoy  life  and  the  day. 
He  must  make  a  profit  out  of  himsefr; 
he  must  squeeze  a  profit  out  of  others; 
he  toils  only  for  this  purpose.  If  he 
has  succeeded,  in  the  new  colony,  in 
raising  about  him  the  requisite  com- 
forts of  life— if  he  has  been  even 
rescued  firom  threatened  famine  in 
England,  and  is  now  living  and  well 
housed,  he  and  his  family  —  you  find 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


184«L] 


CoUminiiai^^Mr  Wdk^fiMs  Theory^ 


515 


Ilim  MLol  discontent  because  of  the 
*^  exorbitant  wages ^*  he  has  to  pay  to 
the  fellow  emigrants  who  assist  him  in 
gathering  in  lus  com— foil  of  discon* 
tent,  beeaose  he  cannot  make  the  same 
profit  of  another  man's  labour  ^Mr& 
that  he  could  have  done  in  the  old 
country — ^in  that  old  coontrj  where  he 
eoold  not  for  his  life  have  got  so  mnch 
land  as  the  miserable  rag  upon  his 
back  would  have  covered.  Scu^  men 
carry  out  a  heart  to  work»  none  to 
enjoy:  they  have  not  been  cnltivated 
Cor  that.  The  first  thing  the  ocdonist 
looks  for  is  something  to  export.  It 
was  in  vain  that  Adelaide  boasted  its 
charming  climate  and  fruitM  fields;  it 
«  was  on  the  point  of  bem|;  abandoned — 
so  we  hear — ^by  many  of  its  inhabitants, 
when  some  mines  were  discovered. 
There  was  then  something  that  would 
sell  in  England,  something  to  get  rich 
with;  so  they  Uiat  would  have  left  the 
soil,  stayed  to  work  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth.  In  the  Busk  you  hear  of 
the  shepherds  and  small  owners  of 
sheep  living,  the  year  round,  on  ^'salt 
beef^  tea,  and  damper,"  which  laat  is 
an  extemporised  bread,  an  unleavened 
dough  baked  in  such  oven  as  the  usual 
fire-place  supplies.  But  firesh  mutton^ 
you  exclaim,  is  plentiful  enough;  what 
need  to  diet  ^emselves  as  if  they  were 
still  in  the  hoLd  of  that  vessel  which 
bronc^t  them  over?  True,  {dentifiil 
enough — it  sells  in  Sydney  at  some 
three-halfoence  a  pound;  but  while 
the  sheep  lives  it  grows  wool  upon  its 
back.  For  this  wool  it  is  bred.  Some- 
times it  is  boiled  down  bodily  for  its 
tallow,  which  also  can  be  exported. 
Mutton-chops  wcMild  be  a  waste ;  it 
would  be  a  sin  to  think  of  them. 

Set  sail  from  Inland  in  whichever 
direction  you  will.  East  or  West, 
over  whichever  ocean,  tiie  first  thing 
you  hear  o^  in  respect  to  colonial 
society,  is  its  proverbial  ^^smartness" — 
an  expression  which  signifies  a  deter- 
minaiiim  to  cheat  you  in  every  possiUe 
manntf .  The  Old  Wprid,  and  the 
worst  of  it,  is  already  there  to  welcome 
you.  Nay,  it  has  taken  possession  of 
the  very  soil  before  the  spade  of  the 
emigrant  can  toudi  it.  There  lies  the 
fresh  land,  fresh — so  geologists  say  of 
Anstraliar--as  it  came  up  at  its  last 
emergence  firom  the  ocean.  Ton  are 
first  ?  No.  The  land-jobber  is  there 
before  you.    This  foulest  harpy  firom. 


the  stock  exchange  has  set  its  foot 
upon  the  greenswiurd,  and  screeches  at 
you  its  cry  for  cmtper  centl 

There  is  yet  a  third  and  later  ideal 
of  colonisation— the  ideal  of  the  poli- 
tical economisL  With  him  colonisa- 
tion presents  itself  undar  the  eq>ecial 
aspect  of  a  fpceat  aqohitation  of  the 
earth.  He  is  desirous  that  capital 
and  labour  should  resort  to  those  spots 
where  they  will  be  most  productive. 
Thus  the  greatest  possible  amount  of 
production  will  be  generated  between 
man  and  his  terraqueous  globe ;  capital 
and  labour  are  with  him  the  first  ele- 
ments of  human  pnraperity;  and  to 
transfer  these  in  due  proportions,  and 
as  quickly  as  possiUe,  to  the  new  land, 
when  they  may  be  most  profitably 
employed,  is  we  main  olject  of  his 
le|^lati<m.  Hitherto,  it  may  be 
observed,  the  political  eoonomist  has 
limited  his  efforts  to  the  undomg  what 
he  conceives  has  been  very  unskilfhlly 
done  by  previous  legislators.  In  this 
matter  of  emigration  he  steps  forward 
as  legislator  himself.  It  is  no  longer 
for  mere  liberty  and  lausez-faire  that 
he  con^nds;  he  assumes  a  new 
character,  and  out  of  the  the<ny  of  hia 
science  produces  his  system  of  rule 
and  regulation.  He  knows  how  a 
small  village  becomes  a  great  dty; 
he  will  ai^ly  his  knowledge^  and  by 
positive  laws  expedite  the  process. 
Let  us  see  with  what  success  he  per- 
forms  in  this  new  character. 

Mr  Wakefield^s  system— for  it  is  he 
who  has  the  honour  of  originating  this 
pc4itioo-econ<Mttical  scheme — consists 
m  putting  a  price  upon  unoccupied 
land,  and  with  the  proceeds  of  the 
sale  raising  Afundjbrthe  tmntmissum 
qf  e$migrant  labourers.  This  is,  how- 
ever, but  a  subordinate  part  of  hia 
project,  which  we  mention  thus  sepa- 
rately, because,  for  a  purpose  of  our 
own,  we  wish  to  distmgiush  it  fixnn 
the  rest.  This  price  must,  moreover, 
(and  here  is  the  gist  of  the  matter,) 
be  that  ^*  sufficient  price"  which  will 
ekbor  the  labourer  from  becoming  too 
soon  a  proprieior  of  land^  and  tiiua 
deserting  the  service  of  the  capi- 
talist. 

The  ol^ect  of  Mr  Wakefield,  it  wiU 
be  seen  at  once,  is  to  procure  the 
speedy  transmission  in  die  proportion 
of  capital  and  labour.  The  capitalist 
would   afford  the  means  of  trans** 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


516 


Cohmiotkm'-^Mr 


feniog  the  labourer  to  the  scene  of 
action;  the  labourer  would  be  retained 
in  that  condition  in  order  to  invite  and 
vender  profitable  the  wealth  of  the 
capitalist.  The  twofold  object  is 
good,  and  there  Is'an  apparent  simpli- 
city in  the  means  devised,  which,  at 
first,  is  very  captivating.  There  is 
nothing  from  which  tiie  colonial 
oapitallBt  suffers  so  much  as  firom  the 
want  of  hired  labour.  He  purchases 
land  and  finds  no  one  to  cultivate  it ; 
the  few  he  can  engage  he  cannot  de- 
pnd  upon ;  the  project  of  agricultural 
improvement  which,  if  it  be  not  com- 
pleted, is  utterly  null  and  useless,  is 
arrested  in  mid  progress  by  the  deser- 
tion of  his  workmen ;  or  his  capital  is 
exhausted  by  the  high  wages  ne  has 
paid  before  the  necessary  works  can 
be  brought  to  a  termination.  The 
capitalist  has  gone  out,  and  le^  behind 
him  that  class  of  hired  labourers 
without  which'  hb  capital  is  useless. 
Meanwhile,  in  England,  this  very  dass 
is  super-abundant ;  but  it  is  not  the 
class  which  spontaneously  leaves  the 
country,  or  can  leave  it.  Mr  Wake- 
field^s  scheme  supplies  the  capitalist 
with  the  labour  so  essential  to  him, 
and  relieves  our  parishes  of  their  un- 
employed poor.  But  these  emigrant 
labourers  would  soon  extend  them- 
selves over  the  new  country,  as  small 
proprietors,  —  Mr  Wakefield  checks 
this  natural  tendency  by  raising  the 
price  of  land. 

There  is,  wesav,  an  apparent  and  cap- 
tivating simplici^  in  the  scheme ;  but 
we  are  persuaded  that,  the  more  doeely 
it  is  examined,  the  more  impracticable 
and  perplexing  it  will  reveal  itself  to 
be.  As  Mr  Wakefield's  system  has 
made  considerable  progress  in  public 
opinion,  and  obtained  the  approval, 
not  only  of  eager  speculative  minds, 
but  of  cool  and  calculating  economists 
— as  it  has  already  exerted  some  in- 
fluence, and  may  exert  still  more, 
upon  our  colonial  legislation  —  and 
as  we  believe  that  the  attempt  to 
carry  it  out  will  give  rise  to  nothing 
better  than  confusion  and  discon- 
tent, we  think  we  shall  be  doing  no 
ill  service  to  the  cause  of  colonisation 
by  entering  into  some  investigation  of 
it. 

We  are  compelled  to  make  a  divi- 
sion, or  what  to  Mr  Wakefield  wOl 
appear  a  most  unscientific  fracture^ 


Wak^ieUPs  Theory.  {}^Tr 

of  the  two  parts  of  his  scheme.    We 
acquiesce  in  fixing  a  price  upon  un- 
appropriated land,  ana  with  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  sale  forming  a  fund  for  the 
transmission  and  outfit  of  the  poor 
emigrant.    We  do  not  say  that  these 
proceeds  must  necessarily  supply  off 
the   fund    that  it  may  be  thought 
advisable  to  spend  in  this  matter,  or 
that  the  price  is  to  be  regulated  solely 
according  to  the  wants  of  this  emigra- 
tion fond.    But  we  do  not  acquiesce 
in  the  proposal  to  fix  a  price  for  the 
specific    purpose    of  retarding    the 
period  at   which  the  labourer  may 
himself  become  a  proprietor.    The 
doctrine  of  ^*  a  sufficient  price**  (as  it 
has  been  called,  and  for  brevi^*s  sake  m 
we  shall  adopt  the  name)  we  entirelj 
eschew.    To  the  imposing  of  an  arti- 
ficial value  upon  the  luid,  for  this 
purpose,  we  will  be  no  parties.  Simply 
to  transport  the  labourer  hence,  shall 
be   the  object  of  our  price,  beyond 
such  other  reasons  as  may  be  given 
for  selling  at  a  certain  moderate  sum 
the  waste  land  of  the  colonies,  instead 
of  disposing  of  it  by  free  grant    This 
object  may  be  shown  to  be  equitable ; 
it  appeals  to  the  common  justice  of 
mankind.    But  as  to  the  longer  or 
shorter  term  the  hired  labourer  re- 
mains in  the  condition  of  hired  labour- 
er, for  this  the  capitalist  must  take 
his  chance.    This  must  be  determined, 
asit  is  in  the  old  country,  and  as  alone 
it  can  be  determined  amicably,  by 
that  current  of  drcumstances  over 
which  neither  party  can  exercise  a 
direct  control.   To  such  collateral  ad- 
vantage as  may  accrue  to  the  capitalist 
firom  even  the  price  we  should  impose, 
he   is  welcome;    only  we    do  not 
legislate  for  this  object — we  neither 
give  it,  nor  take  it  away. 

The  wild  unappropriated  land  of 
our  colonies  belongs  to  the  crown,  to 
the  state— it  is,  as  Mr  Wakefield  says, 
**  a  valuable  national  property.*'  In 
making  use  of  this  land,  one  main 
object  would  be  to  relieve  the  destitute 
of  the  old  country  ;  to  give  them,  if 
possible,  a  share  of  it.  What  more 
lust  or  more  rational?  To  give, 
however,  the  soil  itself  to  the  very 
poor  would  be  idle.  Thev  cannot 
reach  it,  they  cannot  travel  to  their 
new  estate— they  have  no  seeds,  no 
tools,  no  stock  of  any  kind  wherewith 
to  cultivate  it.    The  gift  would  be  » 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


J849.] 


CohmMotumr^Mr  Wak^d^i  Theory. 


617 


i: 


mere  mockery.  We  will  sell  it,  then, 
to  those  who  can  transport  themselves 
thither,  and  who  have  the  necessary 
means  for  its  cnltivation,  and  the 
purchase-money  shall  be  paid  over  to 
the  very  poor.  B^  far  the  best  way 
of  paying  over  this  pnrchase-money, 
wMch  as  a  mere  gift  of  so  much  coin 
would  be  all  but  worthless,  and  would 
be  spent  in  a  week,  is  by  providing 
them  with  a  free  passage  to  the  colony 
where  they  will  permanently  improve 
their  condition ;  obtaining  high  wages, 
and  probably,  after  a  time,  becoming 
proprietors  themselves ;  and  assisting 
m  turn,  by  the  purchase-money  their 
own  savings  wul  have  enabled  them 
to  pay,  to  bring  over  other  emigrants 
to  the  new  field  of  labour,  and  the 
new  land  of  promise. 

This  is  an  equitable  arrangement, 
and,  what  is  more,  the  equity  of  it  is 
level  to  the  common  sense  of  all  man- 
kind. It  effects  also  certain  desirable 
objects,  though  not  such  as  our 
theorist  has  in  view.  It  places  the 
land  in  the  possession  of  men  who 
will  and  can  cultivate  it,  and  who,  by 
paying  a  certain  moderate  price,  have 
shown  they  were  in  earnest  in  the 
business ;  and  it  has  transmitted,  at 
their  expense,  labourers  to  the  new  soil. 
lYith  the  question,  how  long  these 
shall  continue  labourers,  it  interferes 
not.  It  is  a  question,  we  think,  no 
wise  man  would  meddle  with.  Least 
of  all  does  it  represent  that  the 
capitalist  has  obtained  any  claim  upon 
the  services  of  the  labourer,  by  hav- 
ing paid  for  his  passaoe  out :  this 
payment  was  no  gift  of  his ;  it  was 
the  poor  man*s  share  of  the  **  national 
property."  They  meet  in  the  colony 
as  they  would  have  met  in  England, 
each  at  liberty  to  do  the  best  he  can 
for  himself. 

Observe  how  the  difficulties  crowd 
upon  us,  when  we  enter  upon  the 
other  and  indeed  the  essential  part  of 
Mr  Wakefield's  scheme.  The  emi- 
grant is  not  *^  too  soon**  to  become  a 
proprietor.  What  does  this  **too 
soon"  mean  ?  How  long  is  he  to  be 
retained  in  the  condition  of  hired 
labourer?  How  many  years?  Mr 
Wakefield  never  fixes  a  period.  He 
could  not.  It  must  depend  much 
upon  the  rapidity  of  immigration  into 
the  colony.  If  the  second  batch  of 
immigrants  is  slow  of  coming  in,  the 


first  must  be  kept  labourers  the  longer. 
If  the  stream  of  labour  flow  but  scant- 
ily into  this  artificial  canal,  the  locks 
must  be  opened  the  more  rarely. 
But  how  is  the  ^^  sufficient  price"  to 
be  determined  until  this  period  be 
known  ?  It  is  the  sum  the  labourer 
can  save  from  his  wages,  during  this 
time,  which  must  constitute  the 
price  of  so  much  land  as  will  support 
him  and  his  family,  and  enable  him 
to  turn  proprietor.  Thus,  in  order  to 
regulate  the  sufficient  price,  it  will  be 
necessary  to  find  the  average  rate  of 
wages,  the  average  amount  of  savings 
that  a  labourer  could  make  (which, 
again,  must  depend  upon  the  price  of 
provisions,  and  other  necessaries  of 
life)  during  an  unknown  period ! — and, 
in  addition  to  this,  to  determine  the 
average  produce  of  ^  many  acres  of 
land.  The  apparent  simplicity  of  the 
scheme  resolves  itself  into  an  extreme 
complexity.  The  author  of  it,  indeed, 
proposes  a  short  method  by  which  his 
sufficient  price  may  be  arrived  at 
without  these  calculations :  what 
that  short  method  is,  and  how  falU- 
dous  it  would  prove,  wo  shall  have 
occasion  to  show. 

But  granting  that,  in  any  manner, 
this  "  sufficient  price"  could  be  deter- 
mined, the  measure  has  an  unjust  and 
arbitrary  character.  It  is  not  enough 
that  such  a  scheme  could  be  defendea, 
and  shown  to  be  equitable,  because 
for  the  general  good,  before  some 
committee  of  legisUtors ;  if  it  ofibnds 
the  popular  sense  of  justice  it  can 
never  prosper.  "  I  know,"  the  humble 
emigrant  mi^t  say — **  I  know  there 
must  be  rich  and  poor  in  the  world  ; 
there  always  have  been,  and  always 
will  be.  To  what  is  inevitable  one 
learns  to  submit.  If  I  am  bom  poor 
there  is  no  help  for  it,  except  what 
lies  in  my  own  ability  and  industry. 
But  if  you  set  about,  by  artificial 
regulations,  in  a  new  colony,  where 
fruitfhl  land  is  in  abundance,  to  keep 
me  poor,  because  I  am  so  now,  I 
rebel.  This  is  not  just.  Do  I  not 
see  the  open  land  before  me  unowned, 
untouched?  I  well  enough  under- 
stood that,  in  old  England,  I  could  not 
take  so  much  of  any  field  as  the 
merest  shed  would  cover — not  so  much 
as  I  could  burrow  in.  Long  before  I 
was  bom  it  had  been  all  claimed, 
hedged,  fenced  in,  and  a  title  traced 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


518 


Ookmtmtum    Mr  Wak^M'M  21cofy. 


[Mar, 


from  anoe^r  to  anceBtor.  Here,  I 
am  the  anceBtor !" 

Tell  such  a  raaa  that  a  price  is  pot 
upon  the  land  in  order  that  some 
companions  whom  he  left  starving 
in  England  may  come  over  and  par- 
take the  benefit  of  this  unbroken  soil, 
— he  will  see  a  plain  justice  here.  He 
himself  was,  perhaps,  brought  over  by 
the  price  paid  by  some  precursor. 
What  he  received  from  one  more  pros- 
perous, he  returns  to  another  less 
prosperous  than  himself.  But  tell 
him  that  a  price  is  put  upon  the  land, 
in  order  tha^  he  may  serve  a  rich 
master  the  longer,— in  order  that  he 
may  be  kept  in  a  subordinate  station, 
from  which  circumstances  now  permit 
him  to  escape — he  will  see  no  justice 
in  the  case.  He  will  do  eveiything 
in  his  power  to  evade  your  law;  he 
will  look  upon  your  ^^  sufficient  price" 
iui  a  cruel  surtifidal  barrier  raised  up 
against  him ;  he  will  go  and  ^^  squat" 
upon  the  land,  without  paying  any 
price  at  all. 

Indeed,  the  objection  to  his  scheme, 
which  Mr  Wakefield  seems  to  feel  the 
strongest,— to  which  he  give  the  least 
oonfident  reply,  is  just  this — that, 
-equitable  or  not,  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  carry  out  his  law  into  execu- 
tion: that  if  the  price  were  h^h 
enough  to  answer  his  purposes,  the 
land,  in  colonial  dialect,  would  be 
*''  squatted"  on, — ^would  be  taken  pos- 
session of  without  any  payment  what- 
ever. A  moderate  price  men  will 
<iheerfully  pav  for  the  greater  security 
Otitic:  En£^ishmenwiilnot,fora8light 
matter,  put  themsdves  wittingly  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  Uw.  But,  if  coupled 
with  a  hi|^h  price,  there  is  a  rankling 
feeling  oi  mjustice :  they  wHl  be  very 
apt  to  satisfy  themselves  with  actual 
possesion,  and  leave  the  legal  title  to 
toUow  as  it  may.  It  is  true,  as  Mr 
Wakefield  urges,  the  richer  capitalists 
ivill  by  no  means  favour  the  squatter ; 
ihey  will  be  desirous  oi  enforcing  a  Uw 
made  for  their  especial  benefit.  But 
they  will  not  form  the  msyority.  Po- 
pular ojunion  will  be  against  tiiem, 
and  in  favour  of  the  squatter.  It  would 
not  be  very  easy  to  baveapoHce  force, 
and  an  effective  magistracy,  at  the 
outskirts  of  a  settlem^t  stretching 
out,  in  some  cases,  into  an  unexploreS 
regicm.  Besides,  it  is  a  conspicuous 
part  of  Mr  Wakefidd^s  plan  to  give 


municipal  or  local  gOfivBiiie&ts  to 
our  odonies :  these,  as  emanating 
from  the  British  ooastitntion,  most 
need  be  more  or  less  of  a  popaiMr 
character;  and  we  are  pergnadad 
that  BO  suck  popular  local  govern- 
ment would  uph<M  his  ^^  svffident 
price,"  or  tolerate  the  principle  oa 
which  it  was  founded. 

But,  even  if  practicable,  if  carried 
out  into  complete  execution,  it  remains 
to  be  considered  whether  the  measora 
proposed  would  really  have  the  effisci 
ccmtemplated  by  our  theorist— that  of 
siqiplviBg  the  capitalist  with  the  la* 
hour  he  needs.  With  a  certain  nnm-> 
her  (^  hbowrarsiimlf^ — but  of  what 
character?  It  is  not  a  remote  pos- 
ttbility  that  will  infloenee  a  common 
day-labourer  to  save  his  earnings.  It 
is  one  oi  the  t^ms  of  the  proposition 
that  high  wages  are  to  be  given  \  for 
without  these  there  would  be  no  emi- 
gratkm,  and  oertainfy  no  fbar  of  a  too 
speedy  pnnootion  to  the  rank  of  pro- 
prietor. It  foUofws,  therefore,  that 
you  have  a  class  of  men  earning  hi^ 
wages,  and  not  under  any  strong  sti- 
mulus to  save — a  class  of  men  always 
found  to  be  the  most  idle  and  refiac-* 
tory  members  of  the  community.  A 
joumeymaa  who  has  no  pressing 
nwtive  for  a  provident  economy,  and 
who  earns  hi^  wages,  is  almost  in- 
variably a  capricioua  unsteady  work- 
man, on  v^om  no  dependence  can 
be  placed;  who  will  generally  woric 
just  so  many  days  in  the  week  as  are 
necessary  to  procure  him  tiie  rajoy- 
ments  he  craves.  One  of  these  enjoy- 
ments is  indolenoe  itself,  —  a  sottish, 
half-drunken  indolence.  Drinking  is 
the  coarse  pleasure  of  most  uneducated 
men :  it  is  so  even  in  the  old  country: 
and  in  a  colony  where  there  are  still 
fewer  amusements  /or  the  idle  hour, 
it  becomes  almost  the  sole  pleasure. 
How  completely  it  is  the  reigning  vice 
of  our  own  cdonies  is  known  to  alL 
Imagine  a  labourer  in  the  receipt  of 
hig^  wages,  little  influenced  by  the 
remote  prospect  of  becoming,  by  slow 
savings,  a  proprietor  of  land—- and  feel- 
ing, moreover,  that  he  was  retained  in 
a  dependent  condition,  arintrarily, 
artificially,  expressly  for  the  service 
of  the  ci^talist— what  amount  of 
tDork  think  yon  the  capitalist-farmer 
would  get  from  such  a  labourer?  Not 
so  much  in  seven  years  as  he  would 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


CohmtaHoi^^Ii^  Wakefield's  Ilkeorif. 


kaye  had  from  him  in  two,  if^  at; 
the  end  of  that  two,  the  man  had  cal- 
cnlated  upon  being  himself  a  farmer. 

Recollect  that  it  is  not  slare  labonr, 
or  convict  labonr,  that  we  are  here 
dealing  with :  it  is  the  free  labonr  of 
one  man  working  for  another  man,  at 
wages*  He  gets  all  the  wages  he  can, 
and  gives  as  little  labour  as  he  can. 
If  the  wages  are  high,  and  the  induce- 
ment to  save  bnt  feeUe,  he  will  pro- 
bably earn  bj  one  day's  work  what 
will  enable  him  to  pass  the  two  next 
in  idleness  and  debaucheir.  What 
boon  will  Mr  Wakefield  have  con- 
flsrred  upon  the  capitalist? 

The  tneory  of  a  '*  sufficient  price** 
is,  therefore^  placed  in  this  hopeless 
predicament  :^1.  It  would  be  almost 
impossible  to  enforce  it;  .and,  2.  If 
enforced,  it  would  £ul  of  its  purpose. 
It  would  suppb'  the  capitalist  with 
inefficient,  profligate,  and  idle  work* 
men,  on  whose  steady  co-operation  and 
iissistance  he  could  never  calculate. 

That  it  may  be  desirable  to  tempt 
the  capitalist  abroad  by  securing  him 
an  abundance  of  hired  labour,  some- 
thing like  that  which  lies  at  his  door 
in  England,  we  do  not  dispute.  But 
the  thing  is  impossible,  x  on  cannot 
manage  this  by  direct  legislation. 
Ton  camiot  oomlnne  in  one  settle- 
ment the  advantages  of  a  new  and  of 
an  old  oountiy.  It  is  not  in  the  witof 
man  to  bring  together  these  two  stages 
of  society.  Our  politioil  econonSst 
IS  in  too  great  a  haste  to  be  rich :  he 
forgets  the  many  lessons  he  has  ^ven 
to  others  against  bootless  and  mis- 
ohievous  intermeddling  with  the  natu- 
ral conne  of  thfaigs.  Meanwhile  ^'  the 
attempt  will  confound  us," — ^it  will 
throw  an  unpopularity  over  tiie  whole 
subject  of  emigration  in  the  minds  of 
tiie  working  classes.  Alrea^  we 
hear  it  murmured  that  the  land  is  to 
be  made  a  monopoly  for  the  rich;  that 
the  man  of  small  substance  is  to  be 
discouraged;  that  the  sole  object  of 
the  moneyed  dass  is  to  make  profit 
of  the  labours  of  others ;  and  that  they 
are  bent  upon  creating,  artificiaUy,  in 
the  colony,  those  circumstances  which 
put  the  wofkmen  in  their  power  in 
the  old  country.  We  would  earnestly 
■counsel  those  who  are  hiterested  m 
the  subject  of  emigration,  to  consider 
well  bdbre  they  t^u^  or  practise  this 
new  ^^cartd  colonisation." 


6ia 

Those  who  have  not  perused  Mr 
Wakefield's  book  may,  perhaps,  en- 
tertain a  suspicion  thai,  in  thus  sepa- 
rating the  objects  for  whidi  a  price 
is  to  be  laid  on  land,  admitting  tiie 
one  and  rejecting  the  other,  we  are 
only  engaging  ourselves  unnecessarily 
in  a  theoretical  debate.  If  a  price  la 
to  be  affixed,  the  result,  it  may  seem 
to  them,  is  practically  the  same, 
whatever  the  object  may  be.  But 
the  practical  result  would  be  very 
different;  for  a  very  different  price 
would  be  exacted,  accorduig  to  the  ob- 
ject in  view,  as  well  as  a  very  diffe- 
rent motive  assigned  for  imposing  it. 
The  price  at  ^ich  a  considerable 
fond  woidd  be  raised  for  the  purpose 
of  emigration,  would  be  too  low  to 
answer  the  purpose  of  restraining  the 
labourer  from  soon  becoming  a  pro- 
prietor of  land.  Those,  however, 
who  are  familiar  with  Mr  Wake- 
field's book,  know  well  that  this  last 
purpose  forms  the  very  substance  of 
the  plan  it  proposes ;  and  that  hitherto 
no  price — ^although  it  has  ranged  sa 

afd  as  40s.  per  acre — ^has  been  con- 
ered  sufficiently  high  to  effect  the 
object  of  the  theorist. 

^  There  is  bat  one  objeet  of  a  price," 
■ays  Mr  Wakefield,  (p.  347,)  ^and  about 
that  there  can  be  no  mistake.  The  sole 
objeet  of  a  prioe  is  to  preyent  labourexa 
firom  turning  into  landowners  too  soon : 
the  prioe  must  be  suffioient  for  that  one 
purpose,  and  no  other."  ^  The  sufficient 
price/'  he  says,  (p.  839,)  ''has  nerer  yet 
been  adopted  by  a  eolonising  gorem- 
ment."  And  a  Uttie  forther,  (p.  §41,)  ha 
thus  oontinnes:  ''There  are  but  three 
plaoee  in  whidi  the  imoe  of  new  land  has 
had  the  least  ehaaee  of  operating  benefi- 
oially.  These  are  South  AustraJia,  Aus- 
tralia Felix,  and  New  Zealand.  In  none 
of  these  eases  did  the  plan  of  granting 
with  profusion'  precede  that  of  selling ; 
but  in  mme  of  them  did  the  prioe  required 
preyent  the  <^apest  land  firom  being 
cheap  enoui^  to  inflict  on  the  oolony  all 
the  evils  of  an  extreme  scarcity  of  labour 
for  hire.  In  these  casein  moreoTer^  m 
large  portion  ef  the  purchase-money  of 
waste  land  was  expended  in  oonreying 
labourers  from  the  mother-country  to  the 
colony.  If  this  money  had  not  been  so 
•pent,  the  proportion  of  land  to  people 
would  have  been  yery  much  greater  than 
it  wasy  and  the  price  of  new  land  still 
more  completely  inoperathre.  More  fiicts 
mi^t  be  cited  to  show  the  insufficiency  of 
thehighestpriceyetrequiredfornewland.'* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


520 


Cotomsation—Mr  Wak^fieUPs  Theory. 


[May, 


We  will  continue  our  first  quota- 
tion from  p.  847.  The  manner  in 
wbicli  Mr  Wakefield  himself  exposes 
the  difficulties  of  fixing  the  ^'sufficient 
price,"  and  the  very  Inadequate  expe- 
dient he  points  out  for  obviating,  or 
avoiding,  these  difficulties,  may  throw 
some  further  light  upon  the  matter. 

**  The  sole  object  of  a  price  is  to  pre- 
vent labourers  from  turning  into  land- 
owners too  soon  :  the  price  must  be  suffi- 
cient for  that  one  purpose,  and  no  other. 
The  question  is,  What  price  would  have 
that  one  effect !  That  must  depend^  firsts 
on  what  is  meant  by  '  too  soon  ;'  or  on 
the  proper  duration  of  the  term  of  the 
labourer's  employment  for  hire;  which 
again  must  depend  upon  the  rate  of  the 
increase  of  population  in  the  colony,  espe- 
cially by  means  of  immigration,  which 
would  determine  when  the  place  of  a 
labourer,  turning  out  a  landowner,  would 
be  filled  bv  another  labourer ;  and  the 
rate  of  labour-emigration  again  must 
depend  on  the  popularity  of  the  colony  at 
home,  and  on  the  distance  between  the 
mother-country  and  the  colony,  or  the 
cost  of  passage  for  labouring  people. 
Secondly,  what  price  would  have  the 
desired  effect,  must  depend  on  the  rate 
of  wages  and  cost  of  living  in  the 
colony,  since  according  to  these  would 
be  the  labourer's  power  of  saring  the 
requisite  capital  for  turning  into  a  land- 
owner :  in  proportion  to  the  rate  of  wages, 
and  the  cost  of  liring,  would  the  requisite 
capital  be  saved  in  a  longer  or  a  shorter 
time.  It  depends,  thirdly,  on  the  soil  and 
climate  of  the  colony,  which  would  deter- 
mine the  quantity  of  land  required  (on 
the  arerage)  by  a  labourer,  in  order  to 
set  himself  up  as  a  landowner.  If  the  soil 
and  climate  were  unfaTourabre  to  pro- 
duction, he  would  require  more  acres  ;  if 
it  were  fkvonrable,  fbwtr  acres  would 
•erre  his  purpose :  in  Trinidad,  for  ex- 
ample, ten  acres  would  support  him  well ; 
in  South  Africa,  or  New  South  Wales, 
he  might  require  fifty  or  a  hundred  acres. 
But  the  Tariability  in  our  wide  colonial 
empire,  not  only  of  soil  and  climate,  but 
of  all  the  circumstances  on  which  a  suffi- 
cient price  would  depend,  is  so  obvious, 
that  no  examples  of  it  are  needed.  It 
follows,  of  course,  ^at  different  colonies, 
and  sometimes  different  groups  of  similar 
colonies,  would  require  different  prices. 
To  name  a  price  for  all  the  colonies, 
would  be  as  absurd  as  to  fix  the  size  of  a 
coat  for  mankind. 

«*But,  at  least,'  I  hear  your  Mr 
Mother-country  say,  'name  a  price  for 
some  particular  colony — a  price  founded 
on  the  elements  of  calculation  which  you 


have  stated.'  I  could  do  that,  certainly, 
for  some  colony  with  which  I  happen  to 
be  particularly  well  acquainted,  hot  I 
should  do  it  donbtingly,  aiid  with  hesita- 
tion ;  for,  in  truth,  the  elements  of  calcu- 
lation are  so  many,  and  so  complicated  in 
their  yarious  relations  to  each  other,  that 
in  depending  on  them  exclusitely  there 
would  be  the  utmost  liability  to  error. 
A  Tory  complete  and  familiar  knowledge 
of  them  in  each  case  would  be  a  usefol 
general  guide,  would  throw  valuable  light 
on  the  question,  would  serre  to  inform 
the  legislator  how  far  his  theory  and  his 
practice  were  consistent  or  otherwise ; 
but,  in  the  main,  he  must  rely,  and  if  he 
had  common  sagacity  he  might  solely  and 
safely  rely,  upon  no  very  elaborate  calcu- 
lation, but  on  experience,  or  the  fiuts 
before  his  eyes.  He  could  always  tell 
lehetker  or  not  labour  for  hire  W€U  too  scarce 
or  too  plentUul  in  the  colony.  If  U  were 
too  plentifuL  he  would  know  that  the  price 
of  new  land  was  too  high — thai  it,  more 
than  tujficient :  ^it  were  hurt/uUy  scarce, 
he  would  know  that  the  price  was  too  low, 
or  not  suficient.  About  which  the  labour 
was — whether  too  plentiful  or  too  scarce — 
no  legislatu  re,  hardly  any  individual,  could 
be  in  doubt,  so  plain  to  the  dullest  eye 
would  be  the  facts  by  which  to  determine 
that  question.  If  the  lawgiver  saw  that 
the  labour  was  scarce,  and  the  price  too 
low,  he  would  raise  the  price ;  if  he  saw 
that  labour  was  superabundant,  and  the 
price  too  high,  he  would  lower  the  price ; 
if  he  saw  that  labour  was  neither  scarce 
nor  superabundant,  he  would  not  alter 
the  price,  because  he  would  see  that  it 
was  neither  too  high  nor  too  low,  but 
sufficient." 

Admirable  machinery !  No  steam- 
engine  could  let  its  steam  on,  or  off, 
with  more  precision.  The  legislature 
or  governor  "  could  always  tell 
whether  or  not  labour  for  hire  was 
too  scarce  or  too  plentiful,"  and  open 
or  close  his  value  accordingly.  *^  No 
legislature,  hardly  any  individual 
could  be  in  doubt "  about  the  matter  1 
Indeed !  when  was  hired  labour  ever 
thought  too  cheap — in  other  words, 
too  plentiful  — by  the  capitalist? 
When  was  it  ever  thought  too  dear — 
in  other  words,  too  scarce— by  tho 
labourer?  Could  the  most  insenious 
man  devise  a  question  on  which  there 
would  be  more  certainly  two  quita 
opposite  and  conflicting  opinions? 
And  suppose  the  legislature  to  have 
come  to  a  decision  —  say  that  the 
labour  was  too  scarce — there  would 
still  be  this  other  question  to  decide, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Cohm9atum-~Mr  Wak^ieUV$  Theory. 


521 


whether  to  lower  the  price,  in  order 
to  tempt  emigrants,  might  not  be  as 
good  a  means  of  rendering  labour 
more  plentiful,  as  to  raise  the  price  in 
order  to  render  it  still  more  difficnlt 
for  labourers  to  become  landowners? 
Here  there  is  surely  scope  for  the 
most  honest  diversity  of  opinion. 
One  party  might  yery  rationidly 
advise  to  entice  thither  the  stream  of 
emigration : — ^^  Let  it  flow  more  copi- 
ously,'' they  might  exclaim,  *^  though 
we  retain  the  waters  for  a  shorter 
time ; "  while  the  party  thoroughly 
imbued  with  the  doctrine  of  the 
*'  sufficient  price  "  would  devise  fresh 
dikes  and  dams,  and  watch  the  locks 
more  narrowly. 

In  his  "sufficient  price,"  Mr  Wake- 
field has  discovered  the  secret  spring 
that  regulates  the  economical  relations 
of  society.  He  has  his  hand  upon  it. 
He,  or  his  lawgiver,  will  hence- 
forward regulate  the  supply  of  labour, 
and  the  remuneration  of  labour,  upon 
scientific  principles.  Unenviable  post ! 
We  should  infinitely  prefer  the  task 
of  the  philosopher  in  Baiseku^  who 
fancied  himself  commissioned  to  dis- 
tribute rain  and  sunshine.  In  just  pro- 
portions, to  all  the  fanners  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

It  is  quite  curious  to  observe  how 
strong  a  faith  our  projector  has  in  his 
theory  of  a  sufficient  price,  and  how 
singular  a  bias  this  has  exerted  on  his 
mind  in  some  other  matters  of  specu- 
lation. He  finds  that  slavery,  both 
in  olden  and  modem  times,  has  been 
all  owing  to  "cheapness  of  land." 
Could  he  have  fixed  his  sufficient  price 
upon  the  arable  land  in  Chaldea,  or 
about  the  cities  of  Athens  and  Rome, 
neither  the  patriarchs,  nor  the  Greeks, 
nor  the  Romans,  would  have  known 
the  institution  of  slavery.  "  Slavery 
is  evidently,"  he  says,  "  a  make-shift 
for  hiring;  a  proceeding  to  which  re- 
course is  had  only  where  hiring  is 
impossible,  or  difficult.  Slave  labour 
is,  on  the  whole,  much  more  costly  than 
the  labour  of  hired  fireemen ;  and  sla- 
very is  also  full  of  moral  and  political 
evils,  from  which  the  method  of  hired 
labour  is  exempt.  Slavery,  thertfore, 
is  not  preferred  to  the  method  of 
hiring:  the  method  of  hiring  would  be 
preferred  if  there  was  a  choice." — (P. 
824.;  Most  loffical  ''therefore!'' 
The  mode  of  hiring  is  preferred  by 


those  to  whom  experience  has  taught 
all  this ;  but  slavery,  so  far  from  bemg 
the  "  make-shift, "  is  the  first  expedi- 
ent. It  is  the  fint  rude  method  which 
unscrupulous  power  adopts  to  engross 
the  produce  of  the  earth.  The  stronger 
make  the  weaker  labour  for  them. 
"  It  happens,"  he  continues,  "  wher- 
ever population  is  scanty  in  proportion 
to  land."  It  happens  wherever  people 
prefSer  idleness  to  work,  and  have  b^n 
able  to  coerce  others  to  labour  for 
them,  whether  land  has  been  plentiful 
or  not.  Was  it  abundance  of  land,  or 
the  military  spirit,  that  produced  the 
amiable  relationship  between  the 
Spartan  and  the  Helot  ?-— or  was  there 
any  need  of  a  "  sufficient  price "  to 
limit  the  supply  of  good  land  in  Egypt, 
which  lay  rigidly  enough  defined  be- 
tween the  h^^h  and  low  margin  of  a 
river  ?  Or  could  any  governor,  with 
his  tariff  of  prices,  have  performed  this 
duty  more  effectually  than  the  Nile 
and  the  desert  had  done  between 
them  ? 

But  the  most  amusing  instance  b 
still  to  f6Uow.  ^^It  was  the  cheap- 
ness of  land  that  caused  Las  Casaa 
(the  Clarkson  or  Wilberforce  of  his 
time,  as  respects  the  Red  Indians  of 
America)  to  invent  the  African  slave- 
trade.  It  was  the  cheapness  of  land 
that  brought  African  slaves  to  Antigua 
andBarbadoes."~(P.328.)  It  was  the 
cheapness  of  land!  If  land  had  been 
dearer,  the  Spaniards  would  have 
worked  for  themselves,  and  not  have 
asked  the  Red  Indians  for  their  assist- 
ance I  If  land  had  been  dearer  in  An- 
tigua and  Barbadoes,  the  climate  would 
have  lost  its  influence  on  European 
frames,  and  Englishmen  would  have 
laboured  in  their  own  sugar  plantations  f 

Doubtless  the  difficulty  of  obtidning 
hired  labour  has  been  sometimes  a 
reason,  and  sometimes  an  excuse,  for 
the  conthiuance  of  slavery.  It  is  also 
true  that  the  willingness  of  the  dis- 
charged slave  to  work,  as  a  hired 
labourer,  is  almost  a  necessary  condi- 
tion to  the  extinction  of  slavery.  But, 
loshig  sight  of  all  our  amiable  passions 
and  propensities,  to  describe  slavery 
as  onginating  altogether  in  the  scar« 
city  OT  hired  labour,  (as  if  the  slave 
had  first  had  the  offer  made  to  him  to 
work  for  wages,  and  had  refhsed  it,) 
and  then  to  resolve  this  cause  again 
Into  no  other  circumstance  than  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BSS 


CbioiUKUioiik^^3tr 


**  dieiqpitess  of  land,'*  is  somethmg 
like  monomania. 

In  America,  those  states  which  have 
colonised  so  rapidly  hare  not  been  the 
BlaYe-h(^ding  states,  n<^/  have  they 
needed  slaves;  nor  has  land  been 
scarce ;  nor  has  mach  been  done  by 
the  mere  capitalist  who  goes  to  hire 
labour;  but  almost  all  by  the  man 
who  goes  there  to  laboor  himself,  np- 
on  property  of  his  own.  And  who, 
after  aU,  we  wonld  ask,  are  the  best 
of  emimrants,  in  every  new  conntiy 
Tdiere  Sie  land  has  yet  to  be  reclaim- 
ed? Not  those  who  seek  liie  colony 
with  an  iatention  of  making  a  ^ortane 
there,  and  retnming  to  En^and ;  nor 
even  those  who  go  with  some  feeling 
that  Hiej  shall  be  the  desars  of  the 
village;  nor  the  easy  c^italist,  who 
expats,  from  the  back  of  his  aml^g 
nag,  to  see  his  fields  sprout  with  com 
and  grow  popnloos  with  cattle.  The 
best  of  emigrante,  as  pioneers  of  civi- 
lisation, are  those  who  intend  to  settle 
and  live  on  the  land  they  shall  have  re- 
duced to  cultivation,  wto  go  to  labour 
with  their  own  hands  onpropertv  they 
l^all  caU  their  own.  It  Is  the  labour 
of  sndi  men  that  has  converted  into 
corn-fields  the  dark  forests  of  Ame- 
rica. That  ardent  and  indefkiigable 
industipr  which  has  been  so  often  ad- 
mired m  the  peasant  mroprietor— the 
man  who  has  all  the  hardy  habits  of 
the  peasant  and  all  the  pride  of  pro- 
prietorship—is never  more  wanted, 
never  more  at  home,  than  in  the  new 
colony.  We  have  a  s^pathy  wit^ 
these  men— we  like  their  hearty  toil, 
their  guiltless  enterprise.  This  is  not 
the  class  of  men  we  would  disgust ; 
yet  it  is  predsely  this  class  who  go 
forth  with  their  little  store  of  wealth 
in  liiefar  hand,  or  with  h<^  soon  to 
realise  it,  whom  the  "  sufficient  price" 
of  Mr  Wakefield  would  deter  from 
entering  the  colony,  or  convert,  when 
there,  into  unwiUing,  discontented, 
uncertain  labourers. 

The  rights  of  eveiT  dass  must,  of 
course,  be  determined  by  a  reference 
to  the  weltee  of  the  whole  community. 
The  poorer  settler  must  have  Us 
elahns  decided,  and  limited,  according 
to  rules  which  embrace  the  interest  (^ 
the  empire  at  laive.  We  hope  we 
shall  not  be  misunderstood  on  so  plain 
a  matter  as  this.  We  do  not  con- 
template the  settler  as  arriving  on  the 


new  land  unfettered  by  any  aU^ianoe 
he  owes  to  the  old  ooontiy.  He  be- 
hmgs  todvilised  England;  carries  witir 
him  the  knowledge  Tand  the  imple- 
ments whidi  her  dvUiiation  has  pro- 
ciEredhim;  lives  under  her  prot^on^ 
and  must  sulnnit  to  her  laws.  But  in 
limiting  the  ri^^ts  of  the  settler  in  a 
land  spreadin«^  apea  before  him^ 
where  nothing  has  taken  possession  of 
the  BoU  but  tiie  fertilising  rain,  and 
the  broad  sunshine  playing  idly  on  its 
suifooe— you  must  make  out  a  dear 
case,  a  case  of  clahis  paramount  to 
his  own,  a  case  which  appeals  to  that 
sense  of  iustice  common  to  the  multi- 
tude, wnidh  will  bear  examination, 
which  readily  forces  itsdf  upon  an 
honest  conviction.  It  must  not  be  a 
mere  speculative  measure,  a  subtle 
theoiy,  hard  for  a  plain  man  to  under- 
stand—benevolenUy  meant,  but  .intri- 
cate in  its  operation,  and  precarioss 
inits  result— that  should  comebetwixt 
him  and  the  free  bonnty  of  nature. 
Not  of  such  materials  can  you  make 
the  fence  that  is  to  coop  him  up  in  one 
comer  of  a  new-found  continent. 
Laudable  it  may  be,  this  experiment 
to  adjust  with  scientific  accuracy  the 
propi^on  of  capital  and  labour ;  but 
a  man  with  no  peculiar  passion  for 
poUlieal  economy,  will  hardly  like  to 
be  made  the  subject  of  thisexperiment, 
or  that  a  sdentific  interest  should  keei^ 
his  feet  from  the  wOdemess,  or  his 
spade  firom  tiie  unowned  soiL  It 
would  be  an  nngradous  act  of  parlia- 
ment, to  say  the  least  of  it,  whose 
preamble  should  run  thus — ^^  Whereaa 
it  is  expedfient  that  the  labouring  po- 
pulation emigrating  from  England 
should  be  *  prevent^  firom  turning  too 
soon  into  landowners,'  and  thus  ^ti- 
vating  the  soil  for  themsdves  instead 
of  for  others.  Be  it  enacted,**  &c  Ac, 
Al^ou^  this  theory  of  a  "  suffi- 
cient price"  is  the  chief  topic  of  Mr 
Wakefield*8  book,  yet  there  are  mainr 
other  sutgects  of  interest  discussed, 
and  many  valuable  suggestions  thrown 
out  in  it;  and  if  we  have  folt  our- 
sdves  compelled  to  enter  our  protest 
against  his  main  theoiy,  we  are  bv  no 
means  unwilling  to  confoss  our  share 
of  obligation  to  one  who  has  made  co- 
lonisation the  subject  of  so  much  study, 
and  who  has  called  to  it  tiie  attention 
of  so  many  others.  It  was  he  who, 
stradc  with  the  gross  error  that  had 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


l^t.]  Gfkmmkm^Mr 

lieen  oMmnittod  <^  BkxAlDg  GurtaiB  of 
our  ooknieB  witii  too  large  a  propor- 
tion ei  tbe  male  aex,  first  pomted  oat 
tiiat  the  period  of  marriage  was  the 
Most  appropriate  period  ror  emigra- 
tion. Do  not  wait  tin  want  dnves 
out  the  half-famished  children,  but  let 
the  jonng  married  couple  start  whilst 
yet  healtiiy  and  vigorous,  and  not 
Droken  down  hjpoT^tjr.  Some  might 
l)e  disposed  to  object  that  these  wIQ 
do  well  enough  in  England.  Th^ 
might,  bat  their  children  might  not. 
It  IS  wise  to  take  the  stream  of  popu- 
lation a  littie  higher  up,  where  it  yet 
runs  dear;  not  to  wait  till  the  waters 
haye  become  slug^sh  and  poHuted. 

In  a  literanrpoint  of  view,  Mr  Wake- 
field's book  IS  an  extremely  entertain- 
ing one.  It  is  difSicult  to  bdleve  what 
we  are  told  in  the  preface,  and  hear 
with  regret,  that  it  was  written  in  ill 
health,  so  elastic  a  iqpirit  is  observahle 
tiiroughout.  Hie  work  assumes  the 
fbrmofletterspasdngbetweenastates- 
man,  who  is  m  search  of  infonnation 
and  theory  on  the  subject  of  colonisa- 
tion, and  acolonist  whohasboth  to^ve. 
One  would  naturally  conclude,  fromthe 
letters  themselves,  that  both  sets  were 
written  by  the  same  author,  and  that 
the  correspondence  was  but  one  of 
those  well-understood  literary  artifices 
hj  which  the  exposition  Gt  certain 
truths  or  opinions  is  rendered  more 
dearorintereBtfaig.  The  letters  of  the 
statesman  have  that  constrained  ficti- 
tious ain>ect  which  responses  firamed 
merely  ror  the  carrying  on  of  the  dis- 
cussion are  almost  sure  to  acqdre. 
At  an  events,  it  was  hardljr  necessaiy 
for  Mr  Wakefield  to  descnbe  himself 
in  the  titie-page  as  ^^o»6  of  the 
writ^^;"  since  the  part  of  the  states- 
man, in  the  conespondence,  is  merely 
to  ask  questions  at  the  proper  time, 
to  put  an  olgection  just  where  it  ought 
to  be  answered,  and  ^ve  other  the 
Hkepromptings  to  the* colonist. 

With  many  readers  it  will  add  not 
a  little  to  the  piquancy  of  the  work, 
that  a  considerable  part  Is  occupied  In 
a  sharp  controversy  with  the  Colonial 
Office  and  its  present  chief.  Mr 
Wakefield  does  not  sparo  his  adver- 
saries ;  he  seems  rather  to  rejoice  in 
the  wind  and  stir  of  controversy. 
What  provocation  he  has  reoeived  we 
do  not  Know :  the  justice  of  his  quar- 
rel, therefore,  we  cannot  pretend  to 


Wakefield's  Tkeoty.  h2S 

decide  upon;  but  the  manner  in  whlc^ 
he  conducts  it,  is  certainly  not  to  our 
taste.  For  instance,  at  p.  35  and 
p.  802,  there  is  a  littieness  of  motive,  a 
petty  jealousy  of  him  (Mr  Wakefidd) 
attr8)uted  to  Ixtfd  €b^y  as  the  groimds 
oiYua  public  conduct— a  sortof  impu- 
tatkm  which  does  not  inerease  our 
reQ>ect  for  the  person  who  makes  it 
But  into  this  controversy  with  the 
Cdonial  Offioe  we  have  no  wish  to 
enter.  So  fiur  as  it  is  of  a  personal 
character,  we  can  have  no  motive  to 
meddlewithit;  and  so  far  as  the  sys- 
tem itself  is  attacked,  of  governing  our 
odonles  through  this  oike,  as  at  pre- 
sent constituted,  there  appears  to  be 
no  longer  any  controversy  whatever. 
It  seems  admitted,  on  all  hands,  that 
our  colonies  have  outgrown  ihe  ma- 
chiofflry  oi  government  hero  provided 
for  them. 

In  the  extract  we  latdy  made  fix)m 
Mr  Wakefidd's  bo(^  some  of  our 
readers  were  perfai^s  startied  at  meet- 
ing so  strange  an  appellation  as  Mr 
MothercowUry,  It  is  a  generic  name, 
which  our  writer  gives  to  that  gentie- 
man  of  the  Colonial  Office  (though  it 
would  seem  more  appropriate  to  one 
of  the  female  sex)  who  for  the  time 
being  really  governs  the  colony,  and 
is  thus,  in  fact,  the  representative  of 
the  mother  country.  The  soubriquet 
was  adopted  fiom  a  pamphlet  <^  the 
late  Mr  Charles  Buller,  m  which  he 
very  vividly  describes  the  sort  of 
government  to  which— o?nng  to  the 
Sequent  diange  of  ministry,  and  the 
parliamentary  duties  of  the  Secretary 
of  State— a  ooloinr  is  practically  con- 
s^ed.  We  wish  we  had  space  to 
quote  enough  from  this  pamphlet,  to 
show  in  what  a  graphic  manner  Mr 
Buller  gradually  narrows  and  limits  the 
ideas  which  the  distant  colonist  enter- 
tains of  the  ruling  mother  country. 
"That  mother  country,"  he  finally 
says,  **  which  has  been  narrowed  from 
the  British  isles  into  the  Parliament, 
from  the  Parliament  into  the  Execu- 
tive Government,  from  the  Executive 
Government  Into  the  Colonial  Office, 
is  not  to  be  sought  in  the  ^>artments 
of  the  Secretary  of  State,  or  his  Par- 
liamentary under-secretary.  Where 
are  we  to  lode  for  it?"  He  finds  it 
eventually  in  some  ba^-room  in  the 
large  house  in  Downing  Sti«et,  where 
some  unsown  gentieman,  punctual, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


524 


CohfiMatum-'Mr  Wajk^fiM$  Theory. 


[Miy, 


indnstrious,  irresponsible,  sits  at  his 
desk  with  his  tape  and  his  pigeon- 
holes abont  him.  This  is  the  original 
of  Mr  Mother-conntry. 

That  which  immediately  suggests 
itself  as  a  substitute  and  a  rem^y  for 
the  inefficient  goTcmment  of  Downing 
Street,  is  some  form  of  local  or  muni- 
cipal government.  As  Mr  Wakefield 
justly  observes,  a  local  government, 
having  jurisdiction  over  quite  local  or 
special  matters,  by  no  means  implies 
any  relinquishment  by  the  imperial 
government  of  its  requisite  control 
over  the  colony.  Neither  does  a 
municipal  government  imply  a  repub- 
lican or  democratic  government.  Mr 
Wakefield  suggests  that  the  constitu- 
tion of  a  colony  should  be  framed,  as 
nearly  as  possible,  on  the  model  of  our 
own— that  there  should  be  two  cham- 
bers, and  one  of  them  hereditary. 
The  extreme  distance  of  many,  of 
most  of  our  colonies,  absolutely  pre- 
cludes the  possibility  of  their  being 
efficiently  governed  by  the  English 
Colonial  Office,  or  by  functionaries 
(whether  well  or  ill  appointed)  who 
have  to  receive  all  their  instructions 
from  that  office.  Throughout  our  co- 
lonies, the  French  system  of  centrali- 
sation is  adopted,  and  that  with  a 
very  inadequate  machinery.  And  the 
evil  extends  with  our  increasing  set- 
tlements ;  for  where  there  is  a  *^  seat 
of  government**  established  in  a  co- 
lony, with  duo  legislative  and  execu- 
tive powers,  every  part  of  that  cx)lony, 
however  extensive  it  may  be,  has  to 
look  to  that  central  power  for  the 
admmistration  of  its  afifairs. 

**  In  our  colonies,"  says  Mr  Wakefield, 
**  goremment  resides  at  what  is  called  its 
seat ;  every  colony  has  its  Paris,  or  *  seat 
of  goTenunent.'  At  this  spot  there  is 
gOTemment ;  elsewhere  little  or  none. 
Montreal,  for  example,  is  the  Paris  of 
Canada.  Here,  of  oonrse,  as  in  the  Paris 
of  France,  or  in  London,  representatives 
of  the  people  assemble  to  make  laws,  and 
the  execative  departments,  with  the  cabi- 
net of  ministers,  are  established.  But 
now  mark  the  difference  between  England 
on  the  one  hand,  and  France  or  Canada 
on  the  other.  The  laws  of  England  beiue 
full  of  delegation  of  antherity  for  local 
purposes,  and  for  special  purposes  whether 
local  or  not,  spread  goyemment  all  over 
the  oonntry  ;  those  of  Canada  or  France 
in  a  great  measure  confine  gOTemment 
to  the  capital  and  its  immediate  neigh- 


bourhood. If  people  want  to  do  i 
thing  of  a  public  natore  in  Caithness  or 
Cornwall,  there  is  an  mnthority  on  the 
spot  whidi  will  enable  them  to  aceom- 
plish  this  object,  without  going  or  writing 
to  a  distant  place.  At  MjtfseiUes  or  Don- 
kerque  you  cannot  alter  ahigh  road,oradd 
a  gena-d'arme  to  the  police  force,  without 
a  correspondence  with  Paris  ;  at  Gasp^ 
and  Niagara  you  could  not,  until  lately, 
get  anything  of  a  public  natnre  done, 
without  authority  from  the  seat  of  gOTem- 
ment. But  what  is  the  meaning,  in  this 
case,  of  a  oorreq>ondence  with  Paris  or 
Montreal !  It  is  doubt,  hesitation,  and 
ignorant  objection  on  the  part  of  the  dis- 
tant authority ;  references  badiLwards  and 
forwards  ;  putting  off  of  decisions  ;  delay 
without  end  ;  and  for  the  applicants  a 
great  deal  of  trouble,  alternate  hope  and 
fear,  much  vexation  of  spirit,  and  finally 
either  a  rough  defeat  of  their  object  or 
evaporation  by  lapse  of  time.  In  France, 
accordingly,  whatever  may  be  the  form  of 
the  general  government,  improvement, 
except  at  Paris,  is  imperceptibly  dow; 
whilst  in  Old,  and  still  more  in  New  Eng- 
land, yon  can  hardly  shut  your  eyes  any- 
where without  opening  them  on  something 
new  and  good,  produced  by  the  operation 
of  delegated  government  specially  charged 
with  making  the  improvement.  In  the 
colonies  it  is  much  worse  than  in  France. 
The  difficulty  there  is  even  to  open  a  cor- 
respondence with  the  seat  of  government; 
to  find  somebody  vrith  whom  to  corre- 
spond. In  France,  at  any  rate,  there  is 
at  the  centre  a  very  elaborate  bnrean- 
craticmachinery,instituted  with  the  design 
of  supplying  the  whole  countir  with 
government— the  failure  arises  from  the 
practical  inadequacy  of  a  central  ma- 
chinery for  the  purpose  in  view  :  but  in 
our  colonies,  there  is  but  little  machinery 
at  the  seat  of  government  for  even  pre- 
tending to  operate  at  a  distance.  The 
occupants  of  the  public  offices  at  Montreal 
scarcely  take  more  heed  of  Oasp^,  which 
is  five  hundred  miles  off  and  very  diflkuU 
of  access,  than  if  that  part  of  Canada  were 
in  Newfoundland  or  Europe.  Gasp^, 
therefore,  until  lately,  when,  on  Lord  Dor- 
ham's  recommendation,  some  machinery 
of  local  government  was  established  in 
Canada,  was  almost  without  government, 
and  one  of  the  most  barbarous  places  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  Every  part  of 
Canada  not  close  to  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment was  more  or  less  like  Gasp^.  Every 
colony  has  numerous  Gaepes.  South 
Africa,  save  at  Cape  Town,  is  a  Gaspiall 
over.  AU  Australia  Felix,  beuig  from 
five  hundred  to  seven  hundred  mUeB  dis- 
tant frt>m  its  seat  of  government  at  Sid- 
ney, and  without  a  made  road  between 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


CoUmiMium^Mr  Wak^ftMi  Theory. 


them,  18  a  great  Ga8p€.  In  New  Zea- 
land, a  country  eight  or  nine  hundred 
miles  long,  without  roads,  and  colonised, 
as  Sicily  was  of  old,  in  many  distinct  set- 
tlements, all  the  settlements,  except  the 
one  at  which  the  government  is  seated, 
are  miserable  Gasp^  as  respects  paucity 
of  goremment.  In  each  settlement,  in- 
deed, there  is  a  meagre  official  esublish- 
men^  and  in  one  of  the  settlements  there 
is  a  sort  of  lieutenant-governor ;  but 
these  officers  have  no  legisfiitive  functions, 
no  authority  to  determine  anything,  no 
originating  or  constmctiTe  powers  :  they 
are  mere  executive  organs  of  the  general 
government  at  the  capital,  for  adminis- 
tering general  laws,  and  for  carrying  into 
effect  such  arbitrary  instructions,  which 
are  not  laws,  as  they  may  receive  from 
the  seat  of  government.  The  settlers, 
tiierefore,  are  always  caUling  out  for  some- 
thing which  government  alone  could  fur- 
nish. Take  one  example  ont  of  thousands. 
The  settlers  at  Wellington  in  New  Zea- 
land, the  principal  settlement  of  the 
colony,  wanted  a  light-house  at  the  en- 
trance of  this  harbour.  To  get  a  light- 
house was  an  object  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance to  them.  The  company  in  Eng- 
land, which  had  founded  the  settlement, 
offered  to  advance  the  requisite  funds  on 
loan.  But  the  settUment  Aa<l  no  eonttl- 
tuted  atilAoHljf  that  could  cLccepl  the  loan 
and  guarantee  itt  repayment.  The  com- 
pany therefore  asked  the  colonial  office, 
whose  authority  over  New  Zealand  is 
supreme,  to  undertake  that  the  money 
should  be  properly  laid  out  and  ultimately 
repaid.  But  the  colonial  office,  charged 
as  it  is  with  the  general  government  of 
some  forty  distinct  and  distant  communi- 
ties, was  utterly  incapable  of  deciding 
whether  or  not  the  infant  settlement 
ought  to  incur  such  a  debt  for  such  a 
purpose ;  it  therefore  proposed  to  refer 
the  question  to  the  general  government  of 
the  colony  at  Auckland.  But  Auckland 
is  several  hundred  miles  distant  from 
Wellington,  and  between  these  distant 
plaoes  there  is  no  road  at  all — the  only 
way  of  communication  is  by  sea  ;  and  as 
there  is  nocommeroial  intercourse  between 
the  places,  communication  by  sea  is  either 
so  costly,  when,  as  has  happened,  a  ship 
is  engaged  for  the  purpose  of  sending  a 
message,  or  so  rare,  that  the  settlers  at 
Wellington  frequently  receive  later  news 
from  England  than  ftt>m  the  seat  of  their 
government :  and  moreover  the  attention 
of  their  government  was  known  to  be,  at 
the  time,  absorbed  with  matters  relating 
exclusively  to  the  settlement  in  which  the 
government  resided.  Nothing,  therefore, 
was  done  ;  some  ships  have  been  lost  for 
want  of  a  lighthonse  ;  and  the  moat  fre- 
VOL.  LXV. — NO.  ccccin. 


525 

quented  harbour  of  New  Zealand  is  still 
without  one."— (P.  212.) 

This  is  a  long  extract,  bat  it  could 
not  be  abridged,  and  the  importance 
of  the  subject  required  it.  Mr  Wake- 
field has  some  remarks  upon  the  neces- 
sity of  supplying  religious  instruction 
and  the  means  of  public  worship  to 
our  colonies,  with  which  we  cannot 
but  cordially  agree.  But  we  rubbed 
our  eyes,  and  read  the  following  pas- 
sage twice  over,  before  we  were  quite 
sure  that  we  bad  not  misapprehended 
it :  ^^  I  am  in  hopes  of  being  able, 
«wheu  the  proper  time  shall  come  for 
that  part  of  my  task,  to  persuade  yon 
that  it  would  now  be  easy  for  England 
to  plant  seciaritm  colonies — that  is, 
colonies  with  the  strong  attraction  for 
superior  emigrants,  of^  peculiar  creed 
ineachcolony"— (P.160.)  Wethought. 
that  it  was  one  of  the  chief  boasts, 
and  most  fortunate  characteristics  of 
our  age,  that  men  of  different  sects, 
Presbyterians  and  Episcopalians,  In- 
dependents and  Baptists,  had  learned 
to  live  quietly  together.  It  is  a  les- 
son that  has  been  slowly  learnt,  and 
through  much  pain  and  tribulation. 
What  id  the  meaning  of  this  retrograde 
movement,  this  drafting  us  out  again 
into  separate  corps?  Possibly  the 
fact  of  the  whole  settlement  being  of 
one  sect  of  Christians  may  tend  at 
first  to  prumute  harmony — altbongh 
even  this  cannot  be  calculated  upon ; 
but  differences  of  opinion  are  cure,  in 
time,  to  cteep  in ;  and  the  ultimate- 
consequence  would  be,  that  such  a 
colony,  in  a  future  generation,  would 
be  especially  afiiicted  with  religious 
dissensions,  and  the  spirit  of  persecu- 
tion. It  would  have  to  learn  again, 
through  the  old  painful  routine,  the 
lesson  of  mutnal  toleration.  We  sus- 
pect that  Mr  Wakefield  is  so  engross- 
ed with  his  favourite  subject  of  colon- 
isation, that,  if  the  Mormonites  were 
to  make  a  good  settlement  of  it,  he 
would  forgive  them  all  their  absurdi- 
ties; perhaps  congratulate  them  on 
their  harmony  of  views. 

We  have  hitherto  regarded  colo- 
nisation in  its  general,  national,  and 
legislative  aspect :  the  following  p.ss- 
sage  takes  us  into  the  heart  of  the 
business  as  it  affects  the  individuals 
themselves,  of  all  classes,  who  really 
think  of  emigrating.  It  is  thus  Mr 
2l 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


526 


OitomVgfiwi    Mr  Wd^^iM*  Thmry. 


CMTar. 


Wakefield  describes  "  tiie  cbarms  of 
colonisation:" — 

**  Without  having  Witnessed  it,  you 
oannot  form  a  just  conception  of  the 
pleasurable  excitement  which  those  en- 
joy who  engage  personally  in  the  busi- 
ness of  colonisation.  The  ciroumstaacef 
which  produce  these  lively  and  pleasant 
feelings  are,  doubtless,  counteracted  by 
others  productire  of  annoyance  and  pain  ; 
but,  at  the  worst,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
enjoyment  for  all  classes  of  colonists, 
which  the  fixed  inhabitants  of  an  old 
country  can  with  difficulty  comprehend. 
The  counteracting  circumstances  are  so 
many  impediments  to  colonisation,  which 
we  must  examine  presently.  I  will  now 
endeavour  to  describe  briefly  the  encou- 
raging circumstances  which  put  emigrants 
into  a  state  of  excitement,  similar  to  that 
occasioned  by  opium,  wine,  or  winning 
at  play,  but  with  benefit  instead  of  fatal 
iig'ury  to  the  moral  and  physical  man. 

^  When  a  man,  of  whatever  condition^ 
has  finally  determined  to  emigrate,  there 
is  no  longer  any  room  in  his  mind  for 
thought  about  the  circumstances  that  sur- 
round him:  his  lif^  is  for  some  time  an  un- 
broken and  happy  dream  of  the  imagination. 
The  labourer— whose  dream  is  generally 
realised— thinks  of  light  work  and  high 
wages,  good  victuals  in  abundance,  beer 
and  tobacco  at  pleasore,  and  getting  in 
time  to  be  a  master  in  his  trade,  or  to 
having  a  fkrm  of  his  own.  The  novelty 
of  the  passage  would  be  a  delight  to  him, 
were  it  not  for  the  ennui  arising;  iVom 
want  of  occupation.  On  his  arnval  at 
the  colony,  all  goes  well  with  him.  He 
finds  himself  a  person  of  great  value,  a 
sort  of  personage,  and  can  indulge  al- 
most any  inclination  that  seizes  him.  If 
he  is  a  brute,  as  many  emigrant  la- 
bourers are,  through  being  bmtaUy 
brought  up  from  infancy  to  manhood,  he 
lives,  to  use  his  own  expression, '  like  a 
fighting  cock,'  till  gross  eigoyment  carries 
him  off  the  scene.  If  he  is  of  the  better 
sort,  by  nature  and  education,  he  works 
hard,  saves  money,  and  becomes  a  man  of 
property — perhaps  builds  himself  a  nice 
nouse,  glories  with  his  now  grand, and 
happy  wife  in  counting  the  children,  the 
more  the  merrier,  and  cannot  find  anything 
on  earth  to  complain  of,  but  the  exorbitant 
wages  he  has  to  pay.  The  change  for  this 
class  of  men  being  from  pauperism,  or  next 
door  to  it,  to  plenty  and  property,  is  in- 
describably, to  our  ^>prehen8ions  almost 
inoonceivMly,  agreeij>le* 

''But  the  classes  who  can  hardier 
imagine  the  pleasant  feelings  which  emi- 
gration provides  for  the  well-disposed 
pauper,  nave  pleasant  feelings  of  their 
own  when  they  emigrate,  which  are  per- 


haps more  lively  in  proportion  to  tbs 
greater  snsoeptiUlity  of  a  mors  coltivatcd 
mind  to  the  sensatioBS  of  mental  pan 
and  pleasore.  Emigrants  of  cultivated 
mind,  flnom  the  moment  when  they  deter- 
mine to  be  colonists,  have  their  drt&ma, 
which,  though  far  fhmi  being  always,  or 
ever  fully  realised,  are,  I  have  been  told 
by  hundreds  of  this  class,  very  delightfU 
indeed.  They  think  with  great  pleasure 
of  getting  away  from  the  disagreeable 
position  of  anxiety,  perhaps  of  wearing 
dependence,  in  whkh  the  universal  aad 
•xcessive  oompetition  of  this  oonntry  has 
plaeed  them.  But  it  is  on  the  ftilnre  that 
their  imagination  exclusively  seises. 
They  can  think  in  earnest  abont  nothing 
but  the  colony.  I  have  known  a  man  of 
this  class,  who  had  been  too  earelees  of 
money  here,  begin,  as  soon  as  he  had  re- 
solved on  emigration,  to  save  sixpences!, 
and  take  care  of  bits  of  string,  saying 
'  everything  will  be  of  use  tkert.*  There! 
it  is  common  for  people  whose  thon^ts 
are  fixed  '  there,'  to  break  themselves  all 
at  once  of  a  confirmed  habit— that  of 
reading  their  ftkvoerite  newifH^er  every 
day.  All  the  newspapers  of  the  old 
country  are  now  equally  unintersstiBg  to 
them.  If  one  falls  in  their  way,  they 
perhaps  turn  with  alacrity  to  the  diipping 
lists,  and  advertisements  of  passenger 
ships,  or  even  to  an  account  of  the  s^e  of 
Australian  wool,  or  New  Zealand  flax  ; 
but  they  cannot  see  either  the  parliamen- 
tary debate,  or  the  leading  article  which 
used  to  embody  their  own  opinions,  or  the 
reports,  accidents,  and  offiBiMSs,  of  whidi 
they  used  to  spell  every  word.  Their 
reading  now  is  confined  to  letters  and 
newspapers  from  the  colony,  and  books 
relating  to  it.  They  can  hardly  talk 
about  anything  that  does  not  relMe  to 
*there."*— (P.  127.) 

A  man  is  far  gone,  indeed,  when  be 
has  given  up  his  Times  I  This  zeal 
^fbr  emigration  amongst  the  better 
classes,  and  especially  amongst  eda- 
cated  youths,  who  find  the  avenues  to 
wealth  blocked  up  in  their  own 
country,  is,  we  apprehend,  peculiar 
to  our  day,  and  amongst  the  most 
novel  aspects  which  the  subject  of 
colonisation  assumes.  How  many  of 
these  latter  find  their  imaginations 
travelling  even  to  the  antipodes  1 
Where  ^all  we  colonise?  is  a  qnes- 
tion  canvassed  in  many  a  fkmily, 
sometimes  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest, 
till  it  leads  to  the  actual  departure  i£ 
the  boldest  or  most  restless  of  the 
circle.  Books  are  brought  down  and 
consulted ;  from  the  ponderous  foBo  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ldi».] 


CokmKOum^J^  Wah^fiMt  Thtory. 


527 


OapUhi  CkxA'fl  vojageeH-wfaich^  with 
its  nide  iMit  moflt  iUnstratiTe  of  prints, 
wms  the  amnsement  of  their  childi>ood, 
when  they  would  have  thought  a 
hftbitatioii  in  the  moon  as  probable  a 
business  as  one  in  New  Zealand — ^to 
tiie  last  hot-pressed  joomal  of  a  resi- 
dence in  Sydney ;  and  eveiy'  colony 
in  turn  is  examined  and  discnssed. 
Here  climaie  is  so  delidoos  yon  may 
flleep  without  hazard  in  the  open  air. 
Sleep  I  yea,  if  the  mosquitoes  \sX  yoo. 
Mnsiinitoes — oh  I  Another  reads  with 
delight  of  the  noble  breed  of  horses 
that  now  ran  wild  in  Anstralia,  and  of 
the  bold  boraemanship  of  those  who 
drive  in  the  herd  of  bullous  from  their 
extensive  pastora^  when  it  is  neces- 
aarv  to  assemble  m  order  to  number 
and  to  mark  them.  The  name  of  Uie 
thing  does  not  soand  so  romantic  as 
that  of  a  bnffak>-hant;  bat,  armed 
with  yornr  tremeadons  whip,  from  the 
back  of  a  horse  whom  ^oa  torn  and 
wind  at  pleasure,  to  dnve  your  not 
over-tractable  bollocks,  mnst  task  a 
good  seat,  and  a  steady  hand,  and  a 
quick  eye.  A  third  dwells  with  a 
quieter  delight  on  the  beantifnl 
acenfflj,  and  the  |»storal  life  so  suit- 
aide  to  it,  which  Kew  Zealand  will 
disclose.  VaUeyi  green  as  the  mea- 
dows of  DevoBshiie,  hilk  as  pictar- 
«8qtte  as  those  of  Scotland,  and  the 
sky  of  Italy  over  all  I  and  the  abo- 
rigines fiimidly,  peaceable.  Yes, 
murmurs  one,  until  they  eat  you. 
Fan^h  I  but  they  are  reformed  in  that 
particular.  Besides,  Dr  Dieffenbach 
says,  here,  that  ^*  they  find  Europeans 
salt  and  disagreeable."  Probably 
they  had  been  masticating  some  tough 
old  sailor,  who  had  fed  on  junk  all  Ms 
life,  and  they  found  him  salt  enough. 
But  let  no  one  in  his  love  of  science 
suggest  this  explanation  to  them ;  let 
us  rest  under  the  odium  of  being  salt 
and  disagreeable. 

These  aborigines — one  would  cer- 
tainly wish  they  were  out  of  the  way. 
Wild  men  I  Wild— one  cannot  have 
fellowship  with  them.  Men— one 
cannot  shoot  them.  In  Australia 
they  are  said  to  be  not  much  wiser 
than  baboons — one  wishes  they  were 
altogether  baboons,  or  altogether  men. 
In  New  Zealand  they  are,  upon  the 
whole,  a  dodle,  simple  people.  The 
missionaries  are  schoolkig  them  as 
they  would  little  childr^.    A  very 


iimi^  people!  They  had  heard  of 
horses  and  of  horsemanship ;  it  was 
some  tradition  handed  down  from 
their  great  discoverer.  Captain  Cook. 
Wh^  lately  some  portly  swine  were 
landed  on  the  island,  they  concluded 
thene  were  the  frunous  horses  men 
rode  upon  in  England.  **  They  rode 
two  of  them  to  death."  Probably, 
by  that  time,  they  suspected  there 
was  some  error  in  the  case. 

Hapless  aborigiBes  I  How  it  comes 
to  pass  we  cannot  stop  to  inquire,  but 
certain  it  is  they  nevw  prosper  in  any 
WMon  with  the  white  joxbl.  They  get 
his  gin,  they  get  his  gunpowder,  and, 
here  and  there,  some  travesty  of  his 
religioa.  This  is  the  best  bargain 
they  make  where  they  are  most  lor- 
tanate.  The  two  first  gifts  of  the 
white  man,  at  all  events,  add  nothing 
to  the  amenity  of  character,  and  hap* 
pM  to  be  predsely  the  gifts  they 
could  most  vividly  appreciate.  Our 
civilisation  seems  to  have  no  other 
effect  than  to  break  up  the  sort  of 
rude  kannoBy  which  existed  in  their 
previous  baroaiism.  They  imitate, 
they  do  not  emulate ;  what  they  see 
(^  us  thej  do  not  understand.  That 
ridicalous  exhibitioa,  so  often  de- 
scribed, which  they  make  with  our 
costume— a  naked  man  with  hat  and 
leathers  stock  upon  his  head;  or, 
better  still,  converting  a  pair  of 
leathers  into  a  g^istoung  helmet,  the 
two  legs  hanging  down  at  the  back, 
where  the  flowing  horse-hair  is  wont 
to  fall— is  a  perfect  emblem  of  what 
they  have  gained  in  mind  and  cha- 
racter from  our  civilisation. 

These  poor  New  Zealanders  are 
losing — what  think  you  says  Dr  Dief- 
fenbacfa?  —  their  digestion;  getting 
dyspeptic.  The  missionaries  have 
tamed  them  down ;  they  eat  more, 
fight  less,  and  die  faster.  One  of  the 
"  brethren,"  not  the  least  intelligent 
to  our  mind,  has  introduced  cricket  as 
a  substitute  for  their  war-dances  and 
other  fooleries  they  had  abolished. 

When  we  want  the  soil  which  such 
aborigines  are  loosely  tenanting,  we 
must,  we  presume,  displace  them. 
There  is  no  help  for  it.  But,  in  all 
'  other  cases,  we  could  wish  the  white 
man  would  leave  these  dark  children 
of  the  earth  alone.  If  there  exists 
another  Tahiti,  such  as  it  was  when 
Cook  discovered  it,  such  as  we  read  of ' 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


528 


CoUmi8atian--Mr  Wak^ekTs  Theory. 


[May, 


it  under  the  old  name  of  Otaheite,  we 
hope  that  some  eternal  mUt,  drawn 
in  a  wide  circle  ronnd  the  island,  will 
sbrond  it  from  all  futnre  navigators. 
Were  we  some  great  mariner,  and  had 
discovered  snch  an  island,  and  had 
eaten  of  the  bread-fruit  of  the  hospi- 
table native,  and  reclined  under  their 
peaceful  trees,  and  seen  their  youths 
and  maidens  crowned  with  green 
boughs,  sporting  like  fishes  in  their 
beautiful  clear  seas,  no  mermaid 
happier — ^we  should  know  but  of  one 
way  to  prove  our  gratitude — to  close 
our  lips  for  ever  on  the  discovery  we 
had  made.  If  there  exist  in  some 
untraversed  region  of  the  ocean  an- 
other snch  spot,  and  if  there  are  still 
any  genii,  or  jins,  or  whatever  sea- 
fairies  may  be  called,  left  behind  in 
the  world,  we  beseech  of  them  to  pro- 
tect it  from  all  prying  circumnavi- 
gators. Let  them  raitue  bewildering 
mists,  or  scare  the  helmsman  with 
imaginary  breakers,  or  sit  cross- 
Jegged  upon  the  binnacle,  and  be- 
witch the  compass— anyhow  let  them 
protect  their  charge.  We  could  al- 
most believe,  from  this  moment,  in 
the  existence  of  such  sphits  or 
genii,  having  found  so  great  a  task  for 
them. 

We  have  no  space  to  go  back  to 
other  graver  topics  connected  with 
colonisation  which  we  have  passed  on 
our  road.  On  one  topic  we  had  not, 
certainly,  intended  to  be  altogether 


silent.  But  it  is  perhaps  better  as  it 
is;  for  the  subject  of  transportation  is 
so  extensive,  and  so  complicate,  and 
so  inevitably  introduces  the  whole  re- 
view of  what  we  call  secondary  pnn- 
ishments^f  our  penal  code,  in  short 
^that  it  were  preferable  to  treat  it 
apart.  It  would  be  very  unsatis- 
factory merely  to  state  a  string  of 
conclusions,  without  being  able  to 
throw  up  any  defences  against  Uioso 
objections  which,  in  a  subject  so  full 
of  controversy,  they  would  be  sure  to 
provoke. 

In  fine,  we  trust  to  no  ideals,  no 
theory  or  art  of  colonisation.  Neither 
do  we  make  any  extraordinary  or 
novel  demands  on  Government.  A 
great  work  is  going  on,  but  it  will  be 
best  performed  by  simple  means. 
We  asK  fh>m  the  Grovemment  that  it 
should  survey  and  apportion  the  land, 
and  secure  its  possession  to  the  honest 
emigrant,  and  that  it  should  delegate 
to  the  new  settlement  such  powera  of 
self-government  as  are  necessary  toils 
internal  improvement.  These,  how- 
ever, are  important  duties,  and  em- 
brace much.  The  rest,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  such  liberality  as  may  be 
thought  advisable,  in  addition  to  the 
fund  raised  by  the  sale  of  waste  land, 
for  the  despatch  and  outfit  of  the  poor 
labourer  or  artisan — the  rest  must  be 
left  to  the  free  spirit  of  Englishmen, 
whether  going  single  or  in  groups  and 
societies. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


The  Reaction^  or  Foreign  C(m$ervatism. 


529 


THE  REACTION,  OB  FOREIOK  OOKSERVATISlf . 


Boston,  February  1840. 

It  is  the  sage  remark  of  Montes- 
quieo,  that,  under  a  govemmeDt  of 
4aw8,  liberty  consists  simply  in  the 
power  of  doing  what  we  ought  to 
will,  and  in  freedom  Ax>m  any  con- 
straint to  do  what  we  ought  not  to 
will.  The  true  conservative  not  only 
accepts  this  maxim,  but  be  gives  it 
completeness  by  prescribing  a  pure 
religion  as  the  standard  of  what  a 
people  oueht  to  will,  and  as  the  only 
sober  guide  of  conscience.  And  this 
may  be  added  as  a  corollary,  that  so 
long  as  a  free  people  is  substantially 
Chi  istian,  their  conscience  coinciding 
with  absolute  right,  thehr  liberty,  so 
far  as  affected  by  popular  causes,  will 
preserve  itself  from  fatal  disorders. 
Snch  a  people,  possessed  of  liberty, 
will  know  it  and  be  content.  But 
where  the  popular  conscience  is  mor- 
bid, they  may  have  liberty  without 
knowing  it.  They  will  fancy  that 
they  ought  to  will  what  they  arc  not 
permitted  to  will,  and  the  most  whole- 
some restraints  of  wise  laws  will  ap- 
pear tyrannical.  For  such  a  people 
there  can  be  no  cure,  till  they  are 
restored  to  a  healthy  conscience.  A 
despotism  successfully  established 
over  them,  and  then  moderately  main- 
tained, and  benevolently  administered, 
is  the  only  thing  that  can  save  them 
from  self-destruction. 

I  was  not  writing  at  random,  then, 
my  Basil,  when  I  said  in  my  last  let- 
ter that  the  first  want  of  France  is  a 
national  conscience.  As  a  nation,  the 
French  lack  the  moral  sense  What 
sign  of  moral  life  have  they  shown 
for  the  last  fifty  years?  The  root  of 
bitterness  in  the  body  politic  of 
France,  is  the  astonishing  infidelity  of 
the  people.  Whatever  bd  the  causes, 
the  fact  is  not  to  be  denied :  the  land 
whose  crown  was  once,  by  courtesy, 
most  Christian^  must  draw  on  cour- 
tesy and  charity  too,  if  it  be  now 
called  Christian  at  all.  The  spirit  of 
unbelief  is  national.  It  is  the  spirit 
of  French  literature— of  the  French 
press— of  the  French  academy — of  the 
jPrench  senate ;  I  had  almost  added 
of  the  French  church  :  and  if  I  hesi- 
tate, it  is  not  so  much  because  i  doubt 


thecorrupting  influences  of  the  French 

{>riesthood,  as  because  they  are  no 
onger  Galilean  priests,  but  simply 
the  emissaries  of  Ultramontanism. 
There  is  no  longer  a  French  church. 
The  Revolution  made  an  end  of  that. 
When  Napoleon,  walking  at  Malmal- 
8on,  heard  the  bells  of  Rnel,  he  was 
overpowered  with  a  sense  of  the  value 
of  such  associations  as  they  revived 
in  his  own  heart,  and  forthwith  he 
opened  the  churches  which  had  so  long 
been  the  sepulchres  of  a  nation*s 
faith,  convinced  that  they  served  a 
purpose  in  government,  if  only  as  a 
cheap  police.  He  opened  the  churches, 
but  he  could  not  restore  the  church  of 
France.  He  could  do  no  more  than 
enthrone  surviving  Ultramontanism 
in  her  ancient  seats,  and  that  by  a 
manoeuvre,  which  made  it  a  creature 
and  a  slave  of  his  ambition.  When 
it  revolted,  he  talked  of  Galilean  li- 
berties, but  only  for  political  purposes. 
Nor  did  the  Restoration  do  any  better. 
The  church  of  St  Louis  was  defunct. 
Galilean  immunities  were  indeed 
asserted  on  paper ;  but,  in  effect,  the 
Jesuits  gained  the  day.  The  Orieans 
usurpation  carried  things  further; 
for  the  priesthood,  severed  from  the 
state,  became  more  Ultramontane  from 
apparent  necessity,  and  lost,  accord- 
ingly i  their  feeble  hold  on  the  remain- 
ing respect  of  the  French  people. 
Who  was  not  startled,  when  the  once 
devout  Lamartine  talked  of  '*  the  new 
Christianity"  of  Liberty  and  Equality 
over  the  ruins  of  the  Orleans  dynasty, 
and  thus  betrayed  the  irreligion  into 
which  he  had  been  repelled  by  the 
Christianity  of  French  ecclesiastics  I 
Thus  always  uncongenial  to  the  na- 
tional character,  Ultramontanism  has 
coated,  like  quicksilver,  and  eaten 
away  those  golden  liberties  which  St 
Louis  c<insecrated  hb  life  to  preserve, 
and  with  which  have  perished  the 
life  and  power  of  Christianity  in 
France. 

The  history  of  France  is  emphati- 
cally a  religious  history.  Every 
student  must  be  struck  with  it.  To 
nndersund  even  the  history  M  its 
court,  one  must  get  at  leas' 
line  of  what  is  meant  by 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


m> 


Tke  Remcium,  or  Fare^  Con$ervatum. 


[May, 


and  MoUnism,  and  Ultramontanism, 
^'  and  the  whole  tissue  of  isms  which 
they  have  created.  No  bistoriaii 
gives  ns  an  exemption  from  this 
amount  of  polemical  information. 
The  school  of  Micbelet  is  aa  forward 
as  that  of  de  Maistre,  in  claiming  a 
*^  religions  mission  "  for  France 
among  the  nations;  and  de  Bcael 
and  Chateanbriand  are  Impressed 
with  the  same  Idea.  Her  publicists, 
as  well  as  her  statesmen,  have  been 
always,  in  their  own  way,  theo- 
logians ;  and,  from  Lonis  IX.  to 
Louis  XYI.,  the  spirit  of  theology 
was,  in  some  form  or  other,  the  spirit 
of  every  reign.  Not  only  the  Ma- 
zarins,  but  the  Pompadours  also,  have 
made  religion  part  of  their  craft ;  and 
religion  became  so  entirely  political 
under  Lonis  XY.,  that  irreligion  was 
easily  made  political  in  its  stead.  In 
the  court  of  France,  in  fact,  theology 
has  been  the  common  trade ;  the 
trade  of  Cond^  and  of  Guise,  of 
Hagnenot  and  Papist,  of  Jansenist 
and  Jesuit,  of  philosopher  and  poet, 
of  harlots,  and  almost  of  lap-dogs. 
Even  Robespierre  must  legislate  upon 
the  ^*  consoling  principle  of  an  Eire 
Supreme,  ^'  and  Napoleon  elevates 
himself  into  **  the  eldest  son  of  the 
church/'  ^^  A  peculiar  characteristic 
of  this  monarchy,"  says  de  Maistre, 
^*  is  that  it  possesses  a  certain  theo- 
cratic element,  special  to  itself,  which 
has  given  it  fourteen  centuries  of 
duration."  This  element  has  given 
its  colour  to  reigns  and  revolutions 
alike ;  and  if  one  admit  the  neces- 
sity of  religion  to  the  perpetuity  of  a 
state,  it  deserves  our  attention,  in  the 
light  of  whatever  contending  parties 
have  advanced  upon  the  subject. 

Let  us  begin  with  the  revolution- 
ists themselves.  In  the  month  of 
June  1844,  Monsieur  Quinet,  "of 
the  college  of  France,"  stood  in  his 
lecture-room,  venting  his  little  utmost 
against  the  "impsMloned  leaven  of 
Beaction,"  which  he  declared  to  be 
ftsrmenting  in  French  society.  His 
audience  was  literally  the  youth  of 
nations;  for,  as  I  gather  from  his 
oratory,  it  embraced  not  only  his 
countrymen,  but,  besides  them,  Poles, 
Russians,  Italians,  Germans,  Hun- 
garians, Spaniards,  Portuguese,  and 
a  sprinkling  of  negroes.  Upon 
this  interesUng  assembly,  in  which 


black  spirits  and  white  must  have 
maintained  the  proportion,  and  some- 
thing of  the  appearance,  of  their  cor- 
responding ebony  and  ivory  in  the 
key-board  of  a  pianoforte,  and  which 
he  had  tuned  to  his  liking  by  a  series 
of  preparatory  exerdaes,  be  played^ 
as  a  grand  ^oif,  a  most  brilliant 
experimental  quick-step,  whkh  satis- 
fied him  that  every  chord  vibrated  in 
harmony  with  his  own  sweet  voice. 
He  was  closing  his  instmctions,  and 
addressed  his  pupils,  not  as  disdples, 
but  as  friends.  His  gr^t  object 
seems  to  have  been  to  convince  them 
of  their  own  importance,  as  the  illumi- 
nated school  oi  a  new  gospel  of  which 
he  is  himself  the  dispenser,  and 
through  which,  he  promised  them^ 
they  would  become,  with  him,  tho 
regenerat<Hrs  of  the  world.  Having 
fully  indoctrinated  them  with  his  new 
Christianity,  it  was  necessary  to  woric 
them  into  fury  against  the  old.  H» 
had  already  established  the  unity  of 
politics  and  religion ;  he  had  shown, 
very  artfully,  that  Christianity  had 
identified  itself  with  Ultramontanism^ 
and  that  France  must  perish  if  it 
should  triumph ;  and  he  had  only  to 
convince  them  of  danger  from  that 
quarter,  to  influence  the  combustible 
spirits  of  his  credulous  hearers  to  the 
beat  which  his  purpose  required. 
This  he  did  by  bellowing  Reaction^ 
and  anathematising  Schlegel  and  de 
Maistre. 

You  were  mistaken  then,  my  Basil,, 
in  supposing  this  word  Reaction  alto- 
gether a  bugbear,  and  in  understand- 
ing it  with  reference  only  to  the  coun- 
ter-spirit in  favour  of  legitimacy, 
which  has  been  generated  by  the  re- 
volution of  last  year.  You  see  it  was 
the  hobgoblin  of  a  certain  class  of  fa- 
natics, long  before  Louis  Philippe  had 
received  his  notice  to  quit.  It  was  an 
^impassioned  leaven"  in  French  so- 
ciety five  years  ago,  in  the  heated 
imagination,  or  else  in  the  artfiii 
theory,  of  Quinet  What  was  realhr 
the  case  ?  There  was,  in  his  sober  opi- 
nion, as  much  danger  from  the  reaction 
at  that  time  as  from  the  Great  Turk, 
and  no  more.  He  merely  used  it  as 
an  academic  man-of-straw  to  play  at 
foils  with.  He  held  it  up  to  con- 
tempt as  an  exploded  folly,  and  then 
pretended  it  was  a  living  danger,  only 
to  increase  his  own  reputation  for 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18490 


The  Readum,  or  Foreign  Cmuervaiitm, 


daring,  and  to  qiiicken  the  develop- 
ment of  antagonist  principles.  He 
little  dreamed  the  manikin  would  come 
to  lifiB,  and  show  fight  for  the  Boar- 
bons  and  legitimacy.  He  cried  Woif 
for  his  own  purposes,  and  the  actuid 
barking  of  the  pack  must  be  a  terrible 
retribution  1  The  reaction  of  1 848  must 
have  come  upon  the  professors  like 
doomsday,  i  can  conceive  of  him,  at 
present,  only  as  of  Friar  Bacon,  when 
he  stumbled  upon  the  discoyery  of 
gunpowder.  A  moment  since,  he  stood 
in  his  laboratory  compounding  the 
genuine  elixhr  of  life,  and  assuring  his 
gaping  disciples  of  the  success  of  his 
experiment ;  but  there  has  been  a 
sudden  detonation,  and  if  the  professor 
has  miraculously  escaped,  it  is  only  to 
find  chaos  come  again,  his  admiring 
auditors  blown  to  atoms,  and  nothing 
remaining  of  his  philosophical  tritura« 
tion,  except  his  smutty  self,  and  a 
very  bad  smell.  I  speak  of  him  as 
the  personification  of  his  system. 
Personally,  he  has  been  a  gainer  by 
the  revolution.  Gnizot  put  him  out 
of  his  place,  and  the  Republic  has  put 
him  back ;  but  the  Reaction  is  upon 
him,  and  his  theories  are  already  re- 
solved into  their  original  gases.  ^^  The 
college  of  France"  may  soon  come  to  a 
similar  dissolution. 

Let  us  look  for  a  while  at  foreign 
conservatism  through  Monsieur  Qi^- 
uot*s  glasses.  I  have  introduced  you 
to  de  Maistre,  and  de  Maistre  is  to 
him  what  the  Pope  was  to  Luther. 
Quinet  is,  in  his  own  way,  another  re- 
former ;  in  fact,  he  announces  his  sys- 
tem, in  its  relations  to  Protestantism, 
as  another  noon  risen  upon  mid-day. 
The  theological  character  of  foreign 
politics  is  as  prominent  in  his  writings 
as  in  those  of  his  antagonists.  Thus, 
to  illustrate  the  character  of  the 
French  Revolution,  be  takes  us  to  the 
Coundi  of  Trent ;  and  to  demolish 
French  Tories,  he  attacks  Ultramon- 
tanism.  This  is  indeed  philosophical, 
considering  the  actual  history  of 
Europe,  and  the  affinities  of  its  Con- 
servative party.  Action  and  reaction 
are  always  equal.  The  cold  infidelity 
of  Great  Britain  was  met  by  the  cool 


531 

reason  of  Butler,  and  suffidently  coun- 
teracted by  even  the  frigid  apologies 
of  Watson,  and  the  mechanical  faith 
of  Paley.  But  the  passionate  unbe- 
lief of  the  £ncyclop»dist8  produced 
the  unbalanced  credulity  of  the  reac- 
tion; and  Diderot,  d'Alembert,  and 
Voltaire,  have  almost,  by  fatality,  in- 
volved the  noble  spirits  of  their  cor- 
rectors in  that  wrongheaded  habit  of 
believing,  which  shows  its  vigorous 
weakness  in  the  mild  Ballanche  and  the 
wavering  Lamennais,  and  develops 
all  its  weak  vigour  in  de  Maistre 
and  de  Bonald.  Thus  it  happens 
that  Mons.  Quinet  gives  to  his  pub- 
lished lectures  the  title  of  UUramon' 
tanism ;  for  he  prefers  to  meet  his  an- 
tagonists on  the  untenable  field  of  their 
superstition,  and  there  to  win  a  vir- 
tual victory  over  their  philosophical 
and  political  wisdom.  His  book  has 
reached  me  through  the  translation  of 
Mr  Cocks,*  who  has  kindly  favoured 
the  literature  of  England  with  se- 
veral similar  importations  from  ^^  the 
College  of  France,"  and  who  seems 
to  be  the  chosen  mouthpiece  of  the 
benevolent  author  himself,  in  address- 
ing the  besotted  self-sufficiency  of 
John  Bull.  So  far,  indeed,  as  it  dis- 
cusses Ultramonicmism  in  itself,  the 
work  may  have  its  use.  It  shows,  with 
some  force  and  more  vociferation,  that 
it  has  been  the  death  of  Spain,  and  of 
every  state  in  which  it  has  been  al- 
lowed to  work ;  and  that,  moreover^ 
it  has  been  the  persevering  foe  of  law^ 
of  science,  and  of  morality.  This  is  a 
true  bill ;  but  of  him,  as  of  his  master 
Michelet,  it  may  be  said  with  empha- 
sis, Tout^Jusgu'  h  la  v4rUe^  irompe  dan$ 
8e»  ecriu.  It  does  not  follow,  as  he 
would  argue,  that  political  wisdom 
and  Christian  truth  fail  with  Uitra- 
montanism ;  nor  does  he  prove  it  be 
so,  by  proving  that  de  Maistre  and 
others  have  thought  so.  The  school 
of  the  Reaction  dre  convicted  of  a  mis- 
take, into  which  their  masters  in 
Great  Britain  never  fell.  That  is  all 
that  Quinet  has  gained,  though  he 
crows  lustily  for  victory,  and  proceeds 
to  construct  his  own  poUticai  religion^ 
as  if  Christianity  were  confessedly 


*  Ultramontanism  ;  or  ike  BMnan  Ckurek  and  Modem  8oe%e$v,  By  E.  Q,mwwt, 
9^  the  College  of  France.  Translated  f^om  the  French.  Third  edftioni  with  the 
author's  approbation,  by  C.  Cocks,  B.L.    London :  John  Chapman.    1845. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


532 

defanct.  Ab  to  the  Btyle  of  the  Profes- 
sor, so  far  as  I  can  jadge  it  from  a 
tumid  and  verbose  translatiiio,  it  is 
not  wanting  in  the  hectic  brilliancy  of 
rhetoric  raised  to  fever-heat,  or  of 
French  run  mad.  Even  its  argument, 
I  donbt  not,  sonnded  logical  and 
satisifactoiy,  when  its  slender  pontalate 
of  truth  was  set  off  with  oratorical 
sophiittry,  enforced  with  professorial 
shrags  of  the  shoulders,  or  driven  home 
with  conclusive  raps  upon  the  auxiliary 
tabatiere.  But  the  inanimate  logic, 
as  it  lies  coffined  in  the  version  of  Mr 
Cocks,  looks  very  revolting.  In  fact, 
stripped  of  its  false  ornament,  all  its 
practical  part  is  simply  the  revolu- 
tionism of  the  Chartists.  Worse  stuff 
was  never  declaimed  to  a  subterra- 
nean conclave  of  insurgent  operatives 
by  a  drunken  Barabbas,  with  Tom 
Paine  for  his  text,  and  a  faggot  of 
pikes  for  his  rostrum.  The  results 
have  been  too  immediate  for  even 
Mon:*.  Quinet*s  ambition.  From  hear- 
ing {(edition  in  the  **  College  of  France," 
his  motley  and  party-C4»loured  audi- 
ence has  broken  up  to  enforce  it  be- 
hind the  barricades.  They  turned 
revolutionists  against  reaction  inposse, 
and  reaction  in  esse  is  the  very  natu- 
ral consequence. 

"  Every  nation,  like  every  indivi- 
dual, has  received  a  certain  mission, 
which  it  must  fulfil.  France  exercises 
over  Europe  a  real  magistracy,  which 
cannot  be  denied,  and  she  was  at  the 
hend  of  its  religious  system."  So  says 
de  Maititre,  and  so  far  his  bitter 
enemy  is  agreed.  But,  nays  de  Mais- 
tie,  '*  She  has  shamefully  abused  her 
mission ;  and  since  nbe  has  used  her 
influence  to  contradict  her  vocation, 
and  to  debauch  the  rooraln  of  Europe, 
it  16  not  surprising  that  she  is  resti>red 
to  herself  by  terrible  remedies."  Here 
spe^iks  the  spirit  of  Reaction,  and 
Qiiiiiet  immediately  shows  fight.  In 
his  view  she  has  but  carrit*d  out  her 
vocation.  The  Revolution  was  a  glori- 
ous outbreak  towards  a  new  uuivercal 
principle.  In  the  jargon  of  his  own 
sect,  '^  it  was  a  revolutiim  differing 
from  all  preceding  revolutions,  ancient 
or  m«»dem,  precisely  in  this,  that  it 
was  the  deliverance  of  a  nation  from 
the  boiida  and  limits  of  her  chnrch, 
into  the  spirit  of  universality."  The 
spirit  of  the  national  chur«*ii«  he  main- 
tains, had  become  Ultramontane ;  had 


The  Reaction^  or  Foreign  CanservaHsm, 


[Majr, 


lost  its  hold  OD  roen*0  minds;   had 
made  way  for  the  ascendency  of  philo- 
sophy, and  had  tacitly  yielded  the 
sceptre  of  her  sway  over  the  intelli- 
gence and  the  conscience  to  Ronaseau 
and  Voltaire.    Nor  does  the  Professor 
admit  that  subsequent  events  have 
restored  that  sceptre.    On  the  con- 
trary, he  appeals  to  his  auditors  in 
asserting  that  the  priesthood    have 
ceased  to  guide  the  French  conscience. 
His  audience  applauds,  and  the  en- 
raptured Quinet  catches  up  the  re- 
sponse like  an  auctioneer.      He  is 
chamied  with  bis  young  friends.    He 
is  sure  the  reaction  will  never  seduce 
them  into  travelling  to  heaven  by  the 
old  sterile  roads.    As  for  the  rkiction* 
naires^  no  language  can  convey  his 
contempt  for  them.     *'  After  this  na- 
tion," says  he,  *^  has  been  communing 
with  the  spirit  of  the  universe  upon 
Sinai,  conversing  face  to  &ce  with 
God,  they  propose  to  her  to  descend 
from  her  vast  conceptions,  and    to 
creep,  crestfallen,  into  the  spirit  of 
sect."    Thus  he  contrasts  the  catho- 
licity of  Pantheism  with  the  catho- 
licity of  Romanism ;  and  thus,  with 
the  instinct  of  a  bulldog,  does   he 
fasten  upon  the  weak  points  of  foreign 
Conservatism,  or  hold  it  by  the  nosCf 
a  baited  victim,  in  spite  of  its  massive 
sinews  and  its  generous  indignation.  / 
This  plan  is  a  cunning  one.     He  sinks 
the  Conservative    principles  of   the 
Reaction,  and  gives  prominence  only 
to  its  Ultramontanism.      He  shows 
that  modera  Ultramontanism  is  the 
creature  of  the  Council  of  Trent,  and 
reviews  the  history  of  Europe  as  con- 
nected with  that  Council.    He  proves 
the  pernicious  resuJts  of  that  Council 
in  every  state  which   has  acknow- 
ledged it;  shows  that  not  preservation 
but  ruin  has  been  its  inevitable  effect 
upon  national  character ;  and  so  con- 
gratulates France  fur  having  broken 
loose  from  it  in  the  great  Rtsvolution. 
He  then  deprecates  its  attempted  re- 
suscitation by  Schlegel  and  de  Mais- 
tre.  and,  falling  t>ack  upon  the  *^  reli- 
gions vocation"  of  France,  exhorts  his 
auditors  to  work  it  out  in  the  spirit  of 
his  own  evangel.    This  new  gos))el, 
it  is  almctst  needless  to  add,  is  that 
detestable  impiety  which  was  so  sin- 
gularly religious  in  the  revolution  of 
last  February,  profaning  the  name  of. 
the  Redeemer  to  sanctify  its  brutal 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  ReadHmj  or  For&ign  Conservatimn, 


excesses,  and  pretendiDg  to  find  in  the 
spirit  of  his  gospel  the  elements  of  its 
furious  Liberty  and  Equality.  In  the 
true  sentiment  of  that  revolution,  an 
ideal  portrait  of  the  Messiah  is  elabor- 
ately engraved  for  the  title-page  of  Mr 
Cock*s  translation!  So  a  French 
quack  adorns  his  shop  with  a  gilded 
bust  of  Hippocrates !  It  is  a  significant 
hint  of  the  humble  origin  of  a  system 
which,  it  must  be  understood,  owes  its 
present  dignity  and  importance  entirely 
to  the  genius  of  Mons.  Qninet. 

That  the  Reaction  is  thus  identified 
with  Ultramontanism,  is  a  fact  which 
its  leading  spirits  would  be  the  very 
last  to  deny.  The  necessity  of  reli- 
gion to  the  prosperity  of  France  is 
their  fundamental  principle;  and  reli- 
gion being,  in  their  minds,  inseparable 
from  Romanism,  they  will  not  see  its 
defects;  and  their  blind  faith,  like 
chloroform,  makes  them  absolutely 
insensible  to  the  sharp  point  of  the 
weak  spear  with  which  Quinet  pierces 
them.  And  it  is  but  fair  to  suppose 
that  Quinet  and  his  colleagues  are 
equally  honest  in  considering  Chris- 
tianity and  Ultramontanism  synony- 
mous. They  see  that  the  old  religion 
of  France  has  become,  historically,  a 
corrupt  thing,  and  they  propose  a 
fresh  Christianity  in  its  place.  Of 
one  thing  I  am  sure — they  do  not 
over-estimate  the  political  importance 
of  the  Council  of  Trent.  Let  it  be 
fairly  traced  in  its  connexions  with 
kingdoms,  with  science,  with  letters, 
and  with  the  conscience  of  nations, 
and  it  will  be  seen  that  Quinet  is  not 
far  from  correct,  in  taking  it  as  the 
turning-point  of  the  history  of  £urope. 
It  produced  Ultramontanism,  or  rather 
changed  it  from  an  abstraction  into 
an  organised  system ;  and  Ultramon- 
tanism, in  its  new  shape,  gave  birth 
(0  the  Jesuits.  Christendom  saw  a 
new  creed  proposed  as  the  bond  of 
unity,  and  a  new  race  of  apostles 
propagating  it  with  intrigue  and  with 
crime,  and,  in  some  places,  with  fire 
and  sword.  In  proportion  as  the 
states  of  Europe  incorporated  Ultra- 
montanism with  their  political  insti- 
tutions, they  withered  and  perished. 
Old  Romanism  was  one  thing,  and 
modem  Ultramontanism  another. 
Kingdoms  that  flourished  while  they 
were  but  Romanised,  have  perished 
since  they  became  Tridentine. 


633 

Among  English  writers  this  dis- 
tinction has  not  been  generally  made. 
Coleridge  seems  to  have  observed  it, 
and  has  incidentally  employed  it  in 
treating  of  another  subject.  But 
foreign  literature  is  full  of  it,  either 
tacitly  implied  or  openly  avowed,  in 
different  ways.  Ultramontanism  is, 
in  Europe,  a  political  and  not  merely 
a  theological  word, — its  meaning  re- 
sults from  its  history.  Before  the 
Tiiden  tine  epoch,  the  national  churches 
of  Europe  were  still  seven  candle- 
sticks, in  which  glittered  the  seven 
stars  of  an  essential  pers^onality  and 
individual  completeness.  The  '^  Church 
of  Rome  '*  still  meant  the  Roman  See, 
and,  vast  as  were  its  usurpations  over 
the  national  churches,  it  had  neither 
reduced  them  to  absolute  unity  in 
theology,  nor  absorbed  their  indivi- 
duality  into  its  own.  The  Roman 
Church,  as  we  now  understand  it, 
was  created  by  the  Council  of  Trent, 
by  a  consolidation  of  national  churches, 
and  the  qniet  substitution  of  the  creed 
of  Pius  IV.  for  the  ancient  creeds,  as 
a  test  of  unity.  This  fact  explains 
the  position  of  the  Reformed  before 
and  after  that  extraordinary  assembly. 
Till  its  final  epoch,  they  had  never 
fully  settled  their  relations'  to  the 
Papal  See.  The  history  of  England 
is  full  of  illustrations  of  this  fact. 
Old  Grostete  of  Lincoln  spumed  the 
authority  of  the  Pope,  but  continued 
in  all  his  functions  as  an  English 
bishop  till  his  death,  in  the  thirteenth 
century.  Wycliffe,  in  the  fourteenth, 
was  still  more  remarkable  for  resisting 
the  papal  pretensions,  yet  he  died  in 
the  full  exercie*e  of  his  pat^toral  oflSce, 
while  elevating  the  host  at  Childer- 
mas. Henry  VIU.  himself  had  the 
benefit  of  masses  for  his  pious  soul 
at  Notre  Dame;  and  his  friend 
Erasmus  lived  on  easy  terms  with  the 
Refomied,  and  yet  never  broke  with 
the  Vatican.  Even  the  English 
prayer-book,  under  Elizabeth,  was 
sanctioned  by  papal  -'"•^— •'—  •"•*»- 
the  proviso  of  her  n 
supremacy,  and  for 
her  reign  the  popini 
communion  with  the! 
of  England.  During 
the  dogmas  of  popes 
controverted  by  Cisal 
who  still  owned  the 
a  qualified   sense,   i 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


534 


The  Beaetkm^  or  Forei^  QmservaHsm. 


[Mmt^ 


appealed  to  afiittire  conncil  against  the 
decisions  of  the  See  of  Rome.  Ultra- 
montanism  had  then,  indeed,  its  home 
beyond  the  mountains,  and  when  it 
came  bellowing  over  its  barrier,  it 
was  often  met  as  ^^  the  Tinchel  cows 
the  game."  But  modem  Ultramon- 
tanism  is  another  thing.  It  is  an 
organised  system,  swallowing  np  the 
nationalities  of  constituent  churches, 
and  giving  them  the  absolute  unity 
of  an  individual  Roman  church,  in 
which  Jesuitism  is  the  circulating 
life-blood,  and  the  Italian  consistory 
the  heart  and  head  together.  Such 
was  the  prodigy  hatched  during  the 
seventeen  years  of  Tridentine  incuba- 
tion. It  appeared  at  the  close  of 
those  interminable  sessions,  so  dif- 
ferent from  all  that  had  been  antici- 
Eated,  that  it  startled  all  Europe.  It 
ad  quietly  changed  everything,  and 
made  Rome  the  sole  churdi  of 
Southern  Europe.  Qninet  has  not 
failed  to  present  this  fact  very  strongly. 
"  That  Council,"  says  he,  *'  had  not, 
like  its  predecessors,  its  roots  in  all 
nations ;  it  did  not  assemble  about  it 
the  representatives  of  all  Christen- 
dom. Its  spirit  was  to  give  full  sanc- 
tion to  the  idea,  which  certain  popes 
of  the  middle  ages  had  established,  of 
their  pre-eminence  over  (Ecumenical 
assemblies.  Thenceforward,  what 
bad  been  the  effect  of  a  particular 
genius,  became  tfte  veiy  constitution  of 
the  church.  The  great  adroitness 
consisted  in  making  the  change  without 
anywhere  epeahing  of  it.  The  church 
which  was  before  tempered  by  assem- 
blioii  convoked  from  all  the  earth, 
becamo  an  absolute  monarchy.  From 
that  moment  the  ecclesiastical  world 
is  silent.  The  meeting  of  councils  is 
dosed,  no  more  discussions,  no  more 
solemn  deliberations;  everything  is 
rrgulated  by  bulls,  letters,  and  ordin- 
MH^fS.  Popedom  usurps  all  Christen- 
tK^iu ;  the  book  of  life  is  shut ;  for 
|lii>^  centuries  not  one  page  has  been 
»\MihI."  One  would  think  the  school 
v4  ih«  Reaction  would  feel  the  force  of 
t^vtji  w  t^tftclently  urged,  even  in 
94N4  V  ^a  Ihoir  towering  disgust  at  the 
)^tM>v*^  ft^r  which  they  are  employed. 
\^  iV-4,  thotr  own  maxims  may  be 
H«^^  (^tw^t  th*«n  with  great  power. 


hi  this  matter  of  Ultnunontanism.  De 
Maistre,  in  his  argument  for  imwritten 
constitutions,  speaks  of  the  creeds  of 
the  church  as  ftumishiDg  no  excq[>- 
tion  to  ha  rule ;  for  these,  he  argnes^ 
are  not  co€le$  of  beliefs  but  they  par- 
take the  nature  of  hymns — they  have 
rhythmical  beauty,  they  are  chanted 
in  solemn  services,  they  are  con- 
fessed to  GrOD  upon  the  harp  and 
organ.  Now  this  is  indeed  true  of 
those  three  ancient  creeds  which  are 
still  chanted  in  the  service  of  the 
Church  of  England ;  but  the  creed  of 
Pius  IV.,  which  is  the  distinguish- 
ing creed  of  the  Roman  church,  is 
al^olutely  nothing  else  than  a  code  of 
heUef  and  is  the  only  creed  in  Chris- 
tenaom  which  lacks  that  rhythmical 
glory  which  he  considers  a  test  of 
truth  I  Even  Quinet  notices  this 
liturgic  impotence  of  the  Ultramon- 
tane religion.  ^'  The  Roman  church,** 
he  says,  ^^has  lost  in  literature, 
together  with  the  ideal  of  Christianity, 
the  sentiment  of  her  own  poetry. 
What  has  become  of  the  bumine 
accents  of  Ambrose  and  Paulinus? 
Urban  VIII.  writes  pagan  verses  to 
the  Cavalier  Bemi  ;*  and  instead  of 
Stabctt  mater  or  ScJutaris  hoetia^  the 
princes  of  the  church  compose  mytho- 
logical sonnets,  at  the  very  moment 
when  Luther  is  thundering  Einfeate 
Burg  tat  unser  Gott^  that  Te  Deum  of 
the  Reformation." 

No  wonder  France  was  reluctant  to 
acknowledge  a  Council  which  had  thc» 
imposed  a  new  creed  on  Christendom, 
and  which  dictated  a  new  organisation 
to  the  ancient  churches  of  Southern 
Europe.  While  other  nations  sub- 
scribed with  artful  evasions,  she  hesi- 
tated and  submitted,  but  gave  no  for- 
mal assent.  Rome  had  come  over  the 
Alps  to  absorb  her,  and  she  was  loth 
to  yield  her  birthright.  She  stood 
long  in  what  Schlegel  calls  ^^a  dis- 
guised half-schism,"  struggling  against 
dissolution,  the  last  lump  to  melt  away 
in  the  Tridentine  element.  But  whem 
now  is  the  church  which  St  Louis  left 
to  France,  strong  in  her  anti-papal 
bulwarks  ?  Where  now  are  those  bul- 
warks, the  labour  of  his  life,  and  the 
chief  glory  of  a  name  which  even  Rome 
has  canonised?    As  for  Spain,  Ultra- 


^  IH  ««^  wt«M«  tkminit  and  is  a  ninny  for  DOt  saying  so. 
«toft^%  ^*  **{»  |W«*— ^  144. 


Bat  Mr   C<Mdc^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


T%e  Reaetion,  or  Foreign  Cotuervaium. 


535 


montanLnn  was  rireted  upon  her  hr 
the  Inqnisitioiiy  and  she  is  twice  dead. 
One  sees  no  mcHre  the  churches  of 
Western  Christendom,  fortified  bj 
Pragmatic  Sanctions,  and  treated  wilh 
as  younger  msters,  eren  bj  domineer- 
ing Rome !  They  have  disappeared ; 
and  the  only  light  that  lingers  in  their 
places  is  the  aad  sepulchral  flame  that 
owes  its  existence  to  decay. 

Such  is  Ultramontanism.  Follow 
its  history,  in  connexion  with  political 
events  in  France,  and  you  cannot  fail 
to  charge  it  with  all  the  responsibility 
of  French  infidelity,  and,  consequently, 
of  the  present  lamentable  condition 
of  the  nation.  Thrice  has  the  spirit 
of  France  been  in  deadly  collision  with 
it — \u  tbe  fire,  in  the  wind,  and  in  the 
earthquake.  Its  first  antagonists  were 
the  Huguenots,  and  orer  them  it 
triumphed  by  the  persecutions  of  Louis 
XIY.,  following  up  the  policy  of  Ca- 
therine de  Medids.  It  was  next  con- 
fit)nted  by  Jansenism  under  Louis 
XV.,  and  that  it  overcame  by  intrigue 
and  by  ridicule.  Under  Louis  XVI. 
it  was  obliged  to  meet  the  atheism  of 
the  Encydopsedists,  which  it  had  it- 
self produced,  and  which  terribly  visit- 
ed npon  its  head  its  own  infernal 
inventions.  To  overwhelm  the  Pcnrt- 
Royalists,  it  had  resorted  to  low  cari- 
catures and  epigrams,  and  to  philoso- 
phical satires  upon  their  piety.  Vol- 
taire took  from  these  the  hint  of  his 
first  warfare  against  Christianity.  This 
was  first  a  joke  and  a  song,  and  then 
Ca  Ira  and  A  la  lanteme;  first  tbe 
popKuns  of  wit,  then  the  open  bat- 
tery of  Ecrasez  rinfStmt^  and  then  the 
exploding  mine  of  revolution.  It 
merely  reversed  the  stratagems  of 
Ultramontanism,  which  began  in  mas- 
sacre,  and  finished  its  triumphs  with  a 
jest ;  and  both  together  have  stamped 
the  nation  with  its  indelible  character 
of  half  tiger  and  half  monkey.  The 
origin  of  soch  an  issue  of  infamy  can- 
not be  concealed.  France  owes  it  all 
to  her  conduct  in  the  crisis  of  the  Re- 
formation. Had  the  Gallic  Church, 
under  Henry  of  Navarre,  fully  copied 
the  example  of  England,  or  bad  she 
even  carried  out  her  own  instincts, 
repudiating  the  Council  of  Trent,  and 
falling  back  upon  the  Pragmatic  Sanc- 
tion for  a  full  defence  of  her  indepen- 
dence, bow  different  would  have  been 
her  history,  and  that  of  the  monarchy 


to  whidi  she  would  have  proved  a 
lasting  support  I  Let  the  diffiBrence 
between  Henri  Quatre  and  Louis 
Quatorze,  between  Sully  and  Riche- 
lieu, illustrate  the  reply.  Or  it  may 
be  imagined,  by  comparing  the  cam- 
paigns of  Cevennes  with  the  peaeefnt 
mission  of  Fenelon  to  the  Huguenots 
ofSaintonge.  Where  now  both  church 
and  state  appear  the  mere  materials- 
of  ambition  to  such  as  Mazarin  and 
Dubois,  or  where  even  the  purer  ge- 
nius of  sudi  as  Bossnet  and  Massillon 
is  exhibited  in  humiliating  and  dis- 
gracefnl  associations,  the  places  of  his- 
tory might  have  been  adorned  by  such 
bright  spirits  as  were  immured  at  Port- 
Royal,  <n*  such  virtue  as  sketched  the 
ideal  kingdom  of  TUhnaque^  and  ren- 
dered illustrious  a  life  of  uncomplain- 
ing sorrow  In  the  pastoral  chair  of 
Cambray.  Where  the  court  can  boast 
one  Bourdaloue,  there  would  have 
been,  beside  him,  not  a  few  like  Pas- 
cal; and  in  the  rural  parishes  there 
would  have  been  many  such  as  Ar- 
nauld  and  Nicole,  training  in  simple 
piety  and  loyal  worth  the  successive 
generations  of  a  contented  people.  As- 
tor  the  palace,  it  would  never  have 
been  haunted  by  the  dark  spirit  of  Je- 
suitism, which  has  so  often  hid  itself 
in  the  robes  of  royalty,  and  reigned  in 
the  sovereign's  name ;  and  the  people 
would  have  known  it  only  as  a  fear* 
ful  thing  beyond  the  Pyrenees,  whose 
ear  was  always  in  the  confessional, 
and  whose  hand  was  ever  upon  the 
secret  wires  of  the  terrible  Inquisition. 
The  capital  would  have  been  a  citadel 
of  law,  and  the  kingdom  still  a  Chris- 
tian state.  Its  history  might  have 
lacked  a  **  Grand  Monarque,"  and 
certainly  a  Napoleon ;  but  then  there 
would  have  been  no  dragonnades^  and 
possibly  no  Dubarrydom;  no  Encg' 
elopmdie^  and  no  Ca  Ira!  The  bell  of 
St  Germain  TAuxerrois  would  have 
retained  its  bloody  memory  as  the 
tocsin  of  St  Bartholomew's  massacre, 
but  it  would  never  have  sounded  itft 
second  peal  of  infiumy  as  the  signal  for 
storming  the  Tuileries,  and  for  open- 
ing those  successive  vials  of  avenging 
woe,  in  which  France  is  expiating  her 
follies  and  her  crimes. 

Bossnet,  in  his  funeral  oration  upon 
Queen  Henrietta,  unhappily  for  hi» 
own  cause,  has  challenged  a  compari- 
son between  the  histories  of  France 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


636 


The  ReacHan^  or  IBoreign  CansertxtHim, 


[May, 


and  EDgland,  which,  if  he  were  living 
in  our  days,  he  would  hfuxlly  renew 
with  pleasure.  The  Anglican  Refor- 
mation was  rashly  charged  by  him 
with  all  the  responsibility  of  the  Great 
Rebellion ;  bat  facts  have  proved  that 
revolutions  are  by  no  means  confined 
to  anti-papal  countries,  while  history 
may  be  safely  appealed  to  by  English- 
men, in  deciding  as  to  the  kind  of 
religion  which  has  t^st  encountered 
the  excesses  of  rebellion,  and  most 
effectually  cared  the  disease.  The 
Anglican  Church  survived  the  Great 
Rebellion,  with  fidelity  to  itself:  the 
Gallic  Church  perished  in  the  Revolu- 
tion. Before  the  vainglorious  tannt 
of  Bossuet  had  passed  from  the 
memory  of  living  men,  all  those 
causes  were  at  work  in  France, 
which  bred  the  whirlwind  of  infi- 
delity, and  which  insnred  a  revolu- 
tion, not  of  fanaticism,  but  of  atheism. 
The  real  power  of  the  two  chnrches, 
in  moulding  the  chamcter  of  a  people, 
and  retaining  the  loyalty  of  its  noblest 
intellect,  became,  then,  singnlarly  ap- 
parent. In  France,  it  was  supersti- 
tion to  believe  in  God.  In  France, 
philosophers  were  afraid  to  own  a 
great  First  Cause.  In  France,  noble- 
men were  ashamed  to  confess  a  con- 
science. In  France,  bishops  and  car- 
dinals were  foremost  in  apostasy,  and 
claimed  their  sacerdotal  rank  only  to 
become  the  high -priests  of  atheistic 
orj^ies.  It  is  needless  to  cite,  in  com- 
parisfm,  the  conduct  of  parallel  clasf^es 
during  the  Great  Rebellion  in  England; 
while,  at  the  very  moment  in  which 
these  things  were  transacting,  the 
brightest  genius  in  her  Imperial  Par- 
liament could  proclaim  himself  not 
only  a  believer,  but  a  crusader  for 
Christianity.  It  was  a  noble  answer 
to  the  ghost  of  poor  Bossuet,  when 
such  a  man  as  Burke,  addressing  a 
gentleman  of  France,  declared  the 
adhesion  of  England  to  her  Reformed 
religion  to  be  not  the  result  of  indif- 
ference but  of  zeal ;  when  he  proudly 
contrasted  the  intelligent  faith  of  his 
countrymen  with  the  fanatical  impiety 
of  the  French ;  and  when,  with  a  dig- 
nify to  which  sarcasm  has  seldom  at- 
tained, he  reminded  a  nation  of  athe- 
ists, that  there  was  a  people,  every 
whit  its  peer,  which  still  exalted  in 
the  Christian  name,  and  among  whom 


religion,  so  far  firom  being  relegated 
to  provinces,  and  the  firesides  of  pea* 
sants,  still  sat  in  the  first  rank  of  the 
legislature,  and  *^  reared  its  mitred 
front"  in  the  very  face  of  the  throne. 
The  withering  rebuke  of  sach  a  boast 
must  be  measured  by  the  standard  of 
the  time  when  it  was  given.  In  Paris, 
the  mitre  had  just  been  made  the 
ornament  of  an  ass,  which  bore  in 
mockery,  upon  its  back,  the  vessels  of 
the  holy  sacrament,  and  dragged  a 
Bible  at  its  tail. 

Thus  the  colossal  genins  of  Burke 
stood  before  the  world,  in  that  war  of 
elements,  trampling  the  irreligion  of 
France  beneath  his  feet, like  the  Arch- 
angel thrusting  Satan  to  his  bottom- 
less abyss.  The  spectacle  was  not 
lost.  It  was  that  beautiful  and  sublime 
exhibition  of  moral  ^pandenr  that 
quickened  the  noblest  mmds  in  Europe 
to  imitative  vlrtne,  and  produced  the 
school  of  the  Reaction.  It  was  rather  > 
the  spirit  of  British  faith,  and  law,  and 
loyalty,  personified  in  him.  The  same 
spirit  had  been  felt  in  France  before : 
it  had  moulded  the  genius  of  Montes- 
quieu, abstractly ;  but  Burke  was  its 
mighty  concrete,  and  he  wrote  him- 
self like  a  photograph  upon  kindred 
intellect  throughout  the  worid.  Be- 
fore his  day,  the  character  of  English 
liberty  had  been  laboriously  studied 
and  mechanically  learned  ;  but  he,  as 
its  living  representative  and  embodi- 
ment, made  himself  the  procreant 
author  of  an  intellectnal  family.  I  fear 
yon  will  regard  this  as  a  theory  of  my 
own,  but  1  would  not  have  ventured 
to  say  this  on  my  mere  surmise.  One 
whose  religion  identifies  him  with 
Ul  tramon tanism  has  made  the  acknow- 
ledgment before  me.  I  refer  to  the 
English  editor  and  translator  of  Schle- 
pePs  Philosopkp  of  History.  Accord- 
ing to  him,  Schlegel  at  Vienna,  and 
Goerres  at  Munich,  were  "  the  su- 
preme oracles  of  thcU  iUmtrious  school 
of  iiberal  conservatives^  which  number- 
ed, besides  those  eminent  Germans,  a 
Baron  von  Haller  in  Switzerland,  a 
Viscount  de  Bonald  in  France,  a 
Count  Henri  de  Merode  in  Belgiuro, 
and  a  Count  de  Maistre  in  Pied- 
mont."* From  the  writings  of  these 
great  men,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree, 
be  augurs  the  future  political  regenera-* 
tion  of  Europe;   and  yet,  strongly 


*  Literary  lAfs  of  Frederick  ton  SckUgd,    By  James  Barton  Robertson,  Esq. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Reaction^  or  Foreign  Coruervatiem, 


warped  as  he  is  away  from  England, 
and  towards  Rome,  as  the  source  of 
all  moral  and  national  good,  he  does 
not  conceal  the  fact  that  this  splendid 
school  of  the  Reaction  was  '^  founded 
by  oar  great  Burke."  My  hopes  from 
the  writings  of  these  men  are  not  so 
sangnine :  but,  so  far  as  they  are  true 
to  their  original,  they  have  been 
already  of  great  service.  They  may 
hereafter  be  made  still  more  pot^erful 
for  good ;  and  if,  at  the  same  time, 
the  rising  school  of  Conservatism, 
which  begins  to  make  itself  felt  in 
America,  shall  impart  its  wholesome 
influences  to  an  off-shoot  of  England, 
so  vast  already,  and  of  such  grand 
importance  to  the  future,  then,  and 
not  till  then,  will  be  duly  estimated 
the  real  greatness  of  those  splendid 
services  which  Bnrke  was  created  to 
perform,  not  for  his  country  only,  but 
for  the  hnman  race. 

Perhaps  it  could  hardly  have  been 
otherwise;  but  it  must  always  be 
deplored  that  the  Conservatism  of 
England  was  reproduced  on  the  Con- 
tinent in  connexion  wiUi  the  Chris- 
tianity of  Ultramontanism.  The 
conservatism  of  de  Stael  and  of 
Chateaubriand,  though  repudiated  by 
the  riactionnttireSy  is  indeed  worthy 
of  honourable  mention,  as  their  char- 
acters will  ever  be  of  all  admiration; 
yet  it  most  be  owned  to  be  deficient  in 
force-,  and  by  no  means  executive. 
It  was  the  Conservatism  of  impulse—: 
the  Conservatism  of  genius,  but  not 
the  Conservatism  of  profound  philo- 
sophy and  energetic  benevolence. 
The  spirit  that  breathes  in  the  Genie 
du  Christianisme  is  always  beautiful, 
and  often  devout,  yet  it  has  been 
justly  censured,  as  recommending  less 
the  truth  than  the  beauty  of  the  reli- 
gion of  Jesus  Christ;  and  though  it 
doubtless  did  something  to  reproduce 
the  religious  sentiment,  it  seems  to 
have  effected  nothing  in  behalf  of 
religious  principle.  Its  author  would 
have  fnlfilled  a  nobler  mission  had  he 
taught  his  countrymen,  in  sober  prose, 
theur  radical  defects  in  morality,  and 


687 

their  absolute  lack  of  a  conscience. 
The  Conservatives  of  the  Reaction 
have  at  least  attempted  greater  things. 
They  have  bluntly  told  the  French 
nation  that  they  must  reform;  they 
have  set  themselves  to  produce  again 
the  believing  spirit:  their  mistake  hnn 
been,  that  they  have  confounded  faith 
with  superstition,  and  taken  the  cause 
of  the  Jesuits  into  the  cause  of  their 
country  and  their  God.  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  fatal.  It 
arms  against  them  such  characters  a.s 
Michelet,*  with  liis  Priests^  Women, 
and  Families,  and  makes  even  Quiiiet 
formidable  with  his  lectures  on  ^^  the 
Jesuits  and  Ultramontanism."  Tet 
it  must  be  urged  in  their  behalf,  that 
they  have  been  pardonably  foolisli, 
for  they  drew  their  error  with  their 
mother's  milk;  and  when  even  faith 
was  ridiculed  as  credulity,  it  was  an 
extravagance  almost  virtuous  to  ru^li 
into  superstition.  Such  is  the  dilem- 
ma of  a  good  man  in  Continental 
Europe:  his  choice  lies  between  the 
extremes  of  corrupt  faith  and  philo- 
sophic unbelief.  This  was  the  mis- 
fortune of  poor  Frederick  Schlegel ; 
and,  disgusted  with  the  hollow  ration- 
alism of  Grermany,  he  became  a  Papist, 
in  order  to  profess  himself  a  Chris- 
tian. The  mistake  was  magnani- 
mously made.  AVe  cannot  but  ad- 
mire the  man  who  eats  the  book  of 
Roman  infallibility,  in  his  hunger  for 
the  broad  of  everlasting  life.  Even 
Chateaubriand  must  claim  our  sym- 
pathies on  this  ground.  Our  feel- 
ings aro  with  such  errorists-— our  con- 
victions of  truth  remain  unaltered; 
and  we  cannot  but  lament  the  fatality 
which  has  thus  attended  European 
Conservatism  like  its  shadow,  and 
exposed  it  to  successful  assaults  from 
its  foes.  I  have  shown  how  tbey  use 
their  opportunity.  And  no  wonder, 
when  this  substitution  of  Ultramon- 
tanism for  Christianity  has  involved 
de  Maistro  in  an  elaborate  defence  of 
the  InquiBitlon— debased  the  Conser- 
vatism  of  de  Bonald  to  slavish  ab- 
solutism ;t  and  when  true  to  its  dcad- 


*  See  Blackwood  for  Aagnst  1845. 

f  Mr  Robertson  says  of  de  Bonald,  **  As  long  as  this  great  writer  deals  in  general 
propositions,  he  seldom  errs ;  bat  when  he  comes  to  apply  his  principles  to  practice, 
then  the  political  pr^ndices  in  which  he  was  bred  lead  him  sometimes  into  exaggera- 
tions and  errors."  For  **  political  prejudices"  substitnte  Ultravnontanum^  and  Mr 
Robertson  has  characterised  the  whole  school  of  the  Reaction. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


638 


2^  RtacHom^  or  Faretgrn  Comnervatiim. 


[May, 


eoing  inflaence  apon  the  oonsdeiice, 
it  implicated  you  Haller  in  the  in- 
famons  peijorj  which,  though  com- 
mitted under  the  sanction  of  a  Romifih 
bishop,  led  to  his  ignominiont  ex- 
pulsion £rom  the  sovereign  council 
at  Berne.  Chateaubriand  has  not 
escaped  an  infection  ftx>m  the  same 
atmosphere.  It  taints  his  writings. 
In  such  a  work  as  the  Geme<bi  Otns" 
tumi$me^  denounced  as  it  is  by  the 
Ultramontanists  generally,  there  is 
much  that  is  not  wholesome.  The 
eloquent  champion  of  faith  widds  the 
glaive  as  stoutly  for  faUes  as  for 
eternal  verities.  The  poet  makes 
beauty  drag  decay  in  her  train,  and 
ties  a  dead  corpse  to  the  wings  of  im- 
mortality. Tnith  itself,  in  his  apdo- 
gy,  though  brought  out  in  grand  re- 
lief, is  sculptured  on  a  sepulchre  full 
of  dead  men's  bones;  and,  unhappily, 
while  we  draw  near  to  examine  the 
perfection  of  his  ideal,  we  find  our- 
selves repelled  by  a  lurking  scent  of 
putrefMtion. 

The  career  of  de  Maistre  is,  in 
epitome,  that  of  his  scho(d.  Dis- 
gusted with  Jacobinism,  and  naturally 
ddighting  in  paradox,  it  seemed  to 
afford  him  relief  to  avow  himself  a 
papist,  in  an  age  of  adietsm.  He 
was  not  only  the  author  of  the  re- 
actionary movement,  but  his  character 
was  its^  the  product  of  Reaction. 
Driven  with  his  king  to  Sardinia,  in 
1792,  by  the  invasion  of  Piedmont, 
his  philosophical  contempt  for  the 
revolutionists  was  exhibited  im  his 
Congidentiiotu  tw  ia  France^  from 
which,  in  a  former  letter,  I  have  made 
so  long  a  quotation.  In  this  woriL — 
in  some  respects  his  best — his  Ultra- 
montanism  is  far  from  extravagant: 
and  not  only  his  religious  prindples 
as  they  were  then,  but  also  the  effect 
which  everything  English  was  then 
producing  on  his  mind,  is  clearly  seen 
m  a  oommoit  upon  die  English  Churdi, 
which,  as  it  passed  his  review,  and 
was  printed  again  in  1617  with  no 
retractation, must  beregarded as  some- 
what extraordinary.  "  If  ever 
Christians  reunite,'*  says  he,  ^^  as  all 
things  make  it  their  interest  to  do,  it 
would  seem  that  the  movement  must 
take  rise  in  the  Church  of  England. 
Calvinism  was  French  work,  and  con- 
sequently an  exaggerated  production. 
We  are  pushed  too  fur  away  by  the 


sectarians  of  bo  nnsnbstantial  a  re- 
gion, and  there  is  no  mean  by  whicii 
tiiey  may  comprehend  us:  bot  the 
Church  '<2r  England,  which  tonches  ns 
with  one  hand,  touches  widi  the  other 
a  class  whom  we  cannot  reach ;  and 
although,  in  a  certain  point  of  view., 
she  may  thus  appear  the  butt  of  two 
parties,  (as  being  herself  rebellious, 
tiiough  preaching  authority,)  yet  in 
other  respects  Bhe  u  wumt  precious^ 
and  may  be  considered  as  one  of  those 
diemical  interm^des^  which  are  cap- 
able of  producing  a  union  betweea 
elements  dissociable  in  themselves." 
He  seldom  ^ows  such  moderation; 
for  the  Greek  and  Anglican  churchef 
he  specially  hates.  In  18(H  he  was 
sent  ambassador  to  St  Petersburg; 
and  there  he  resided  till  1817,  ful- 
filling his  diplomatic  duties  with  that 
zeal  for  his  master,  and  that  devotion 
to  conservative  interests,  which  are 
the  spirit  of  his  writings.  There  he 
published,  in  1814,  the  pithy  Essaitur 
leprincipeaemdraiewr  de$  QmaUtutions^ 
in  which  he  reduced  to  an  abstract 
font  the  doctrines  of  his  former 
treatise  on  France.  His  style  is 
peculiarly  rdtshable,  sometimes  even 
sportive;  bat  its  main  maxims  are 
kid  down  with  a  dictatorial  dignity 
and  sternness,  which  associate  the 
tractate,  in  the  minds  of  many,  with 
the  writings  of  Montesquieu.  This 
essay,  ao  little  known  in  England, 
has  found  an  able  translator  and 
editor  in  America,  who  commends 
it  to  his  countrymen  as  an  antidote  to 
those  interpretations  which  are  put 
upon  omr  consdtutional  law  by  the 
political  disciples  of  Bousseao.  I 
ccHBmend  the  simple  fact  to  your  con- 
sideration, as  a  sign  of  the  more 
earnest  tone  of  thinking,  <m  such 
matters,  which  is  beginning  to  be  folt 
ammig  us.  The  fault  of  the  essay  is 
its  pnodcal  part,  or  those  aM>lica- 
tions  into  which  his  growing  Ultra- 
montanism  diverted  his  sound  theories. 
His  prindples  are  often  capaUe  of 
being  turned  upon  himsd^  as  I  have 
noticed  in  the  matter  ai  creeds.  His 
genius  also  found  a  congenial  amuse- 
ment in  translating  Plutarch^s  Delays 
of  Divine  Jtuticcy  which  he  accom- 
panied with  learned  notes,  UlustratiDg 
the  influence  of  Christianity  upon  a 
heathen  mind.  On  his  retam  from 
St  Petersburg  ia  1817^  i^^^peared  hia 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


Tke  B/eactiony  or  Fortigfi  Oon$erv(Ui$m, 


▼iolent  UltramontAne  work,  Du  Po^m, 
in  which  he  most  ingenioasly,  bat 
Y6iy  sophlstieally,  uses  in  support  of 
the  papacy  an  elaborate  argament, 
drawn  from  the  good  which  an  over- 
ruliag  Providence  has  accomplished, 
by  the  very  nsorpations  and  tyrannies 
of  the  Roman  See.  As  if  this  were 
not  ^ongh,  however,  he  closes  his 
lifo  and  labonrs  with  another  wcHrk, 
the  Soiri€8  de  St  Petersbourgy  in 
which,  with  bewitching  eloquence,  he 
expends  all  his  powers  of  varied 
leu-ning,  and  pointed  sarcasm,  and 
splendid  sophistry,  npon  questions 
which  have  but  the  one  point  of  turn- 
ing eveiTthing  to  the  account  of  his 
grand  theory  of  church  and  state, 
llios,  from  first  to  last,  he  identifies 
his  political  and  moral  philosophy 
with  religious  dogmas  essentially 
ruinous  to  liberty,  and  which,  during 
three  centuries,  have  wasted  every 
idngdom  inwhidi  they  have  gained 
ascendency.  To  the  direct  purpose 
of  uproodng  the  little  that  remained 
of  Gallicanism,  he  devoted  a  treatise, 
which  accompanies  his  work  Dm  i^qw, 
and  of  which  the  first  book  is  entittod, 
De  VEsprU  d'oppotUion  mmrri  en 
France  contre  U  Samt-Sie^  Its 
points  may  be  stated  in  a  simple  sen- 
tence from  the  works  of  his  CMdjutor, 
Frederick  Schlegel,  who,  in  a  few 
words,  gives  the  theory  which  has 
been  the  great  mistake  of  the  Reac- 
tion. ^^  The  disguised  half-schism  of 
the  Galilean  church,"  says  he, — ^*  not 
iees  JattU  in  its  hisioricai  effects  than 
ike  open  schism  of  the  Oreeks—hta 
contributed  very  materially  towards 
the  decline  of  religion  in  France, 
down  to  the  period  of  the  Restora- 
tion."* He  iUustrates  it  by  the  dis- 
putes of  Louis  XIV.  with  the  court 
of  Rome,  but  foists  to  say  anything 
of  his  extermination  of  the  Huguenots. 
In  one  sense,  however,  he  is  right.  It 
was  precisdy  the  haff-achiam  to  which 
the  mischi^  is  attributable.  This 
half-w^  work  it  was  that  enabled 
Louis  AlV.  to  assert  the  Galilean 
theory  against  a  semi^Protestant  pope, 
for  the  very  purpose  ai  fostering 
|;enuine  Ultramontanism  and  favour- 
ing the  Jesuits ;  while  under  another 
pontiff  he  could  repudiate  Gallican- 


539 

ism,  and  force  the  clergy  to  retract 
what  he  had  forced  them  to  adopt  I 
The  schism  of  England  was  doubtless 
^^an  open  schism,"  in  the  opinion  of 
Schlegel,  and  if  so,  it  should  have  been 
followed,  on  his  theory,  by  worse 
efiects;  but  Schlegel  lives  too  long 
after  the  days  of  Bossuet  to  bring 
her  example  into  view.  The  natunu 
appeal  would  have  bera  to  that  ex- 
ample, as  its  history  la  cotemporary ; 
but  he  adroitly  diverts  attenticm  from 
so  instructive  a  parallel,  and  cunning- 
ly drags  in  ^*  the  open  schism  of  the 
{jhreeksT  Thus,  against  a  bristling 
front  of  facts,  he  drives  his  theory 
that  France  has  not  been  Romish 
enough,  and  lends  all  his  energies  to 
render  her  less  Gidlican  and  more 
Tridentine,  Were  he  now  alive,  he 
might  see  reason  to  amend  his  doc- 
trine in  the  condition  of  Rome  itself  I 
But  the  condition  of  France  is  quite 
as  conclusive.  Since  the  Restoration, 
the  French  Church  has  been  growing 
more  and  more  Ultramontane,  and  the 
people  are  worse  and  worse.  Galli- 
canism is  extinct,  but  results  are 
all  against  the  Reactionary  theory. 
France  has  no  more  a  la  Vend^; 
there  will  be  no  nK>re  Chonans ;  the 
present  Church  is  incapable  of  reviv- 
ing such  things.  It  makes  the  infi- 
dels. I  know  there  is  less  show  of 
rampant  atheism  just  now  than  for- 
merly ;  but  if  there  is  less  of  paroxysm, 
there  is  less  of  life.  France  dies  of  a 
chronic  atheism.  The  Abb^  Bonne- 
tat,  writing  in  1845  on  The  ReligioHs 
and  Moral  Wants  of^  French  Popu- 
lation^ expresses  nothing  but  contempt 
for  the  alleged  improvement  in  reli- 
gious feeling.  According  to  him,  - 
almost  a  tenth  of  the  male  population, 
in  any  given  district,  not  only  do  not 
believe  in  GtOd,  but  glory  in  their  un- 
belief. Half  of  all  the  rest  make  no 
secret  of  their  infidelity  as  to  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul ;  and  their  wives 
are  equally  sceptical,  to  the  curse  of 
their  children's  children  I  '^The  re- 
sidue believe,"  says  the  Abb^  "only 
in  the  sense  of  not  denying.  They 
affirm  nothing,  but,  as  compared  with 
the  others,  they  lack  the  science  of 
misbelief."  To  go  on  with  his  melan- 
choly picture,  the  divine  and  salutary 


Philosophy  of  Historjf, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


540 


The  Reaction^  or  Foreign  Cimeenatitm. 


[Maj, 


institotion  of  the  Lord*s  day  no  longer 
effects  its  purpose.  In  towns,  the 
working  classes  and  tradespeople 
scarcely  ever  enter  the  churches.  In 
the  rural  districts,  a  tenth  of  the  peo* 
pie  never  go  to  church  at  ail ;  and  of 
the  rest,  one  half  may  hear  a  mass 
on  the  five  great  festivals,  while  the 
other  half,  though  more  frequent  in 
attendance,  are  very  irregular.  One 
Sunday  they  perform  the  duty  per- 
functorily ;  the  next  they  work  in  the 
fields;  the  next  they  stay  at  home, 
amuse  themselves,  and  for&ret  religion 
as  part  of  **dull  care."  The  young 
folk,  in  many  places,  receive  their 
first  and  last  communion  at  twelve  or 
fourteen,  and  that  is  the  end  of  their 
conformity.  A  worse  feature  yet  in 
the  domestic  manners,  resulting  from 
this  state  of  religion,  is  the  fact  that 
girls  and  boys  are  brought  up  very 
much  in  the  same  way,  and  are 
thrown  promiscuously  together,  spend- 
ing their  evenings  where  they  choose. 
Parents  have  ceased  to  ask  their  chil- 
dren— Why  were  you  not  at  church  f 
Were  you  at  vespers?  Were  you  at  mass  t 
and  in  fact  are  the  first  to  corrupt 
their  offspring,  by  their  brutal  irre- 
ligion,  and  coarse  language,  and 
shameless  behaviour.* 

Such  is  the  moral  picture  of  France. 
Tlio  Abb^  has  brightened  his  mass  of 
shadow  with  here  and  there  a  reflec- 
tion of  light,  but  there  is  no  mistaking 
his  work  for  a  Claude  Lorraine. 
France  is  in  a  moral  eclipse,  and  her 
portrait  presents,  of  necessity^  the 
chiaro  ^scuro  of  a  Rembrandt.  One 
needs  no  more  than  these  confessions 
of  a  French  ecclesiastic  to  account  for 
ber  false  and  fickle  notions  of  liberty, 
and  for  her  interminable  imeutes  and 
revolutions.  Yet  if  Quinet  has  not 
"Wholly  invented  bis  assertions,  the 
Conservatism  of  France  is  pledged 
to  prescribe  as  remedies  the  same  old 
poison  from  which  the  disease  results. 
It  would  take  the  Christianity  of  the 
nation,  at  its  last  gasp,  and  dose  it 
anew  with  Ultramontanism.  They 
have  adopted  the  sound  principle,  that 
Christianity  moulds  a  people  to  en- 
lightened notions  of  liberty,  bnt  they 


seem  not  to  know  that  it  does  this  by 
actingdirectly  npon  theoonscience;  and 
hence  their  political  system  is  spoiled 
by  theur  fatal  substitution^  for  pure 
Chrbtianity,  of  that  sporions  religion 
whose  great  defect  is  precisely  this, 
that  it  does  not  undertake  to  cleanse 
and  core  the  conscience,  bnt  only  to 
subject  it,  mechanically,  to  irrational 
authority.  Montesquien,  in  asserting 
the  importance  of  Christianity,  with- 
out question  failed  to  detect  this 
essential  defect  in  Popery,  but  he  in- 
stinctively taught  his  countiymen,  by 
memorable  example,  to  eschew  Ultra- 
montanism. In  the  closing  scene  of 
a  life  which,  with  all  its  blemishes, 
was  a  great  life,  and,  in  comparison 
with  his  times,  a  good  one,  he  accepted 
with  reverence  the  ministrations  of 
his  parish  priest,  but  repulsed  from 
his  deathbed,  with  aversion  and  dis- 
gust, the  officious  and  intmsiveJe- 
suits.t  De  Maistre  is  more  devout 
than  Montesquien,  bnt  he  is  less 
jealous  of  liberty,  and  his  ideas  of 
*^what  a  people  ought  to  will"  are 
limited,  if  not  illiberal.  His  more 
moderate  ally,  Balianche,  has  not  un- 
justly characterised  him  as  ^^  not,  like 
Providence,  merciful,  but,  like  destiny, 
inexorable."  It  is  impossible  that  a 
Conservatism,  of  which  such  is  the 
sovereign  genius,  should  achieve  any- 
thing K>r  the  restoration  of  such  a 
country  as  France.    I  have,  indeed, 

gredicted  the  restoration  of  the  Bour- 
ons,  according  to  de  Maistre's  prin- 
ciples, by  the  sheer  tenacity  of  life 
which  belongs  to  a  hereditary  claim, 
and  by  which  it  outlasts  all  other  pre- 
tensions. Bnt  I  cannot  think  that 
either  he  or  his  disciples  have  done 
much  to  bring  it  about ;  and  still  less 
do  I  imagine  that  their  system,  as  a 
system,  can  give  permanence  to  the 
monarchy  or  prosperity  to  the  state. 
On  the  contrary,  let  Mens.  Berryer, 
or  the  Comte  de  Montalembert,  at- 
tempt the  settlement  of  the  kingdom 
on  the  theory  of  the  rdactiotmaireSj 
and  they  will  speedily  bring  it  to  that 
lull  stop  which  Heaven  at  last  ad- 
judges to  princes  as  well  as  to  people, 
**  who  show  themselves  untutored  by 


*  Ds  VEtat  €t  dei  beaoius  RdigUux  et  Moraux  des  Populations  en  France:  par 

M.  L'AbB^  J.  BONIIBTAT.     Ptfis.  1845. 

t  See  Blackwood,  October  1845. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1^49.] 


The  Reaction^  cr  Foreign  Conservatism. 


calamity,  and  rebels  to  experience.** 
Thej  inUf  at  best,  prolong  the  era  of 
revolntions  to  some  ind^nite  epoch 
of  fatuity,  and  consign  the  nation  to 
a  fever,  which  will  return  periodically, 
like  a  tertian,  and  wear  it  oat  by 
shakings. 

It  wm  be  well,  then,  if  the  imperial 
farce  that  most  precede  '*  the  legiti' 
mate  drama**  sluQl  prove  somewhat 
protracted.  The  L^timists,  mean- 
time, may  become  convinced  of  the 
blander  of  the  Reaction,  and  resolve 
npon  a  wiser  and  more  sound  conser- 
vatism. De  Maistre  hazards  some 
predictions  in  his  works,  on  which  he 
stakes  the  soandness  of  his  theories, 
and  for  which  he  challenges  derision 
and  contempt  to  his  doctrines,  if  they 
fail.  The  position  of  Pio  Nano,  from 
the  very  oatset  of  his  career,  has 
stultified  those  theories  already ;  and 
if  he  remains  permanently  where 
he  now  is,  it  wiU  be  to  good- 
breeding  alone  that  de  Maistre  wlU 
owe  his  preservation  from  the  con- 
tempt he  has  invoked,  by  staking 
his  reputation  on  the  conservative 
character  of  that  very  court  of  Home, 
from  which  the  democratic  wfldfire, 
that  has  inflamed  all  Europe,  has 
proceeded !  In  any  conceivable  set- 
tlement of  the  Roman  States,  the 
Pontiff  will  hardly  be  to  Europe  what 
he  has  been  daring  the  former  years 
of  this  century ;  and  if  he  is  to  sink  to 
a  mere  patriarchal  primate,  the  grand 
dream  of  ultramontanism  is  dissi- 
pated.* It  is  to  be  hoped,  then,  that 
the  restoration  may  be  deferred  till 
the  Legitimists  have  been  effectually 
taught  the  grand  fallacy  of  ultramon- 
tane conservatism;  and  that  Henry 
y.  will  ascend  the  throne,  cured  of 
the  hereditary  plague  of  his  immedi- 
ate ancestors,  and  willing  to  revert, 
for  his  example,  to  his  great  name- 


541 

sake,  Henri  Quatre.  He  will  need 
another  Sully  to  restore  France  to  a 
sound  mind.  His  cause  demands  a 
minister  who  will  not  trust  it  to  the 
tide  of  impulse  on  which  it  will  come 
in,  but  who  will  labour  with  prudence  * 
and  with  foresight,  to  snun  an  anchor- 
age before  the  ebb.  Give  but  a  mi- 
nister to  the  restoration  capable  of 
that  kind  of  patient  and  practical  fore- 
cast, which  sent  Peter  to  the  dock- 
yu^ds;  and  let  him  begin  with  the 
parochial  schools,  to  momd  a  new  race 
of  Frenchmen  under  the  influences  of 
true  religion ;  and  let  him  have  the 
seventeen  years  which  Louis  Philippe 
wasted  on  steam-ships  and  bastions, 
and  Montpensler  marriages ;  and  then, 
if  it  be  "  men  that  constitute  a  state,*' 
there  is  yet  a  future  of  hope  for  France. 
And  forgive  me  for  adding,  Basil,  that 
if  England  shall  reverse  this  policy, 
and  make  the  national  schools  the 
sources  of  disaffection  to  the  national 
religion — then  may  she  expect  to  see 
her  Oxford  and  Cambridge  degraded 
to  such  seats  of  sedition  as  **  the  College 
of  France,**  and  theur  ingenuous  youth 
converted  from  gownsmen  into  blouse- 
men,  under  such  savans  as  Quinet. 
Remember,  too,  in  connexion  with 
what  I  have  written,  that  Irdand  is 
the  most  ultramontane  of  all  nations 
under  heaven,  and  you  will  be  able  to 
estimate  the  value  of  government 
measures  for  its  relief!  May  God  open 
the  eyes  of  all  who  seek  the  prosperity 
of  the  British  empire  to  the  primary 
importance  of  a  wholesome  national 
religion,  retaining  its  hold  on  the 
national  heart,  and  moulding  the 
national  conscience  to  the  grand  poli- 
tical wisdom  of  the  proverb — "  My 
son,  fear  the  Lord  and  the  king,  and 
meddle  not  with  them  that  are  given 
to  change.'*    Yours, 

Ebnest. 


*  '^  Le  SouTerain  Pontife  est  U  base  n^oessaire,  unique,  et  exolouTe  da  Christianisme. 
.    .    .    Si  les  ^Tdnements  contrarient  oe  qae  j'avanoey  j'appelle  ear  ma  mtfmoire 
U  m^pria  et  les  ristes  de  la  post^rit^.*'— Dm  Pap€,  chap.  t.  p.  268. 


VOL.  Lxv.— KO.  ccccni. 


2m 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


MABAME  D*ABBOUmXE*S  ^*  YILLAOB  DOCTOR.** 

Ths  readin  of  Bktehgood  otn  btrdlj  kaye  fbrgottMi  a  oharmloff  SVeaeH 
tale,  of  which  an  abrid|;ed  tranaUtioQ  afypeared,  under  the  title  of  '^'^An  Un- 
p¥tiuk€d  Frmch  Nw^i^^*  in  the  Bwnber  of  the  Magazine  for  Deeember 
1847.  In  the  brief  notice  prefixed  to  it,  we  mentioned  the  existence  of  a 
companion  stoiy  by  tiie  same  anthorees,  which  had  obtained  wider  ciren- 
lation  than  its  fellow,  tluongh  aiMtrary  transfer  to  the  pages  of  a  Frendi 
peviodical;  and  which,  en  that  aooout,  although  of  more  conyenient  length 
than  the  Histoire  HolkmdmtB,  we  abetained  fipom  reproducing.  Havhig  thns 
drawn  attention  to  one  of  the  aaost  pleasing  tales  we  in  any  langaage  are 
acquainted  with,  we  Mly  expected  speedily  to  meet  with  it  In  an  English 
Ycreion.  Not  having  done  so,  our  viyid  recollection  of  the  great  merits  of 
^*  Le  Midtcm  du  Viuog^^  now  induces  us  to  reyoke  our  first  decision— tho 
more  readily  that  we  haye  repeatedly  been  solicited  to  give  the  English  public 
an  (^>portunity  of  appreciating  a  tale  unprocurable  in  the  form  in  which  it  was 
orif^nally  printed,  and  which  few  persons  in  this  country  are  likely  to  have  read 
in  the  Bevue  €ks  DtuM  Mondee.  The  exquisite  delineation  of  the  erring,  but 
meekly  penitent  Annunciata,  and  of  the  long-sufi^ring  and  enthusiasUcally 
pious  Christine,  may  well  inspire  a  wish  to  become  acquainted  with  other 
productions  of  the  same  delicate  and  graceful  pen.  The  simple  story  of 
the  VUh^  Doctor  will  not  disappoint  expectatH)n.  We  ourselyes,  deephr 
sensible  of  the  fascinations  of  the  Countess  d'Ari)ouyille*s  style,  consider 
it  her  happiest  effort;  and  although  we  once  hinted  a  doubt  of  the 
probability  of  ito  crowning  incident,  we  ferget  to  play  the  critic  when  un- 
der the  Infiuence  of  her  touching  pathos  and  delightful  diction.  In  our 
present  capacity  of  translators  we  feel  but  too  strongly  the  impossibility  of 
rendering  the  artless  elegance  of  her  style,  which  flows  on,  smooth,  fresh, 
and  sparkling,  like  a  summer  streamlet  oyer  golden  sands.  And,  with  all 
her  apparent  simplicity,  Madame  d^Arbouyille  is  a  cunning  artist,  play* 
faig  with  skilfy  hand  upon  the  chords  of  the  heart,  which  yibrate  at 
her  lightest  touch.  The  effects  she  produces  are  the  more  striking  because 
seemi^ly  unsought.  But  her  merits  will  be  better  exhibited  by  this  second 
iq>eeinien  of  her  writhigs  than  by  any  praise  we  could  lavish ;  and  we  there- 
fere  proceed,  without  rarther  preamble,  to  the  narrative  of  Eva  Meredith's 
sorrows  as  given  by  her  humble  IHend, 

TBB  VlLIiAOn  SOGTOa. 

"  What  is  that  ?  *•  exclaimed  was  married  to  a  man  much  older 
several  persons  assembled  In  the  than  herself,  who  did  not  always  pro- 
dining-room  of  the  chftteau  of  tect  her  by  his  presence.  Without 
Burcy.  abusing  the  great  liberty  she  enjoyed, 
Tlie  Countess  of  Moncar  had  Just  she  was  gracefully  coquettish,  ele- 
inherited^  from  a  distant  and  slightly  gantly  Mvotoua,  pleased  with  trifles — 
regretted  relation,  an  ancient  chateau  with  a  compliment,  an  amiable  word, 
which  she  had  never  seen,  although  It  an  hour's  triumph—loving  a  ball  for 
was  at  barely  fifteen  leagues  firom  her  the  pleasure  of  adorning  henelf,  fond 
haMtnal  anmnier  reeldenee.  One  of  of  admiration,  and  not  sorry  to  in- 
the  most  elegant,  and  ahnost  one  of  spire  love.  When  some  grave  old 
the  prettiest  women  in  Paris,  Madame  aunt  ventured  a  sage  remonstrance — 
de  Moncar  was  but  moderately  at-  ^^MonDieuT^  she  replied;  **do  let 
tached  to  the  country.  Quitting  the  me  laugh  and  take  life  gaily.  It  is 
capital  at  the  end  of  June,  to  return  far  less  dangerous  than  to  listen  in 
thither  eariy  in  October,  she  usually  solitude  to  the  beating  of  one's  heart, 
took  with  her  some  of  the  companions  For  my  part,  I  do  not  know  if  I  even 
of  her  winter  gaieties,  and  a  few  young  have  a  heart  I"  She  spoke  the  truth, 
men,  selected  amongst  her  most  assi-  and  reaUv  was  uncertain  upon  that 
duous  partners.    Madame  de  Moncar  point.    Desirous  to  remain  so,  she 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Madam  cPArbouviOe's  **  VUhffe  Doctor.^ 


thought  it  prndent  to  leave  herself  no 
time  for  reflection. 

One  fine  morning  in  September,  the 
oonntesB  and  her  gaests  set  oat  for  the 
unknown  chfttean,  intending  to  pass 
the  day  there.  A  cross  road,  reputed 
practicable,  was  to  reduce  the  journey 
to  twelve  leagues.  Hie  cross  road 
proved  execrable :  the  travellers  lost 
their  way  in  the  forest;  a  caniage 
broke  down;  in  short,  it  waj9  not 
till  mid- day  that  the  party,  much  fa- 
tigued, and  but  moderatelv  gratified 
by  the  picturesque  beauties  of  the 
scenery,  reached  the  chateau  of  Burcy, 
whose  aspect  was  scarcely  such  as  to 
console  diem  for  the  annoyances  of 
the  journey.  It  was  a  large  sombre 
building  with  dingv  walls.  In  its 
front  a  earden,  then  out  of  cul- 
tivation, descended  firom  terrace  to 
terrace ;  for  the  ch&teau,  built  upon 
the  slope  of  a  wooded  hill,  had  no 
level  ground  in  its  vicinity.  On  all 
sides  it  was  hemmed  in  by  mountains, 
the  trees  upon  which  sprang  up  amidst 
rocks,  and  had  a  dark  and  ^oomy 
foliage  that  saddened  the  eyesight. 
Man%  neglect  added  to  the  natural 
wild  disorder  of  the  scene.  Madame 
de  Moncar  stood  motionless  and  dis- 
concerted upon  the  threshold  of  her 
newly-acquired  mansion. 

"This  is  very  unlike  a  party  of 
pleasure,**  said  she;  "I  could  weep 
at  sight  of  this  dismal  abode. 
Nevertiieless  here  are  noble  trees, 
lofty  rocks,  aroaring  cataract ;  doubt- 
less, there  is  a  certahi  beauty  in  all 
that ;  but  it  is  of  too  grave  an  order 
for  my  humour,**  adcfed  she  with  a 
smile.  "  Let  us  go  in  and  view  the 
interior." 

The  hungry  guests,  eager  to  see  if 
the  cook,  who  had  been  sent  forward 
upon  the  previous  day,  as  an  advanced 
guard,  had  safoly  arrived,  willingly 
assented.  Having  obtafaied  the  agree- 
able COTtttinty  that  an  abundant 
breakfiEut  would  soon  be  upon  tiie 
table,  they  ramUed  through  the  cha- 
teau. The  old-fashioned  ftimiture 
with  tattered  coverings,  the  arm-chairs 
with  three  legs,  the  tottering  tables, 
the  discordant  sounds  of  a  i^aoo, 
which  for  a  good  score  of  years  had 
notfolt  a  finger,  afforded  abundant 
food  for  Jest  uad  marriment.  Gaiety 
returned.  Instead  of  grumbBuff  at 
the  inconveniences  of  this  unconm>rt- 


543 

able  mansion,  it  was  agreed  to  laugh 
at  everything.  Moreover,  for  these 
young  and  idle  persons,  the  expedi- 
tion was  a  sort  of  event,  an  almost 
perilous  campaign,  whose  originality 
appealed  to  the  imagination.  A  fag- 
got was  lighted  beneath  the  wide 
chhnney  of  the  drawing-room  ;  but 
clouds  of  smoke  were  the  result,  and 
the  company  took  reftige  in  the  plea- 
sure grounds.  The  aspect  of  the 
gardens  was  strange  enough;  the 
stone-benches  were  covert  with 
moss,  the  waUs  of  the  terraces,  crumb- 
ling in  many  places,  left  space  be- 
tween their  ill-joined  stones  for  the 
growth  of  numerous  wild  plants,  which 
sprung  out  erect  and  lofty,  or  trailed 
with  flexible  grace  towards  the  earth. 
The  walks  were  overgrown  and  obli- 
terated by  grass;  the  parterres,  re- 
served for  garden  flowers,  were  in- 
vaded by  wild  ones,  which  grow 
wherever  the  heavens  afford  a  drop  of 
water  and  a  ray  of  sun ;  the  insipid 
bearbhie  enveloped  and  stifled  in  its 
envious  embrace  the  beauteous  rose 
of  Provence ;  the  blackberry  mingled 
its  acrid  fruits  with  the  red  clusters  of 
the  currant-bush ;  ferns,  wild  mint 
with  its  faint  perftime,  thistles  with 
their  thorny  crowns,  irew  beside  a 
few  forgotten  lilies.  When  the  com- 
pany entered  the  enclosure,  numbers  of 
the  smaller  animals,  alarmed  at  the  un- 
accustomed intrusion,  darted  into  the 
long  grass,  and  the  startled  birds  flew 
chirping  from  branch  to  branch.  Si- 
lence, for  many  years  the  undisturbed 
tenant  of  this  peaceftd  spot,  fled  at  the 
sound  of  human  voices  and  of  joyous 
laughter.  The  solitude  was  appre- 
ciated by  none— none  grew  pensive 
under  its  influence :  it  was  recklessly 
broken  and  proflEmed.  The  conversa- 
tion ran  upon  the  gay  evenings  of  the 
past  season,  and  was  interspersed 
with  amiable  allusions,  expressive 
looks,  covert  compliments,  with  all 
the  thousand  nothmgs,  in  short,  re- 
sorted to  by  persons  desirous  to  please 
each  other,  but  who  have  not  yet  ac- 
quired the  right  to  be  serious. 

The  stewiurd,  after  long  search  for 
a  breakfiist'bell  along  the  dflapidated 
walls  of  tiie  chftteau,  at  last  made  up 
his  mind  to  shout  from  the  Bteps  that 
the  meal  was  ready— the  hafr-smfle 
with  which  he  accompanied  the  an- 
nouncement, proving  that,  like  hia 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


544 


Madams  d'ArbawnOe's  *^  ViUage  Dodory  D^^r, 


betters^  he  resigned  himself  for  one 
daj  to  a  deviation  from  his  habits  of 
etiquette  and  propriety.  Soon  a  merry 
party  sorronnded  the  board.  The 
gloom  of  the  chfttean,  its  desert  site 
and  nncheery  aspect,  were  all  forgot- 
ten; the  conversation  was  general 
and  well  sustained ;  the  health  of  the 
lady  of  the  castle — ^the  fairy  whose 
presence  converted  the  craiv  old  edi- 
fice into  an  enchanted  palace,  was 
drunk  by  all  present.  Suddenly  all 
eyes  were  turned  to  the  windows  of 
the  dining-room. 

'^  What  is  that?"  exclaimed  several 
of  the  guests. 

A  small  carriage  of  green  wicker- 
work,  with  great  whe^  as  high  as 
the  body  of  the  vehicle,  passed 
before  the  windows,  and  stopped 
at  the  door.  It  was  drawn  by  a 
gray  horse,  short  and  punchy,  whose 
eyes  seemed  in  danger  from  the 
shafts,  which,   from   their  point  of 

{unction  with  the  carriage,  sloped  ob- 
Iquely  upwards.  The  hood  of  the 
little  cabriolet  was  brought  forward, 
concealing  its  contents,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  two  arms  covered  with  the 
sleeves  of  a  blue  bhuse^  and  of  a  whip 
which  fluttered  about  the  ears  of  the 
grav  horse. 

^^Mon  DieuP^  exclaimed  Madame 
de  Moncar,  *^  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I 
was  obliged  to  invite  the  village  doc- 
tor to  our  breakfast.  The  old  man 
was  formerly  of  some  service  to  my 
nncle*s  family,  and  I  have  seen  him 
once  or  twice.  Be  not  alarmed  at  the 
addition  to  our  party:  he  is  veir  taci- 
turn. After  a  few  dvil  words,  we 
may  forget  his  presence ;  besides,  I  do 
not  suppose  he  will  remain  very  long.** 

At  this  moment  the  dhiing-room 
door  opened,  and  Dr  Bamaby  entered. 
He  was  a  little  old  man.  foeble  and 
insignificant  -  looking,  of  calm  and 
gentle  countenance.  His  gray  hahrs 
were  collected  into  a  cue,  according  to 
a  bygone  fashion ;  a  dash  of  powder 
whitened  his  temples,  and  extended 
to  his  ftirrowed  brow.  He  wore  a 
black  coat,  and  steel  buckles  to  his 
breeches.  Over  one  arm  hung  a  rid- 
ing-coat of  puce-coloured  taffety.  In 
the  opposite  hand  he  carried  nis  hat 
and  a  thick  cane.  His  whole  q>pear- 
ance  proved  that  he  had  taken  unusual 
pains  with  his  toilet;  but  his  black 
Btoddngs  and  coat  were  stained  with 


mud,  as  if  the  poor  old  man  had  frdlen 
into  a  ditch.  He  paused  at  the  door, 
astonished  at  the  presence  of  so  many 
persons.  For  an  instant,  a  tinge  of 
embarrassment  appeared  upon  his 
face;  but  recovering  himself,  he  si- 
lently saluted  the  company.  The 
strange  manner  of  his  entrance  gave 
the  guests  a  violent  inclination  to 
laugh,  which  they  repressed  more  or 
less  successfully.  Madame  de  Mon- 
car alone,  in  her  character  of  mistress 
of  the  house,  and  incapable  of  fail- 
ing in  politeness,  perfectly  preserved 
her  gravity. 

^^  Dear  me,  doctor!  have  you  had 
an  overturn?"  was  her  first  inquiry. 

Before  replying,  Dr  Bamaby  glanced 
at  all  these  young  people  in  the  midst 
of  whom  he  found  himself,  and,  simple 
and  artless  though  his  physiognomy 
was,  he  could  not  but  guess  the 
cause  of  their  hilarity.  He  replied 
quietly: 

"  I  have  not  been  overturned.  A 
poor  carter  fell  under  the  wheels  of  his 
vehicle ;  I  was  passing,  and  Ihelpedhim 
up."  And  the  doctor  took  possession  of 
a  chair  left  vacant  for  him  at  the  table. 
Unfolding  his  napkin,  he  passed  a 
comer  through  the  buttonhole  of  his 
coat,  and  spread  out  the  rest  over  his 
waistcoat  and  knees.  At  these  pre- 
parations, smiles  hovered  upon  the 
lips  of  many  of  the  guests,  and  a  whis- 
I>er  or  two  oroke  the  silence ;  but  this 
time  the  doctor  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 
Perhaps  he  observed  nothing. 

*^  Is  there  much  uckness  in  the  vil- 
lage?" inquired  Madame  de  Moncar, 
whilst  they  were  helping  the  new 
comer. 

^*  Yes,  madam,  a  good  deal." 

«i  This  is  an  unhealthy  neighbour- 
hood?" 

"  No,  madam." 

''But  the  sickness.  AVhat  causes  it?" 

'*T1ie  heat  of  the  sun  in  har- 
vest time,  and  the  cold  and  wet  of 
winter." 

One  of  the  g^uests,  afiecting  great 
gravity,  joined  in  the  conversation. 

''  So  that  in  this  healthy  district, 
siTjjpeople  are  ill  all  the  vear  round  ?  " 

Tlie  doctor  raised  his  little  gray 
eyes  to  the  speaker*s  face,  looked  at 
him,  hesitated,  and  seemed  either  to 
check  or  to  seek  a  reply.  Madame  de 
Moncar  kindly  came  to  his  relief. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  that  you  are  * 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Madame  d^ArhomOU's  ^^ViUage  Doctor.'' 


here  the  guardian  genios  of  all  who 
suffer." 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  good,"  replied  the 
old  man,  apparently  much  engrossed 
With  the  slice  of  pasty  upon  his  plate. 
Then  the  gay  party  left  Dr  Bamaby 
to  himself,  and  the  conyersation  flowed 
in  its  preyious  channel  If  any  notice 
was  taken  of  the  peaceable  old  man,  it 
was  in  the  form  of  some  slight  sar-. 
casm,  which,  mingled  with  oth^  dis- 
course, would  pass,  it  was  thought, 
unperceiyed  by  its  object.  Not  Siat 
these  young  men  and  women  were 
generally  otherwise  than  polite  and 
kind-hearted ;  but  upon  that  day  the 
journey,  the  breakfast,  the  merriment 
and  slight  excitement  that  had  at- 
tended all  the  eyents  of  the  morning, 
had  brought  on  a  sort  of  heedless 
gaiety  and  communicatiye  mockery, 
which  rendered  them  pitiless  to  the 
yictim  whom  chance  had  thrown  in 
their  way.  The  doctor  continued 
quietly  to  eat,  without  looUng  up,  or 
uttering  a  word,  or  seeming  to  hear 
one ;  they  yoted  him  deaf  and  dumb, 
and  he  was  no  restraint  upon  the  con- 
yersation. 

When  the  guests  rose  from  table, 
Dr  Bamaby  took  a  step  or  two  back- 
wards, and  allowed  each  man  to  select 
the  lady  he  wished  to  take  into  the 
drawing-room.  One  of  Madame  de 
Moncar's  friends  remaining  without  a 
cayalier,  the  village  doctor  timidly  ad- 
vanced, and  offered  her  his  hand — not 
his  arm.  His  fingers  scarcely  touched 
hers  as  he  proceeaed,  his  body  slightly 
bent  in  sign  of  respect,  with  measured 
steps  towards  the  drawing-room. 
Fresh  smiles  greeted  his  entrance,  but 
not  a  cloud  appeared  upon  the  placid 
countenance  of  the  old  man,  who  was 
now  voted  blind,  as  well  as  deaf  and 
dumb.  Quitting  his  companion,  Dr 
Bamaby  selected  the  smallest,  hum- 
blest-looking chair  in  the  room,  placed 
it  in  a  comer,  at  some  distance  from 
everybody  else,  put  his  stick  between 
his  Imees,  crossed  his  hands  upon  the 
knob,  and  rested  his  chm  upon  his 
hands.  In  this  meditative  attitude  he 
remained  silent,  and  from  time  to  time 
his  eves  closed,  as  if  a  gentle  slumber, 
which  he  neither  invoked  nor  repelled, 
were  stealing  over  him. 

*^ Madame  de  Moncar ! "  cried  one  of 
the  guests,  ^^  I  presume  it  is  not  vour  in- 
tention to  inhabit  this  ruin  in  a  desert?" 


545 

"  Certainly  I  have  no  such  project. 
But  here  are  lofty  trees  and  wild 
woods.  M.  de  Moncar  may  very 
likely  be  tempted  to  pass  a  few  weeks 
here  in  the  shooting  season." 

**  In  that  case  you  must  pull  down 
and  rebuild ;  clear,  alter,  and  im- 
prove!" 

**Let  us  make  a  plan  1"  cried  the 
young  countess.  ^^  Let  us  mark  out 
the  future  ffarden  of  my  domains." 

It  was  decreed  that  this  party  of 
pleasure  should  be  unsuccessful.  At 
that  moment  a  iBavy  cloud  burst,  and 
a  close  fine  rain  began  to  fall.  Impos- 
sible to  leave  the  house. 

"  How  very  vexatious  I"  cried  Ma- 
dame de  Moncar.  **  What  shall  we 
do  with  ourselves?  The  horses  re- 
quire several  hours^  rest.  It  will  evi- 
dently be  a  wet  afternoon.  For  a 
week  to  come,  the  grass,  which  over- 
grows everything,  will  not  be  dry 
enough  to  walk  upon ;  all  the  strings 
of  the  piano  are  broken ;  there  is  not 
a  book  within  ten  leagues.  This  room 
is  wretchedly  dismal.  What  can  we 
do  with  ourselves?" 

The  party,  lately  so  joyous,  was 
gradually  losing  its  gaiety.  The  blithe 
lauffh  and  ardi  whisper  were  suc- 
ceeded bv  dull  silence.  The  guests 
sauntered  to  the  windows  and  exa- 
mined the  sky,  but  the  sky  remained 
dark  and  cloud-laden.  Thehr  hopes 
of  a  walk  were  completely  blighted* 
They  established  themselves  as  com- 
fortably as  they  could  upon  the  old 
chairs  and  setteesy  and  tr£ed  to  revive 
the  conversation;  but  there  are 
thouffhts  which,  like  flowers,  require 
a  litUe  sun,  and  which  will  not  flour- 
ish under  a  bleak  sky.  All  these 
young  heads  appeared  to  droop,  op- 
pressed by  the  storm,  like  the  pofilars 
in  the  garden,  which  bowea  their 
tops  at  the  will  of  the  wind.  A 
tedious  hour  dragged  by. 

The  lady  of  the.  castle,  a  little  dis- 
heartened by  the  failure  of  her  party 
of  pleasure,  leaned  languidly  upon  a 
window-sill,  and  gased  vaguely  at 
the  prospect  without. 

"There,"  said  she  — "  yonder, 
upon  the  hill,  is  a  white  cottage 
that  must  come  down:  it  hides  the 
view." 

"The  white  cottage  1"  cried  tho 
doctor.  For  upwards  of  an  hour  Dr 
Bamaby  had  been  mute  and  motion- 


Digitized  by 


Goo 


•^ 


^6 


Madame  ePArbawiU^a  ^'  Viilage  Doctor:' 


[M»y, 


lesa  npoQ  his  chair.  Mirth  and  weari- 
B«6^  sun  and  rain,  had  succeeded  each 
other  without  eliciting  a  syllable  from 
his  lips.  His  presence  was  forgotten 
by  everybody:  every  eye  turned 
quickly  upon  him  when  he  uttered 
these  three  words—"  The  white  cot- 
tage!" 

"  What  interest  do  you  take  in  it, 
doctor?"  asked  the  countess. 

"I/on  Dim,  madame!  Pray  for- 
get that  I  spoke.  The  cottage  will 
come  down,  undoubtedly,  since  such 
is  your  good  pleasure^'' 

"But  why  should  you  regret  the 
old  shed?" 

^*I— Ifon  DUu!  it  was  inhabited 
by  persons  I  loved— and — ^*' 

"  And  they  think  of  returning  to  it, 
doctor?" 

"  They  are  long  since  dead,  madam ; 
they  died  when  I  was  young !"  And 
the  <^d  man  gazed  moumfidly  at  the 
white  cottage,  which  rose  amongst 
the  trees  upon  the  hill-side,  like  a 
daisy  in  a  green  field.  There  was  a 
Mdf  silence. 

"  Madam,"  said  one  of  the  guests 
In  a  low  voice  to  Madame  de  Moncar, 
^  there  is  mystery  here.  Observe  the 
melancholy  of  our  £sculi4)ins.  Some 
pathetic  drama  has  been  enacted  in 
yonder  house;  a  tale  of  love,  perhaps. 
Ask  the  doctor  to  tell  it  us." 

"  Yes,  yes  I "  was  murmured  on  all 
ades,  **  a  tale,  a  story  1  And  should 
it  iMTOve  of  little  interest,  at  any  rate 
the  narrator  will  divert  us." 

^^  Not  so,  gentlemen,"  replied  Ma- 
dame de  Moncar,  in  the  same  sup- 
pressed voice.  "IflaskDrBamaby 
to  tdl  OS  the  hisUMry  of  the  white  cot- 
tage, it  is  on  the  express  condition 
that  no  oBe  lauj^"  All  having  pro- 
mised to  be  serious  and  well-behaved, 
Madame  de  Moncar  approached  the 
<^d  man.  "  Doctor,"  siJd  she,  seat- 
ing herself  beside  him,  "  that  house, 
I  plahdy  see,  is  oonne<^  with  some 
leminiscenee  of  foftmtst  days,  stored 
predonsfy  in  yoer  memory.  Will  you 
tdl  it  US?  I  should  be  grieved  to 
cause  you  a  regret  which  it  is  in  my 
power  to  spare  you ;  the  house  shall 
remain,  if  yon  tell  me  why  you  love  it." 

Dr  Bamaby  seemed  surprised,  and 
remained  silent  The  countess  drew 
still  nearer  to  him.  "Dear  doctor  1" 
said  she,  "see  what  wretched  weather; 
how  dreary  everything  looks.     Yon 


are  the  senior  of  us  ail ;  tell  us  a  tale. 
Make  us  forget  rain,  and  fog,  and 
cold." 

Dr  Bamaby  looked  at  the  countess 
with  great  astonisbiaent. 

"There  is  no  tale,"  he  said.  "What 
occurred  in  the  cottage  is  very  simple, 
and  has  no  interest  but  for  me,  who 
loved  the  young  people:  strangen 
would  not  call  it  a  tale.  And  I  am 
unaccustomed  to  speak  before  manv 
listeners.  Besides,  what  I  should  tdl 
you  is  sad,  and  you  came  to  amuse 
yourselves."  And  again  the  doctor 
rested  his  chin  upon  his  stick. 

"  Dear  doctor,"  resumed  the  coun- 
tess, "  the  white  cottage  shall  stand, 
If  you  say  why  you  love  it." 

The  old  man  appeared  somewhat 
moved ;  he  crossed  and  uncrossed  his 
legs ;  took  out  his  snuff-box,  returned 
it  to  his  pocket  without  openingit ; 
then,  looking  at  the  countess — "You 
will  not  pull  it  down?"  he  said,  indi- 
cating with  his  thin  and  trenonlous 
hand  the  habitation  visible  at  the 
horizon. 

"  I  promise  you  I  will  not." 

"  WeU,  so  be  it ;  I  will  do  that 
much  for  them ;  I  will  save  the  house 
in  whidi  they  were  happy. 

"  Ladies,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"  I  am  but  a  poor  speaker;  but  I  be- 
lieve that  even  the  least  eloquent  suc- 
ceed in  making  themselves  understood 
when  they  tell  what  they  have  seen. 
This  story,  I  warn  you  beforehand,  is 
not  gay.  To  dance  and  to  smg,  people 
send  for  a  musician ;  they  call  in  the 
physician  when  they  sufftu:,  and  are 
near  to  death." 

A  circle  was  formed  round  Dr  Bar- 
naby,  who,  his  hands  still  crossed  upon 
his  cane,  quietly  commenced  thefoUow- 
ing  narrative,  to  an  audience  prepared 
beforehand  to  smile  at  his  discourse. 

"  It  was  a  long  time  ago,  when  I  was 
young— for  I,  too,  have  been  young! 
Youth  IS  a  fortune  that  belongs  to  all 
the  worid— to  the  poor  aa  w^  as  to 
the  rich — but  which  abides  with  none. 
I  had  just  passed  my  exunination;  I 
had  taken  my  physician's  degree,  and 
I  returned  to  my  village  to  exercise 
my  wonderftil  talents,  well  convinced 
that,  thanks  to  me,  men  would  now 
cease  to  die. 

My  village  Is  not  far  from  here. 
From  the  little  window  of  my  nxwi, 
I  beheld  yonder  white  house  upon 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Madame  (TArboumik'i  ''  ViUa^  Doctor:'  547 


1849.] 

the  opposite  side  to  that  yon  now 
discern.  Yon  certainly  would  not 
find  my  village  handsome.  In  my 
«yes,  it  was  superb ;  I  was  bom  there, 
and  I  loved  it.  We  all  see  with  our 
own  eyes  the  thmgs  we  love.  God 
suffers  us  to  be  sometimes  a  little 
blind ;  for  He  well  knows  that  in  this 
lower  world  a  clear  sight  is  not  alwavs 
profitable.  To  me,  then,  this  neign- 
bourhood  appeared  smiling  and  plea- 
sant, and  I  lived  happily.  The  white 
cottage  alone,  each  morning  when  I 
opened  mv  shutters,  impressed  me 
disagreeably:  it  was  always  closed, 
still  and  sad  like  a  forsaken  thing. 
Never  had  I  seen  its  windows  open 
and  shut,  or  its  door  lyar;  never 
had  I  known  its  inhospitable  garden- 

fate  give  passage  to  human  being. 
Tour  uncle,  mMam,  who  had  no 
occasion  for  a  cottage  so  near  his 
ch&teau,  sought  to  let  it;  but  the 
rent  was  rather  hi^j^er  than  anybody 
here  was  rich  enough  to  give.  It 
remained  empty,  therefore,  whilst  in 
the  hamlet  every  window  exhibited 
two  or  three  children's  faces  peering 
through  the  branches  of  gilliflower 
at  the  first  noise  in  the  street.  But 
one  morning,  on  getting  up,  I  was 
quite  astonii^ed  to  see  a  long  ladder 
resting  against  the  cottage  wall ;  a 
painter  was  painting  the  window- 
abutters  green,  whilst  a  maid-servant 
polished  the  panes,  and  a  gardener 
hoed  the  flower-beds. 

"All  the  better,"  said  I  to  myself; 
«« a  good  roof  like  that,  which  covers 
DO  one,  is  so  much  lost." 

From  day  to  day  the  house  im- 
proved in  appearance.  Pots  of  flowers 
veiled  the  nudity  of  the  walls;  the 
parterres  were  planted^  the  walks 
weeded  and  gravelled,  and  muslin 
curtains,  white  as  snow,  shone  in  the 
aun-rays.  One  day  a  post-chaise 
rattled  through  the  village,  and  drove 
up  to  the  little  house.  Who  were  the 
fltrangers?  None  knew,  and  all  de- 
aired  to  learn.  For  a  long  time  nothinff 
transpired  without  of  what  passed 
within  the  dwelling.  The  rose-trees 
bloomed,  and  the  fresh-laid  lawn  grew 
verdant;  still  nothing  was  known. 
Many  were  the  commentaries  upon 
the  mystery.  They  were  adventur- 
ers concealing  themselves — they  were 
a  young  man  and  his  mistress — in 
abort,  everything  was  guessed  except 


the  truth.  The  truth  is  so  simplef 
that  one  does  not  always  think  of  it; 
once  the  mind  is  in  movement,  it  seeks 
to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  and  often 
forgets  to  look  straight  before  it.  The 
mystery  gave  me  little  concern.  No 
matter  who  is  there,  thought  I ;  they 
are  human,  therefore  they  will  not  be 
long  without  suffering,  and  then  they 
will  send  for  me.    I  waited  patiently. 

At  last  one  morning  a  messenger 
came  from  Mr  William  Meredith,  to 
request  me  to  call  upon  hun.  I  put 
on  my  best  coat,  and,  endeavouring  to 
assume  a  gravity  suitable  to  my  pro- 
fession, I  traversed  the  village,  not 
without  some  little  pride  at  my  im- 
portance. That  day  many  envied 
me.  The  villagers  stood  at  their  doors 
to  see  me  pass.  "  He  is  going  to  the 
white  cottage!"  they  said;  whilst  L 
avoiding  all  appearance  of  haste  and 
vulgar  curiosity,  walked  deliberately, 
nodding  to  my  peasant  neighbours. 
"  Good-day,  my  friends,"  I  sidd;  "  I 
will  see  you  by-and-by;  this  mom-* 
ing  I  am  busy."  And  thus  I  reached 
the  hill-side. 

On  entering  the  sitting-room  of  the 
mysterious  house,  the  scene  I  beheld 
rejoiced  my  eyesight.  Everything 
was  so  simple  and  elegant.  Flowersi 
the  chief  ornament  of  the  apartment* 
were  so  tastefully  arranged,  that  gold 
would  not  better  have  embellished  the 
modest  interior.  White  muslin  was 
at  the  windows,  white  calico  on  the 
chairs— that  was  all ;  but  there  were 
roses  and  jessamine,  and  flowers  of 
all  kinds,  as  in  a  garden.  The  light 
was  softened  by  the  curtains,  the  at- 
mosphere was  fragrant;  and  a  young 
girl  or  woman,  fiur  and  fresh  as  aU 
that  surrounded  her,  reclined  upon  a 
sofa,  and  wdcomed  me  with  a  smile. 
A  handsome  young  man,  seated  near 
her  upon  an  ottoman,  rose  when  the 
servant  announced  Dr  Bamaby. 

'*  Sir,"  said  he,  with  a  strong  foreign 
accent,  *'I  have  heard  so  much  of 
your  skill  that  I  expected  to  see  an 
old  man." 

'^  I  have  studied  diligently,  sir,"  I 
replied.  ^^  I  am  deeply  impressed  with 
the  importance  and  responsibility  of 
my  calling:  vou  mav  confide  in  me.*^ 

**  *Tis  well,"  he  said.  *  *  I  recommend 
my  wife  to  your  best  care.  Her  pre- 
sent  state  demands  advice  and  pre- 
caution.   She  was  bom  in  a  distant 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


548 


Madame  (TArbouoiUe^s  «'  Viilage  Doctor.'' 


[May, 


land:  for  my  sake  she  has  quitted 
lamily  and  mends.  I  can  bring  but 
my  affection  to  her  aid,  for  I  am  with- 
out experience.  I  reckon  npon  yon, 
sir.  If  possible,  preserye  her  from  all 
suffering.** 

As  he  spoke,  the  young  man  fixed 
npon  his  wife  a  look  so  ^U  of  love, 
that  the  large  blue  eyes  of  the  beauti- 
ful foreigner  glistened  with  tears  of 
gratitude.  She  dropped  the  tiny  cap 
she  was  embroidering,  and  her  two 
hands  clasped  the  hand  of  her  hus- 
band. I  looked  at  them,  and  I  ought 
to  have  found  their  lot  enviable,  but, 
somehow  or  other,  the  contrary  was 
the  case.  I  felt  sad ;  I  could  not  tell 
why.  I  had  often  seen  persons  weep, 
of  whom  I  said — ^They  are  happy!  I 
saw  AVllIiam  Meredith  and  his  wife 
smile,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking 
thev  had  much  sorrow.  I  seated  my- 
self near  my  charming  patient.  Never 
have  I  seen  anything  so  lovely  as  that 
sweet  face,  shaded  by  long  ringlets  of 
fair  hair. 

"  What  is  your  age,  madam?" 

"  Seventeen." 

^^Is  the  climate  of  your  native 
country  very  different  from  ours  ?" 

**  I  was  bom  in  America— at  New 
Orleans.  Oh  I  the  sun  is  far  brighter 
than  here." 

Doubtless  she  feared  she  had  uttered 
a  regret,  for  she  added — 

"But  every  country  is  beautiM 
when  one  is  in  one's  husband's  house, 
with  him,  and  awaiting  his  child !" 

Her  ffaze  sought  that  of  William 
Meredith ;  then,  m  a  tongue  I  did  not 
understand,  she  spoke  a  few  words 
which  sounded  so  soft  that  they  must 
have  been  words  of  love. 

After  a  short  visit  I  took  my  leave, 
promising  to  return."  I  did  return, 
and,  at  the  end  of  two  months,  I  was 
almost  the  friend  of  this  young  couple. 
Mr  and  Mrs  Meredith  were  not  selfish 
in  their  happiness ;  they  found  time 
to  think  of  others.  They  saw  that  to 
the  poor  village  doctor,  whose  sole 
society  was  that  of  peasants,  those 
days  were  festivals  npon  wbich  he 
passed  an  hour  in  hearing  the  lan- 
gnuj^  of  cities.  They  encouraged  me 
to  sequent  them— talked  to  me  of 
their  travels,  and  soon,  with  the 
prompt  confidence  characterising 
youth,  they  told  me  their  story.  It 
was  the  girl-wife  who  spoke : — 


'  ^^Doctor,"  she  said,  ^^yonder, beyond 
the  seas,  I  have  father,  sisters,  family. 
Mends,  whom  I  long  loved,  until  the 
day  when  I  loved  William.  BntthenI 
shut  my  heart  to  those  who  repulsed 
my  lover.  William's  father  forbade 
him  to  wed  me,  because  he  was  too 
noble  for  the  daughter  of  an  Americas 
planter.  My  father  forbade  me  to 
love  William,  because  he  was  too 
proud  to  give  his  danghter  to  a  man 
whose  family  refused  her  a  welcome. 
They  tried  to  separate  ns;  but  we 
loved  each  other.  Long  did  we  weep 
and  supplicate,  and  im^ore  the  pity 
of  those  to  whom  we  owed  obedience ; 
they  remained  inflexible,  and  we 
loved!  Doctor,  did  you  ever  love? 
I  would  yon  had,  that  you  might  be 
indulgent  to  us.  We  were  secretly 
married,  and  we  fled  to  France.  Oh 
how  beautiful  the  ocean  appeared  la 
those  early  days  of  our  affection !  The 
sea  was  hospitable  to  the  fn^tives. 
Wanderers  upon  the  waves,  we  passed 
happy  days  in  the  shadow  of  our  ves- 
sel's sails,  antidpating  pardon  from 
our  friends,  and  dreaming  a  Inight 
future.  Alas!  we  were  too  sanguine. 
They  pursued  us ;  and,  npon  pretext 
of  some  irregularity  of  form  in  our 
clandestine  marriage,  William's  family 
crudly  thought  to  separate  us.  We 
found  concealment  in  the  midst  of 
these  mountains  and  forests.  Under 
a  name  which  is  not  ours  we  live 
unknown.  My  father  has  not  for- 
given— he  has  cursed  me !  That  ia 
the  reason,  doctor,  why  I  cannot  al- 
ways smile,  even  with  my  dear  Wil- 
liam by  my  side." 

How  those  two  loved  each  other ! 
Never  have  I  seen  a  being  more  com- 
pletely wrapped  up  in  another  than 
was  £va  Meredith  in  her  husband! 
Whatever  her  occupation,  she  always 
so  placed  herself,  that,  on  raising  her 
eyes,  she  had  William  before  them. 
She  never  read  but  in  the  book  he 
was  reading.  Her  head  against  hia 
shoulder,  her  eyes  followed  the  lines 
on  which  William's  eyes  were  fixed; 
she  wished  the  same  thoughts  to  strike 
them  at  the  same  moment ;  and,  when 
I  crossed  the  garden  to  reach  their 
door,  I  smiled  always  to  see  npon  the 
gravel  the  trace  of  Eva's  little  fbot 
close  to  the  marii  of  William's  boot. 
What  a  difference  between  the  de- 
serted old  house  yon  see  yonder,  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Madame  (TArbomiile's  «'  VOhffe  Doctor:' 


549 


the  pretty  dwelliog  of  my  jouna 
MeDcu !  What  sweet  flowers  covered 
the  walls!  What  bright  nosegays 
decked  the  tables  I  How  many  chmn- 
ing  books  were  there,  foil  of  tales  of 
love  that  resembled  ^eir  love !    How 

Sy  the  birds  that  sang  aronnd  them ! 
ow  good  it  was  to  live  there,  and  to 
be  loved  a  little  by  those  who  loved 
each  other  so  much!  Bat  those  are 
right  who  say  that  happy  days  are  not 
long  upon  this  6arth,  and  that,  in  re- 
spect of  hq)pine6s,  Grod  gives  bat  a 
little  at  a  time. 

One  morning  .Eva  Meredith  ap- 
peared to  saffer.  I  questioned  her 
with  all  the  interest  I  felt  for  her. 
She  answered  me  abruptly. 

^^Do  not  fed  my  pulse,  doctor,** 
she  said ;  ^^  it  is  my  heart  that  beats 
too  quick.  Think  me  childish  if  vou 
will,  but  I  am  sad  this  mommg. 
William  is  going  away.  He  is  going 
to  the  town  beyond  the  mountain,  to 
receiye  money.'* 

''And  when  will  he  return?**  in- 
quired I,  gently. 

She  smiled,  almost  blushed,  and 
then,  with  a  look  that  seemed  to  say. 
Do  not  laugh  at  me,  she  replied, 
'^Thii  evening  P' 

Notwithstanding  her  imploring 
glance,  I  could  not  repress  a  smile. 
Just  then  a  servant  brought  Mr  Mere- 
dith's horse  to  the  door.  Eva  rose 
from  her  seat,  went  out  into  the  gar- 
den, approached  the  horse,  and,  whilst 
stroking  his  mane,  bowed  her  head 
npon  the  animal's  neck,  perhaps  to 
conceal  the  tear  that  fell  from  her 
eyes.  William  came  out,  threw  him- 
self Itohtly  into  the  saddle,  and  gently 
raised  his  wife*s  head. 

''  SiUy  giril'*  said  he,  with  love  in 
his  eyes  and  voice.  And  he  kissed 
horlvow. 

"  William,  we  have  never  yet  been 
so  many  hours  apart  1** 

Mr  Meredith  stooped  his  head  to- 
'  wards  that  of  Eva,  and  imprinted  a 
second  kiss  upon  her  beautiful  golden 
hair;  then  he  touched  his  horselB 
flank  with  the  spur,  and  set  off  at  a 
gallop.  I  am  convinced  that  he,  too, 
was  a  little  moved.  Nothing  is  so 
contagious  as  the  weakness  of  those 
we  love;  tears  summon  tears,  audit 
is  no  very  laudable  courage  that  keeps 
our  eves  dry  by  the  side  of  a  weeping 
frieno.    I  turned  my  steps  homeward, 


and,  once  more  in  my  cottage,  I  set 
myself  to  meditate  on  the  happiness 
<^  loving.  I  asked  myself  if  an  Eva 
would  ever  cheer  my  poor  dwelling. 
I  did  not  think  of  examiningwhether 
I  were  worthy  to  be  loved.  When  we 
behold  two  beings  thus  devoted  to 
each  other,  we  easily  discern  that  it 
is  not  for  good  and  various  reasons 
that  they  love  so  well ;  they  love  be- 
cause it  is  necessary,  inevitable ;  they 
love  on  account  of  their  own  hearts, 
not  of  those  of  others.  Well,  I  thought 
how  I  might  seek  and  find  a  heart 
that  had  need  to  love,  jast  as,  in  my 
morning  walks,  I  might  have  thought 
to  meet,  by  the  road-side,  some  flower 
of  sweet  perfume.  Thus  did  I  muse, 
although  it  is  perhaps  a  wrong  feeling 
which  makes  us,  at  sight  of  others* 
bliss,  deplore  the  happiness  we  do  not 
ourselves  possess.  Is  not  a  little  en- 
vy there?  and  if  joy  could  be  stolen 
like  gold,  should  we  not  then  be  near 
a  larceny? 

The  day  passed,  and  I  had  just 
completed  my  frugid  supper,  when  I 
received  a  message  from  Mrs  Mere- 
dith, begging  me  to  visit  her.  In  five 
minutes  X  was  at  the  door  of  the  white 
cotts^.  I  found  Eva,  still  alone, 
seated  on  a  sofa,  without  work  or  book, 
pale  and  trembling.  ''  Come,  doctor, 
come,"  said  she,  in  her  soft  voice; 
''I  can  remain  alone  no  longer;  see 
how  late  it  is! — he  should  have  been 
home  two  hours  ago,  and  has  not 
yet  returned  1*' 

I  was  surprised  at  Mr  Meredith's 
prolonged  absence;  but,  to  comfort 
bis  wife,  I  replied  quietly,  "How 
can  we  tell  the  time  necessary  to 
transact  his  business?  They  may 
have  made  him  wait ;  the  notary  was 
perhaps  absent.  There  were  papers 
to  draw  up  and  sign.** 

"  Ah,  doctor,  I  was  sure  you  would 
find  words  of  consolation  I  I  needed 
to  hear  some  one  tell  me  that  it  is 
foolish  to  tremble  thus!  Gracious 
heaven,  how  long  the  day  has  been  I 
Doctor,  are  there  really  persons  who 
live  alone?  Do  they  not  die  imme- 
diately, as  if  robbed  of  half  the  at- 
mosphere essential  to  life  ?  But  there 
is  eight  o'clock!'*  Eight  o'clock  was 
indeed  striking.  I  could  not  imagine 
why  William  was  not  back.  At  all 
hazards  I  said  to  Mrs  Meredith, 
"  Madam,  the  sun  is  hardly  set ;  it  is 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


^50 


Madame  iTArbauviUe's  «'  FtZZo^  Dodor:' 


[May, 


Btill  daylight,  and  the  eyeoing  ia  bean- 
tiful;  come  and  viait  your  flowers. 
If  we  walk  down  the  road,  we  shall 
donbtless  meet  yoor  husband." 

She  took  my  arm,  and  we  walked 
towards  the  gate  of  the  little  garden. 
I  endeavoor^  to  torn  her  attenti<m 
to  surroonding  objects.  At  first  she 
replied,  as  a  child  obeys.  Bat  I  felt 
that  her  thoughts  went  not  with  her 
words.  Her  anxious  gaae  was  fixed 
upon  the  little  green  gate,  which  had 
remained  open  since  William^s  de* 
partnre.  Leaning  upon  the  paling, 
she  suffered  me  to  talk  on,  smiling 
from  time  to  time,  by  way  of  thanks ; 
for,  as  the  evening  wore  away,  she 
lacked  courage  to  answer  me.  Grray 
tints  succeeded  the  red  sunset,  foresha- 
dowing the  arrival  of  night  Gloom 
gathered  around  us.  The  road,  hither- 
to visible  like  a  white  line  winding 
through  the  forest,  dis94>peared  in  the 
dark  shade  of  the  lofty  trees,  and  the 
village  clock  struck  nine.  Eva  started. 
I  myself  felt  every  stroke  vibrate  upon 
my  heart.  I  pitied  the  poor  woman's 
imeasiness. 

"Remember,  madam,"  I  replied, 
(she  had  not  spoken,  but  I  answered 
the  anxiety  visible  in  her  features,) 
"remember  that  Mr  Meredith  must 
return  at  a  walk ;  the  roads  through 
the  forest  are  not  in  a  state  to  admit 
fast  riding."  I  said  this  to  encourage 
her ;  but  the  truth  is,  I  knew  not  how 
to  explain  William's  absence.  Know- 
ing the  distance,  I  also  knew  that  I 
could  have  gone  twice  to  the  town 
and  back  since  his  departure.  The 
evening  dew  began  to  penetrate  our 
•clothes,  and  especially  Eva's  thin 
mudin  dress.  Again  I  drew  her 
arm  through  mine  and  led  her  to- 
wards the  house.  She  followed  un- 
resistingly; her  i^entle  nature  was 
submissive  even  m  afEliction.  She 
walked  slowly,  her  head  bowed,  her 
^es  fixed  on  the  tracks  left  by  the 
l^dlop  of  her  husband's  horse.  How 
melancholy  it  was,  that  evening  walk, 
still  without  William !  In  vain  we 
listened :  there  reigned  around  os  the 
profound  stUlness  of  a  summer  night 
in  the  countiy.  How  greatiy  does  a 
feeling  of  uneasiness  increase  under 
anch  oircamstaaces.  We  entered  the 
house.  Eva  seated  herself  on  the 
sofi^  her  hands  clasped  upon  her 
kneea,  her  head  sonk  npon  her  bosom. 


There  was  a  lamp  on  the  chimney* 
piece,  whose  light  fell  fhll  upon  her 
£Ace.  I  shall  never  forget  its  suffu'- 
ing  expression.  She  was  pale,  very 
pue—her  brow  and  cheeks  exactlj 
the  same  colour;  her  hair,  relaxed 
by  the  night-damp,  fell  in  disorder 
npon  her  shoulders.  Tears  filled  her 
eyes,  and  the  quivering  of  her  colour- 
less lips  showed  how  violent  was  the 
effort  by  which  she  avoided  shedding 
them.  She  was  so  young  that  her 
face  resembled  that  of  a  child  for- 
bidden to  cry. 

I  was  gr^ly  troubled,  and  knew 
not  what  to  say  or  how  to  look. 
Suddenly  I  remembered  (it  was  a 
doctor's  thought)  that  Eva,  engrossed 
by  her  uneasiness,  had  taken  nothing 
since  morning,  and  her  situation  ren- 
dered U  imprudent  to  prolong  this 
fast.  At  my  first  (eferenoe  to  the 
sulnect  she  raised  her  eyes  to  mine 
with  a  reproachfol  expressicm,  uid  the 
motion  of  her  eyelids  caused  two  tears 
to  flow  down  her  cheeks. 

"For  your  child's  sake,  madam," 
BaidL 

"  Ah,  you  are  right !  "  she  muT'^ 
mured,  and  she  passed  into  the 
dining-room';  but  there  the  little  table 
was  laid  for  two,  and  at  that  moment 
tins  trifle  so  saddened  me  as  to  de- 
prive me  of  speech  and  motion.  My 
increasing  uneasiness  rendoned  me 
quite  awkward ;  I  had  not  the  wit  to 
say  what  I  did  not  think.  The  silence 
was  prolonged;  "  and  yet,"  said  I  to 
myself;  "lam  here  to  console  her; 
she  sent  for  me  for  that  purpose. 
There  must  be  fifty  ways  of  explain* 
ing  this  delay — let  me  find  one."  I 
sought,  and  sou|^t — and  still  I  re- 
mained silent,  inwardly  cursing  the 
poverty  of  invention  <^  a  poor  village 
doctor.  Eva,  her  head  resting  on 
her  hand,  forgot  to  eat.  Sndd^yshe 
turned  to  me  and  burst  out  sobbing. 

"Ah,  doctor  1"  she  exclaimed,  "I 
see  {Hainly  that  yon  too  are  uneasy." 

"  Not  so,  madam— indeed  not  so," 
relied  I,  speaking  at  random. 
"  Why  should  I  be  uneasy  ?  He  has 
doubUess  dined  with  the  notary. 
The  roads  are  safe,  and  no  one  knows 
that  he  went  for  money." 

I  had  inadvertently  revealed  one  of 
my  secret  caases  of  uneasiness.  I 
knew  that  a  band  <^  fordgn  reapers 
had  that  morning  passed  thiou|^  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Madame  (TArboutnlle's  '*  Vahge  Doctor^ 


651 


Tillage,  on  their  way  to  a  nei^boor- 
ing  department. 

£va  uttered  a  cry. 

*^  Robbers  I  robbers  !  *'  she  ex- 
claimed. *'  I  never  thoogbt  of  thcU 
danger." 

^^  But,  madam,  I  only  mention  it 
to  tell  you  it  does  not  exist.** 

'^  Oh  I  the  thought  struck  you, 
doctor,  because  you  thought  the  mis- 
fortune possible !  Williun,  my  own 
William!  why  did  you  leave  me?" 
cried  she,  weeping  bitterly. 

I  was  in  despair  at  my  blunder, 
and  I  feh  my  eyes  fill  with  tears. 
My  distress  gave  me  an  idea. 

''Mrs  Meredith,"  I  said,  ''lean- 
not  see  you  torment  yourself  thus, 
and  remain  by  your  ude  unable  to 
console  you.  I  will  go  and  seek  your 
husband ;  I  wiU  follow  at  random  one 
of  the  paths  through  the  forest;  I 
will  search  everywhere  and  shout  his 
name,  and  go,  if  necessary,  to  the 
town  itself." 

"  Oh,  thanks,  thanks,  kind  friend!" 
cried  Eva  Meredith,  "  take  the  gar- 
dener with  yon  and  the  servant; 
aearch  in  all  directions  I " 

We  hurried  back  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  Eva  rang  quickly  and 
repeatedly.  All  the  inhabitants  of 
the  cottage  opened  at  the  same  time 
the  different  doors  of  the  iH[>artment. 
«'  Follow  Dt  Bamaby,"  cried  Mrs 
Meredith. 

At  that  moment  a  horse's  gallop 
was  distinctly  heard  upon  the  gravel 
of  the  garden.  Eva  uttered  a  cry  of 
happiness  that  went  home  to  every 
heart.  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
divine  expression  <^  joy  that  illu- 
mined her  face,  still  kiundated  with 
tears.  She  and  I,  we  flew  to  the 
house-door.  The  moon,  passing  from 
behind  a  cloud,  threw  her  full  light 
upon  a  riderless  and  foam-covered 
horse,  whose  bridle  dragged  upon  the 
ground,  and  whose  dusty  flanks  were 
galled  by  the  empty  stirrups.  A 
-leooiid  cry,  this  time  of  inteosest 
horror,  burst  from  Eva's  breast ; 
then  she  turned  towards  me,  her  eyes 
fixed,  her  mouth  half  open,  her  arms 
hanging  poweriess. 

I%e  servants  were  In  constematicm. 

^*-  Get  torches,  my  friends!" 
cried  I,  "  and  follow  me  I  Madam, 
we  shall  soon  return,  I  hopie,  and 
jour  husband  with  as.    He  has  le- 


ceived  some  slight  hurt,  a  strained 
ancle,  p^haps.  Keep  up  your  cou- 
rage.    We  will  soon  be  back." 

"  I  go  with  you  I "  murmured  Eva 
Meredith  in  a  choking  voice. 

"Impossible !"  I  cried.  "  We  must 
go  fkst,  perhap  far,  and  in  yourstate — 
it  would  be  risking  your  lUe,  and  that 
of  your  child — ^" 

"  I  go  with  you  I "  rq>eated  Eva. 

Then  did  I  feel  how  cruel  was  this 
poor  woman's  isolation  !  Had  a 
father,  a  mother  been  there,  they 
would  have  ordered  her  to  stay,  they 
would  have  retained  her  by  force ; 
but  she  was  alone  upon  the  earth, 
and  to  all  my  hurried  entreaties  she 
still  replied  in  a  hollow  voice:  "I 
go  with  you  I" 

We  set  out.  The  moon  was  again 
darkened  by  dense  clouds ;  there  was 
light  neither  in  the  heavens  nor  on 
the  earth.  The  uncertain  radiance  of 
our  torches  barely  showed  us  the 
path.  A  servant  went  in  fix>nt, 
lowering  his  torch  to  the  right  and  to 
the  left,  to  illumine  the  ditches  and 
bashes  bordering  the  road.  Behind 
him  Mrs  Meredith,  the  gardener,  and 
myself  followed  with  our  eyes  the 
stream  of  light  From  time  to  time 
we  raised  our  voices  and  called  Mr 
Meredith.  After  us  a  stifled  sob 
murmured  the  name  of  William,  as  if 
a  heart  had  reckoned  on  the  instinct 
of  love  to  hear  its  tears  better  than 
our  shouts.  We  reached  the  forest 
Rain  began  to  fall,  and  the  drops 
pattered  upon  the  foliage  with  a 
mournful  noise,  as  if  everything 
around  us  wept  Eva's  thin  dresa 
was  soon  soaked  with  the  cold  flood. 
The  water  streamed  from  her  hair 
over  her  fMce,  She  bruised  her 
feet  against  the  stones  of  the  road, 
and  repeatedly  stumbled  and  fell 
npon  her  knees ;  but  she  rose  again 
with  the  energy  of  deq>air,  and 
poshed  forwards.  It  was  agonising 
to  behold  her.  I  scarcely  dared  lode 
at  her,  leet  I  should  see  her  fall  dead 
before  my  eyes.  At  last — ^we  were 
moving  in  silence,  fritigued  and  dis- 
counL^ — Mrs  Meredith  pushed  as 
suddenly  aside,  sprang  forward  and 

ennged  into  the  bushes.  We  fol- 
wed  her,  and,  upon  raising  th« 
torches— alas  !  she  was  on  her  knees 
beside  the  body  of  William,  who  was 
stretched  motionless  upon  the  grouidt 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


WS  Madame  (TJrbomUle's  "  ViOage  Doctor."^ 


his  ejes  glazed  and  his  brow  covered 
wlib  blood  which  flowed  from  a  wound 
Id  the  left  temple. 

"  Doctoe?"  said  Eva  to  me.  That 
one  word  expressed —  "  Does  Wil- 
liam Hve?" 

I  stooped  and  felt  the  poise  of  Wil- 
liam M^^th ;  I  placed  my  hand  on 
his  heart  and  remained  silent.  Eva 
still  gaaed  at  me ;  but,  when  my 
silence  was  prolonged,  I  saw  her 
bend,  waver,  and  then,  without  word 
or  cry,  fall  senseless  npon  her  hos- 
band*s  corpse. 

"Bat,  ladies,"  said  Dr  Bamaby, 
turning  to  his  andlence,  '^  the  son 
shines  again ;  yon  can  go  out  now. 
Let  OS  leave  this  sad  story  where  it 
Is." 

Madame  de  Moncar  approached 
the  old  physician.  "Doctor,"  said 
she,  "  I  implore  you  to  continue ; 
0B\y  look  at  ns,  and  you  will  not 
do«bl  the   interest  with  which  we 


Tbero  were  no  more  smiles  of 
Bwckwy  npon  the  young  faces  that 
mrooiided  the  village  doctor.  In 
some  of  their  eyes  he  might  even 
diBtxDgnish  the  glistening  of  tears. 
Ha  resumed  his  narrative. 

^  Mrs  Meredith  was  carried  home, 
aad  Ttmaiiied  for  several  hours  sense- 
kes  vpoo  her  bed.  I  fielt  it  at  once 
a  d«tj  and  a  cruelty  to  use  every 
sAirt  to  recall  her  to  life.  I  dreaded 
te  agonisuig  scenes  that  would  fol- 
low this  state  of  immobility.  I 
romained  beaide  the  poor  woman, 
bttlhing  her  temples  with  fresh  water, 
and  awaiting  with  anxiety  the  sad 
a»d  yel  the  happy  moment  of  re- 
tmiii|[  consciousness.  I  was  mis- 
tak»  m  my  anticipations,  for  I  had 
•erer  witnessed  great  grief.  Eva 
half  opened  her  eves  and  immedUtely 
closed  them  again;  no  tear  escaped 
from  beneath  their  lids.  She  remained 
cold,  motionless,  silent ;  and,  but  for 
the  heart  which  again  throbbed  be- 
BMlh  vaj  hand,  I  should  have  deemed 
her  dead.  Sad  is  it  to  behold  a  sor- 
row which  one  fMs  is  beyond  con- 
0olatk» !  Silenoe,  I  thought,  seemed 
13w  a  want  of  pity  for  this  nnfortu- 
«ate  creature :  on  the  other  hand, 
Terbal  condolence  was  a  mockery 
of  so  mighty  a  nief.  I  had  found  no 
words  to  calm  her  nneasiness ;  could 
I  hope  to  be  more  eloquent  in  the 


hour  of  her  great  suffering?    I  took 
the  safest  course,  that  of  profound 
silence.    I  will  remain  here,  I  thought, 
and  minister  to  Uie  physical  sufferings, 
as  is  my  duty ;  but  I  will  be  mute  and 
passive,  even  as  a  futhful  dog  would 
lie  down  at  her  feet.    Mv  mind  once 
made  up,  I  felt  calmer ;  I  let  her  live 
a  life  which  resembled  death.    After 
a  few  hours,  however,  I  pat  a  spoon- 
ful of  a  potion  to  her  lips.      E^a 
slowly  averted  her  head.    In  a  few 
moments   I  again    offered    her   the 
drug. 

*'  Drink,  madam,"  I  said,  gently 
touching  her  lips  with  the  spoon. 
They  remained  closed. 

"  Madam,  your  child !"  I  persisted, 
in  a  low  voice. 

Eva  opened  her  eves,  raised  her- 
self with  effort  upon  her  elbow,  swal- 
lowed the  medicine,  and  fell  back  upon 
her  pillow. 

*^I  must  wait,"  she  murmured, 
*Uill  another  life  is  detached  from 
mine!" 

Thenceforward  Mrs  Meredith  spoke 
no  more,  but  she  mechanically  fol- 
lowed all  my  prescriptions.  Stretched 
upon  her  bed  of  suffering,  she  seemed 
constantly  to  sleep ;  but  at  what- 
ever moment  I  sara  to  her,  even  in 
my  lowest  whisper,  "  Drink  this, " 
she  instantly  obeyed ;  thus  proving 
to  me  that  the  soul  kept  its  weary 
watch  in  that  motionless  body,  with- 
out a  single  instant  of  oblivion  and 
repose. 

There  were  none  beside  myself  to 
attend  to  the  interment  of  William. 
Nothing  positive  was  ever  known  as 
to  the  cause  of  his  death.  The  sum 
he  was  to  bring  from  the  town  was 
not  fbund  upon  him ;  perhaps  he  had 
been  robbed  and  murdered ;  perhaps 
the  money,  which  was  in  notes,  had 
fallen  from  his  pocket  when  he  was 
tlurown  horn  his  norse,  and,  as  it  was 
some  time  before  any  thought  of 
seeking  it,  the  heavy  rain  and 
trampled  mud  might  account  for  its 
disappearance.  .  A  fruitless  investiga- 
tion was  made  and  soon  dropped.  I 
endeavoured  to  learn  from  Eva  Mere- 
dith if  her  family,  or  that  of  her  hus- 
band, should  not  be  written  to.  I  had 
difficulty  in  obtaining  an  answer.  At 
last  she  gave  me  to  understand  that  I 
had  merely  to  inform  their  agent,  who 
would  do  whatever  was  needful.    I 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Madame  cPArbouviik's  ''  Village  Doctor.'' 


553 


hoped  that,  at  least  from  England, 
some  commnnication  wonld  arrive, 
decisive  of  this  poor  creatore's  fatnre 
lot.  Bat  no ;  day  followed  day,  and 
none  seemed  to  know  that  the  widow 
of  William  Meredith  lived  in  ntter 
isolation,  in  a  poor  French  village. 
To  endeavour  to  bring  back  Eva  to 
the  sense  of  her  existence,  I  nrged 
her  to  leave  her  bed.  Upon  the 
morrow  I  found  her  up,  dressed  in 
black ;  bat  she  was  the  ghost  of  the 
bcantiful  Eva  Meredith.  Her  hair 
was  parted  in  bands  npon  her  pale 
forehead,  and  she  sat  near  a  window, 
motionless  as  she  had  lain  in  bed. 

I  passed  long  silent  evenings  with 
her,  a  book  in  my  hand  for  apparent 
occupation.  Each  day,  on  my  ar- 
rival, I  addressed  to  her  a  few  words 
of  sympathy.  She  replied  by  a  thank- 
ful look;  then  we  remained  silent. 
I  waited  an  opportunity  to  open  a 
conversation  ;  but  my  awkwardness 
and  my  respect  for  her  grief  prevented 
my  finding  one,  or  suffered  it  to  escape 
when  it  occurred.  Little  by  little  I 
grew  accustomed  to  this  mute  inter- 
course; and,  besides,  what  could  I 
have  said  to  her?  M^  chief  obiect 
was  to  prevent  her  feeling  quite  alone 
in  the  world ;  and,  ol^cure  as  was  the 
prop  remaining,  it  still  was  something. 
I  went  to  see  her  merely  that  my 
presence  might  say,  "  I  am  here." 

It  was  a  singular  epoch  in  my  life, 
and  had  a  great  influence  on  my  Aiture 
existence.  Had  I  not  shown  so  much 
regret  at  the  threatened  destruction  of 
the  white  cottage,  I  would  hurry  to 
the  conclusion  of  this  narrative,  fiut 
you  have  insbted  upon  knowing  why 
that  building  is  hallowed  to  me,  and 
I  must  tell  vou  therefore  what  I  have 
thought  and  felt  beneath  its  humble 
roof.  Forgive  me,  ladies,  if  my  words 
are  grave.  It  is  good  for  youth  to  be 
sometimes  a  little  saddened ;  it  has  so 
much  time  before  it  to  laugh  and  to 
forget. 

The  son  of  a  rich  peasant,  I  was 
sent  to  Paris  to  complete  my  studies. 
During  four  years  passed  in  that  great 
city,  I  retained  the  awkwardness  of 
my  manners,  the  simplicity  of  my 
language,  but  I  rapidly  lost  the  in- 
genuousness of  my  sentiments.  I  re- 
turned to  these  mountains,  almost 
learned,  but  almost  incredulous  in  idl 
those  pohits  of  faith  which  enable  a 


man  to  pass  his  life  contentedly  be- 
neath a  tnatched  roof,  in  the  society 
of  his  wife  and  children,  wiUiout 
caring  to  look  beyond  the  cross  above 
the  village  cemetery. 

Whilst  contemplating  the  love  of 
William  and  of  Eva,  I  had  reverted  to 
my  former  simple  peasant-nature.  I 
began  to  dream  of  a  virtuous,  affec- 
tionate wife,  diligent  and  frugal,  em- 
bellishing my  house  bv  her  care  and 
order.  I  saw  myself  proud  of  the 
gentle  severitv  of  her  features,  reveal- 
ing to  all  the  cnaste  and  faithful  spouse. 
Very  different  were  these  reveries 
from  those  that  haunted  me  at  Paris 
after  joyous  evenings  spent  with  my 
comrades.  Suddenly,  horrible  cala- 
mity descended  like  a  thunderbolt 
upon  Eva  Meredith.  This  time  I  was 
slower  to  appreciate  the  lesson  I  daily 
received.  Eva  sat  constantly  at  the 
window,  her  sad  gaze  fixed  upon  the 
heavens.  The  attitude,  common  in 
persons  of  meditative  mood,  attracted 
my  attention  but  little.  Her  persist- 
ance  in  it  at  last  struck  me.  My  book 
open  upon  my  knees,  I  looked  at  Mrs 
Meredith;  and  well  assured  she  would 
not  detect  my  gaze,  I  examined  her 
attentively.  She  still  gazed  at  the  sky 
— ^my  eyes  followed  the  direction  of 
hers.  "  Ah,"  I  said  to  myself  with 
a  half  smile,  "  she  thinks  to  rejoin 
him  there  r'  Then  I  resumed  my 
book,  thinking  how  fortunate  it  was 
for  the  weakness  of  women  that  such 
thoughts  came  to  the  relief  of  their 
sorrows. 

I  have  already  told  you  that  my 
student's  life  had  put  evil  thoughts 
into  my  head.  Every  day,  however, 
I  saw  Eva  in  the  same  attitude,  and 
every  day  my  reflections  were  recalled 
to  the  same  subject.  lAttle  by  little  I 
came  to  think  her  dream  a  good  one, 
and  to  regret  I  could  not  credit  its 
reality.  The  soul,  heaven,  eternal  life, 
all  that  the  old  priest  had  formerlpr 
tau|^ht  me,  glided  through  my  imagi- 
nation as  I  sat  at  eventide  before  the 
open  window.  "  The  doctrine  of  the 
old  cure,''  I  said  to  myself,  "  was  more 
comforting  than  the  cold  realities 
science  hius  revealed  to  me."  Then  I 
looked  at  Eva,  who  still  looked  to 
heaven,  whOst  the  bells  of  the  village 
church  sounded  sweetly  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
made  the  steeple- cross  glitter  against 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


554 


Madiam  tPArhomnU^s  ^^VUhge  Doctor.'" 


[May, 


the  Bkj.  I  often  returned  to  sit  op- 
posite the  poor  widow,  perseTering  in 
ner  grief  as  in  her  holy  hopes. 

"What  r  I  thought,  "  can  so  much 
love  address  itself  to  a  few  particles  of 
dust,  already  mingled  with  the  mould; 
are  aU  these  sighs  wasted  on  empty 
air?  William  departed  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  his  age,  his  affections  yet 
vivid,  his  heart  in  its  early  bloom. 
She  loved  him  but  a  year,  one  little 
year — and  is  all  over  for  her  ?  Above 
our  heads  is  there  nothing  but  void? 
Love— that  sentiment  so  strong  within 
ns — is  it  but  a  flame  placed  in  the  ob- 
scure prison  of  our  body,  where  it 
shines,  bums,  and  is  flnallv  extin- 
guished by  the  fall  of  the  frail  wall 
surrounding  it?  Is  a  little  dust  all  that 
remains  of  our  loves,  and  hopes,  and 
passions — of  all  that  moves,  agitates, 
and  exalts  us?" 

There  was  deep  silence  in  the  re- 
cesses of  my  soul.  I  had  ceased  to 
think.  I  was  as  if  slumbering  between 
what  I  no  longer  denied,  and  what  I 
did  not  yet  believe.  At  last,  one 
night,  when  Eva  ioined  her  hands 
to  pray,  beneath  the  most  beautiful 
starlit  sl^  possible  to  behold,  I  know 
not  how  it  was,  but  I  found  my  hands 
also  clasped,  and  my  lips  opened  to 
murmur  a  prayer.  Then,  by  a  happy 
chance,  and  for  the  first  time,  Eva 
Meredith  looked  round,  as  if  a  secret 
instinct  had  whispered  her  that  my 
soul  harmonised  with  hers. 

"Thanks,**  said  she,  holding  out 
her  hand,  "  keep  him  in  your  memory, 
and  pray  for  him  sometimes.** 

"  Oh,  madam  !**  I  exclaimed,  '*  may 
we  all  meet  again  in  a  better  worid, 
whether  our  lives  have  been  long  or 
short,  happy  or  full  of  trial.** 

"The  mimortal  soul  of  WHliam 
looks  down  upon  us!**  she  replied  in  a 
grave  voice,  whilst  her  gaae,  at  once 
sad  and  bright,  reverted  to  the  star- 
spangled  heavens. 

Since  that  evening,  when  perform- 
ing the  duties  of  my  profession,  I  have 
often  witnessed  death ;  but  never 
without  speaking,  to  the  sorrowing 
survivors,  a  few  consoling  words  on  a 
better  life  than  this  one;  and  those 
words  were  words  of  conviction. 

At  last,  a  month  after  these  inci- 
dents, Eva  Meredith  gave  birth  to  a 
son.  When  they  brought  her  her 
chUd,—"  William  I**   exclaimed   the 


poorwidow ;  and  tears,  soothing  tears 
too  long  denied  to  her  grief,  escaped 
in  torrents  from  her  eyes.  The  child 
bore  that  much -loved  name  of  William, 
and  a  little  cradle  was  placed  close  to 
the  mother's  bed.  Then  £va*s  gaze, 
long  directed  to  heaven,  returned  earth- 
wards. She  looked  to  her  child  now,  as 
she  had  previously  looked  to  her  God. 
She  bent  over  him  to  seek  his  father's 
features.  Providence  had  permitted  an 
exact  resemblance  between  William 
and  the  son  he  was  fated  not  to  see.  A 
great  change  occurred  around  us.  Eva, 
who  had  consented  to  live  until  her 
child's  existence  was  detached  from 
hers,  was  now,  I  could  plainly  see, 
willing  to  live  on,  because  she  felt  that 
this  little  being  needed  the  protection 
of  her  love.  She  passed  the  days  and 
evenings  seated  beside  his  cradle ; 
and  when  I  went  to  see  her,  oh  f  then 
she  questioned  me  as  to  what  she 
shoula  do  for  him,  she  explained  what 
he  had  suffered,  and  asked  what  could 
be  done  to  save  him  from  pain.  For 
her  child  she  feared  the  heat  of  a  ray 
of  sun,  the  chill  of  the  lightest  breeze. 
Bending  over  him,  she  shielded  him 
with  her  body,  and  warmed  him  with 
her  kisses.  One  day,  I  ahnost  thought 
I  saw  her  smile  at  him.  But  she 
never  would  sing,  whilst  rocking  his 
cradle,  to  lull  him  to  sleep ;  she  called 
one  of  her  women,  and  said>  "  l^ng  to 
my  son  that  be  may  sleep.**  Tnea 
she  listened,  letting  her  tears  flow 
softly  upon  little  William's  brow. 
Poor  child  f  he  was  handsome,  gentle, 
easy  to  rear.  But,  as  if  his  mother's 
sorrow  had  affected  him  even  before 
his  birth,  the  child  was  melancholy : 
he  seldom  cried,  but  he  never  smiled : 
he  was  quiet ;  and  at  that  age  quiet 
seems  to  denote  suffering.  I  fancied 
that  all  the  tears  shed  over  the  cradle 
Arose  that  poor  little  soul.  IwouMfkin 
have  seen  William's  arms  twined  car- 
essingly round  his  mother's  neck.  I 
would    have   had   him    return   the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


exifltenee,  elinriiig  agtin  to  life  for 
the  sake  of  *  little  ohiid  which  oonld 
not  eren  say  ^^  Thanks,  dear  mother  I'* 
What  a  marvel  is  the  human  heart  I 
Of  how  small  a  thing  it  makes  mnch  t 
Griye  it  but  a  grain  of  sand,  and  it 
elevates  a  moontain ;  at  its  latest 
throb  show  it  bnt  an  atom  to  love, 
and  again  its  poises  revive ;  it  stops 
for  good  only  when  all  is  void  aronnd 
it,  and  when  even  the  shadow  of  its 
affections  has  vanished  from  the  earth  t 

Time  rolled  on,  and  I  received  a 
letter  from  an  ande,  my  sole  surviv- 
ing relative.  My  uncle,  a  member  of 
the  faculty  of  Montpellier,  summoned 
me  to  his  side,  to  complete  in  that 
learned  town  my  initiation  into  the 
secrets  of  my  art.  This  letter,  in  form 
an  invitation,  was  in  fact  an  order.  I 
had  to  set  out.  One  morning,  my 
heart  big  when  I  thought  of  the  isola- 
tion in  which  I  left  the  widow  and  the 
orphan,  I  repaired  to  the  white  cot- 
tage to  take  leave  of  Eva  Meredith. 
I  know  not  whether  an  additional 
shade  of  sadness  came  over  her  fea- 
tures when  I  told  her  I  was  about  to 
make  a  long  absence.  Since  the  death 
of  William  Meredith  such  profound 
melancholy  dwelt  upon  her  counte- 
nance that  a  smile  would  have  been 
the  sole  perceptible  variation:  sad- 
ness was  alwayslthere. 

*^  Ton  leave  us  ?*'  she  exolahned ; 
"  your  care  is  so  usefhl  to  my  child  !*^ 

The  poor  lonely  woman  forvot  to  re- 
gret thedeparture  of  her  last  friend ;  the 
mother  lamented  the  loss  of  the  phy- 
sician useful  to  her  son.  I  did  not 
complain.  To  be  usefol  is  the  sweet 
recompense  of  the  devoted. 

''  Adieu  r  she  said,  holding  out  her 
hand.  **  Wherever  you  go,  may  God 
bless  yon ;  and  should  it  be  His  will 
to  9Mct  you,  may  He  at  least  affbrd 


Madame  ifArbaumlWs  <*  Village  Doctor.^ 


555 


'^Grood  heavens,  doctor  P  simul- 
taneously exclaimed  all  Dr  Bamaby*s 
audience,  *^  what  did  you  appro* 
hend?" 

^*  Suffer  me  to  finish  my  story  my 
own  way,"  replied  the  village  doctor ; 
^  everything  shall  be  told  in  its  turn. 
I  relate  these  events  in  the  order  in 
which  they  occurred." 

On  my  arrival  at  Montpellier,  I  waa 
exceedingly  well  received  by  my  unde ; 
who  declared,  however,  that  he  could 
neither  lodge  nor  feed  me,  nor  lend 
me  money,  and  that  as  a  stranger, 
without  a  name,  I  must  not  hope  for 
a  patient  in  a  town  so  ftdl  of  cele- 
brated physicians. 

"  Then  I  will  return  to  my  village, 
unde,"  replied  I. 

"  By  no  means  I"  was  his  answer. 
"  I  have  got  yon  a  lucrative  and  re- 
spectable situation.  An  old  English- 
man, rich,  gouty,  and  restless,  wishes 
to  have  a  doctor  to  live  with  him,  an 
intelligent  young  man  who  will  take 
charge  of  his  health  under  the  super- 
intendence of  an  older  physidan.  I 
have  proposed  you — ^you  have  been 
accepted  ;  let  us  go  to  him." 

We  betook  ourselves  immediately 
to  the  residence  of  Lord  James  Kysing- 
ton,  a  large  and  handsome  house,  full 
of  servants,  where,  after  waiting  some 
time,  first  in  the  anteroom,  and  then 
in  the  parlours,  we  were  at  last  usher- 
ed into  the  presence  of  the  noble  in- 
valid. Seated  in  a  laree  arm-chair 
was  an  old  man  of  cold  and  severe 
aspect,  whose  white  hair  contrasted 
oddly  with  his  eyebrows,  still  of  a  jet 
black.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  as  far 
as  I  could  jndge  through  the  folds  of 
a  large  doth  coat,  made  like  a  dress- 
ing-gown. His  hands  disappeared 
undw  his  cuffs,  and  his  feet  were 
wrapped  in  the  skin  of  a  white  bear. 

3re  upon 

bew,  Dr 

lat  is  to 
made  a 
nt  with 

profes- 
his  care 
urlord- 

leadwas 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


556 


Madame  tTArbawOk's  '^  VtUage  Doctor:' 


[May, 


*^  Moreover,"  continaed  my  relation, 
*^  having  had  a  tolerably  good  ednca- 
tion,  he  can  read  to  yoor  lordship,  or 
write  nnder  yonr  dictation." 

'^  I  shall  be  obliged  to  him,"  replied 
Lord  Kjsington,  breaking  silence  at 
last,  and  then  closing  his  eyes,  either 
from  fati^e,  or  as  a  hint  that  the 
conversation  was  to  drop.  I  glanced 
around  me.  Near  the  window  sat  a 
lady,  very  elegantly  dressed,  who  con- 
tinned  her  embroidery  without  once 
raising  her  eyes,  as  if  we  were  not 
worthy  her  notice.  Upon  the  carpet 
at  her  feet  a  little  boy  amused  him- 
self with  toys.  The  lady,  although 
young,  did  not  at  first  strike  me  as 
pretty — because  she  had  black  hair 
and  eyes ;  and  to  be  pretty,  according 
to  my  notion,  was  to  be  fair,  like  Eva 
Meredith ;  and  moreover,  in  my  inex- 
perience, I  held  beauty  impossible 
without  a  certain  air  of  goodness.  It 
was  long  before  I  could  admit  the 
beauty  of  this  woman,  whose  brow 
was  haughty,  her  look  disdainful, 
and  her  mouth  unsmiling.  Like 
Lord  Kysington,  she  was  tall,  thin, 
rather  pale.  In  character  they  were 
too  much  alike  to  suit  each  other  well. 
Formal  and  taciturn,  thev  lived  to- 
gether without  affection,  almost  with- 
out converse.  The  child,  too,  had  been 
taught  silence ;  he  walked  on  tiptoe, 
and  at  the  least  noise  a  severe  look 
from  his  mother  or  from  Lord  Kysing- 
ton changed  him  into  a  statue. 

It  was  too  late  to  return  to  my  vil- 
lage ;  but  it  is  never  too  late  to  regret 
what  one  has  loved  and  lost.  My 
heart  ached  when  I  Uiought  of  my 
cottage,  mv  valley,  my  liberty. 

What  I  learned  concerning  the 
cheerless  familv  I  had  entered  was  as 
follows:— Lord  James  Kysington  had 
come  to  Montpellier  for  his  health, 
deteriorated  by  the  climate  of  India. 
Second  son  of  the  Duke  of  Kysington, 
and  a  lord  only  by  courtesy,  he  owed 
to  talent  and  not  to  inheritance  his 
fortune  and  his  political  position  in 
the  House  of  Commons.  Lady  Mary 
was  the  wife  of  his  youngest  brother; 
and  Lord  James,  free  to  dispose  of 
his  fortune,  had  named  her  son  his 
heir. 

Towards  me  his  lordship  was  most 
punctiliously  polite.  A  bow  thanked 
me  for  every  service  I  rendered  him. 
I  read  aloud  for  hours  together,  un- 


intermpted  either  by  the  sombre  old 
man,  whom  I  pat  to  sleep,  or  by  the 
young  woman,  who  did  not  listai  to 
me,  or  bv  the  child,  who  trembled  in 
his  unde^s  presence.  I  had  never  led 
80  melancholy  a  life,  and  yet,  as  yon 
know,  ladies,  the  little  white  cottage 
had  long  ceased  to  be  gay ;  bat  the 
silence  of  misfortune  implies  such 
grave  reflections,  that  worlds  are  in- 
sufficient to  express  them.  One  feels 
the  life  of  the  soal  under  the  stiUneas 
of  the  body.  In  my  new  abode  it 
was  the  silence  of  a  void. 

One  day  that  Lord  James  doaed 
and  Lady  Mary  was  engrossed  with 
embroidery,  little  Harry  climbed  upon 
my  knee,  as  I  sat  apart  at  the  £uther 
end  of  the  room,  and  began  to  qnes- 
tion  me  with  the  artless  cariosity  of 
his  age.  In  my  tnm,  and  without 
reflecting  on  what  I  said,  I  questioned 
him  concerning  his  family. 

^*Have  you  any  brothers  or  sis- 
ters?" I  inqmred. 
"  I  have  a  very  pretty  little  sister." 
*^What  is  her  name,"   asked  I, 
absently,  glancing  at  the  newspaper 
in  my  hand. 

"  She  has  a  beaatlM  name.  Guess 
it.  Doctor." 

I  know  not  what  I  was  thinking 
about.  In  my  village  I  had  heard 
none  but  the  names  of  peasants, 
hardly  applicable  to  Lady  Mary's 
daughter.  Mrs  Meredith  was  the  only 
lady  I  had  known,  and  the  child  re- 
peating, ^^ Guess,  guess!"  I  replied 
at  random, 
"Eva,  perhaps?" 
We  were  speaking  very  low;  but 
when  the  name  of  Eva  escaped  my 
lips.  Lord  James  opened  his  eyes 
quickly,  and  nused  himself  in  his 
diair,  Lady  Mary  dropped  her  needle 
and  turned  sharply  towards  me.  I 
was  confoanded  at  the  effect  I  had 
prodnced;  I  looked  alternately  at 
Lord  James  and  at  Lady  Mary,  with- 
out daring  to  utter  another  word. 
Some  minutes  passed:  Lord  James 
affain  let  his  head  fall  back  and  closed 
his  eyes.  Lady  Mary  resumed  her 
needle,  Harnr  and  I  ceased  our  con- 
versation. I  reflected  for  some  time 
upon  this  strange  incident,  until  at 
last,  all  around  me  having  sunk  into 
the  nsaal  monotonons  calm,  I  rose  to 
leave  the  room.  Lady  Maxy  pushed 
away  her  embroidery  frame,  passed 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Madame  (TArbouville's  "  VtVage  Doctor,'^  557 


1849.] 

before  me,  and  made  me  si^  to  fol- 
low. When  we  were  both  m  another 
room  she  shut  the  door,  and  raising 
her  head,  with  the  imperious  air  which 
was  the  most  habitnal  expression  of 
her  featnres:  *'Dr  Bamaby,"  said 
she,  ^'be  so  good  as  never  again  to 
prononnce  the  name  that  just  now 
escaped  yoor  Ups.  It  is  a  nanie  Lord 
James  Kysmgton  most  not  hear.'*  She 
bowed  slighUy,  and  re-entered  her 
brother-in-law's  apartment. 

Thoughts  innnmerable  crowded  up- 
on my  mind.  This  Eva,  whose  name 
was  not  to  be  spoken,  could  it  be 
Eva  Meredith  ?  Was  she  Lord  Eys- 
ington's  daughter-in-law  ?  Was  I  in 
the  house  of  William's  father?  I 
hoped,  but  still  I  doubted ;  for,  after 
aD,  if  there  was  but  one  Eva  in  the 
world  for  me,  in  England  the  name 
was,  doubtless,  by  no  means  uncom- 
mon. But  the  thought  that  I  was 
perhaps  with  the  family  of  Eva  Mere- 
dith, living  with  the  woman  who 
robbed  the  widow  and  the  orphan  of 
their  inheritance,  this  thought  was 
present  to  me  by  day  and  by  night. 
In  my  dreams  I  behdd  the  return  of 
Eva  and  her  son  to  the  paternal  resi- 
dence, in  consequence  of  the  pardon 
I  had  implored  and  obtained  for  them. 
But  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  the  cold 
impassible  physiognomy  of  Lord 
Kysington  froze  all  the  hopes  of  my 
heart.  I  applied  myself  to  the  exa- 
mination of  that  countenance  as  if  I 
bad  never  before  seen  it ;  I  analysed 
its  features  and  lines  to  find  a  trace 
of  sensibility.  I  sought  the  heart  I 
so  gladly  would  have  touched.  Alas! 
I  found  it  not.  But  I  had  so  good  a 
cause  that  I  was  not  to  be  discou- 
raged. **  Pshaw  I"  I  said  to  myself, 
^^  what  matters,  the  expression  of  the 
face?  why  heed  the  external  enve- 
lope? May  not  the  darkest  coffer 
contain  bright  gold  ?  Must  all  that  is 
within  us  reveal  itself  at  a  glance? 
Does  not  every  mui  of  the  world 
loam  to  separate  his  mind  and  his 
thoughts  from  the  habitual  expression 
of  his  countenance  ?  " 

I  resolved  to  clear  up  my  doubts, 
but  how  to  do  80  was  the  difficulty. 
Impossible  to  question  Lady  Mary 
or  Lord  James;  the  servants  were 
French,  and  had  but  lately  come  to 
the  house.  An  English  valet-de- 
chambre  had  just  been  despatched  to 

VOL.  LXV. — NO.  CCCOIII. 


London  on  a  confidential  mission.  I 
directed  my  investigations  to  Lord 
James  Kysington.  The  severe  ex- 
pression of  his  countenance  ceased  to 
intimidate  me.  I  said  to  myself: — 
*'  When  the  forester  meets  with  a 
tree  apparently  dead,  he  strikes  his 
axe  into  the  trunk  to  see  whether  sap 
does  not  stiU  survive  beneath  the 
withered  bark ;  in  like  manner  will  I 
strike  at  the  heart,  and  see  whether 
life  be  not  somewhere  hidden."  And 
I  only  waited  an  opportunity. 

To  await  an  opportunity  with  im- 
patience is  to  accelerate  its  coming. 
1  nstead  of  depending  on  circumstances 
we  subjugate  them.  One  night  Lord 
James  sent  for  me.  He  was  in  pain. 
After  administering  the  necessary 
remedies,  I  remained  by  his  bedside, 
to  watch  their  effect.  The  room  was 
dark;  a  single  wax  candle  showed 
the  outline  of  objects,  without  illu- 
minating them.  The  pale  and  noble 
head  of  Lord  James  was  thrown  back 
upon  his  pillow.  His  eyes  were  shut, 
according  to  his  custom  when  suffer- 
ing, as  if  he  concentrated  his  moral 
energies  within  him.  He  never  com- 
plained, but  lay  stretched  out  in  his 
bed^  straight  and  motionless  as  a 
king's  statue  upon  a  mai'ble  tomb. 
In  general  he  got  somebody  to  read 
to  him,  hoping  either  to  distract  his 
thoughts  from  his  pains,  or  to  be 
lulled  to  sleep  by  the  monotonous 
sound. 

Upon  that  night  he  made  sign  to 
me  with  his  meagre  hand  to  take  a 
book  and  read,  but  I  sought  one  in 
vain ;  books  and  newspapers  had  aU 
been  removed  to  the  drawing-room ; 
the  doors  were  locked,  and  unless  I 
rang  and  aroused  the  house,  a  book 
was  not  to  be  had.  Lord  James  made 
a  gestm*e  of  impatience,  then  one  of 
resignation,  and  beckoned  me  to  re- 
sume my  seat  by  his  side.  We  re- 
mained for  some  time  without  speak- 
ing, almost  in  darkness,  the  silence 
broken  only  by  the  ticking  of  the 
clock.  Sleep  came  not.  Suddenly 
Lord  James  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Speak  to  me,"  he  said.  "  Tell  me 
something ;  whatever  you  like." 

His  eyes  closed,  and  he  waited. 
My  heart  beat  violently.  The  mo- 
ment had  come. 

"  My  lord,"  said  I,  **  I  greatly  fear 
I  know  nothing  that  will  interest  your 
2n 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


558 


Madame  ctArbouvOU^s  *'  VtOage  Doetar: 


[May, 


lordship.  I  can  speak  bat  of  mjself, 
of  the  events  of  my  life, — and  the  his- 
tory of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth 
were  necessary  to  fix  yoor  attention. 
What  can  a  peasant  hare  to  say,  who 
has  lived  contented  with  little,  in 
obscority  and  repose?  I  have  scarcely 
quitted  my  village,  my  lord.  It  is  a 
pretty  monntain  hamlet,  where  even 
those  not  bom  there  might  well  be 
pleased  to  dwelL  Near  it  is  a  conn- 
try  house,  which  I  have  known  in- 
habited by  rich  people,  who  conld 
have  left  it  if  they  liked,  bat  who 
remained,  becanse  the  woods  were 
thick,  the  paths  bordered  with  flow- 
ers, the  streams  bright  and  rapid  in 
their  rodky  beds.  Alas!  they  were 
two  in  that  honse — and  soon  a  poor 
woman  was  there  akme,  nntil  the 
turth  of  her  son.  My  lord,  she  is  a 
countrywoman  of  yours,  an  English- 
woman, of  beauty  such  as  is  sddom 
seen  either  in  England  or  in  France ; 
good  as,  beiudes  her,  only  the  angds 
in  heaven  can  be  I  She  had  just  com- 
pleted her  eighte^th  year  when  I 
left  her,  fatheriess,  motherless,  and 
ahready  widowed  of  an  adored  hus- 
band ;  she  is  feeble,  delicate,  almost 
ill,  and  yet  she  must  live; — ^who 
would  protect  that  little  diild  ?  Oh ! 
my  lord,  there  are  very  unhi^py  be- 
ings in  this  world  1  To  be  unhappy 
in  middle  life  «r  old  age,  is  doubUess 
sad,  but  still  you  have  pleasant  me- 
mories of  the  past  to  remind  you  that 
you  have  haa  your  day,  your  share, 
your  happiness;  but  to  weep  before 
you  are  eighteen  is  fkr  sadder,  fbr 
nothhig  can  bring  back  the  dead,  and 
the  fhture  is  dim  with  tears.  Poor 
creature!  We  see  a  beggar  by  the 
roadside  suffering  &om  cold  and  hun- 
ger, and  we  give  him  alms,  and  look 
upon  him  without  pain,  because  it  is 
in  our  power  to  relieve  him ;  but  this 
unhappy,  broken-hearted  woman,  the 
only  relief  to  give  her  would  be  to 
love  her — and  none  are  there  to  be- 
stow that  afans  upon  her  I 

"  Ah !  my  lord,  if  you  knew  what  a 
fine  young  man  her  husband  was  I — 
hardly  three-and- twenty ;  a  noble 
countenance,  a  k»f^  brow— like  your 
own,  intelUgent  and  proud ;  dark  blue 
eyes,  rather  pensive,  rather  sad.  X 
knew  why  they  were  sad.  He  loved 
bis  father  and  his  native  land,  and  he 
was  doomed  to  exile  firom  both  ! 


And  how  good  and  gracefhl  waa 
his  smile  !  Ah  !  how  he  would 
have  smiled  at  his  little  child,  had  be 
lived  long  enou^  to  see  it  He  loved 
it  even  before  it  was  bom :  he  took 
jdeasi^re  in  looking  at  the  cradle  tiiat 
awaited  it.  Poor,  poor  young  man  I 
— ^I  saw  him  on  a  stormy  night,  in  the 
dark  forest,  stretched  upon  the  wet 
earth,  motionless,  lifeless,  his  gar- 
ments covered  with  mud,  his  temple 
shattered,  Mood  escaping  in  torrents 
from  his  wound.  I  saw — alasl  I  saw 
William—" 

^^  Tou  saw  my  son^s  death !"  cried 
Lord  James,  raising  himself  like  a 
i^>ectre  in  the  midst  of  his  pillows, 
and  fixing  me  with  eyes  so  distended 
and  piercing,  that  I  started  back 
alarmed.  But  notwithstanding  tbe 
darkness,  I  thought  I  saw  a  tear 
moisten  the  eld  man's  eyelids. 

"  My  lord,"  I  replied,  "  I  was  pre- 
sent at  your  son's  death,  and  at  the 
birth  of  his  child  I" 

There  was  an  instant's  sOence. 
Lord  James  looked  steadfhstly  at  me. 
At  last  he  made  a  movement;  his 
trembling  hand  sought  mine,  pressed 
it,  then  his  fingers  relaxed  their  grasp, 
and  he  fell  back  upon  the  bed. 

*'  Enough,  sir,  enough :  I  sufitnr,  I 
need  repose.    Leave  me." 

I  bowed,  and  retired. 

Before  I  was  out  of  the  room,  Lord 
James  had  relapsed  into  his  habitual 
position ;  into  dlence  and  immobiUt^. 

I  will  not  detail  to  you  my  numer- 
ous and  respectful  representations  to 
Lord  James  Kysington,  his  inde- 
cision and  secret  anxiety,  and  how 
at  last  his  paternal  love,  awakened 
by  the  details  of  the  horrible  catas- 
trophe, his  pride  of  race,  revived  by 
the  hope  of  leaving  an  heir  to  his 
name,  triumphed  over  his  bitter  re- 
sentment. Three  months  after  the 
scene  I  have  described,  I  awaited,  on 
the  threshold  of  the  house  at  Mont- 
pellier,  the  arrival  of  Eva  Meredith 
and  her  son,  summoned  to  their  family 
and  to  the  resumption  of  all  their 
rights.  It  was  a  proud  and  happy  day 
forme. 

Lady  Mary,  perf^  mistress  of  her- 
self, had  concealed  her  joy  when 
fuirily  dissensions  had  made  her  son 
heir  to  her  wealthy  brother.  Still 
better  did  she  conceal  her  regret  and 
anger  when  Eva  Mendilh,  or  rather 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


MadamB  (PArbimmUe's  '^  VWage  Doctor.'' 


669- 


Era  Kjsinffton,  was  reoondled  with 
bar  fatiier-m-law.  Not  a  dead  ap- 
peared upon  Lady  Mary's  marble  fore- 
head. But  beneath  this  external  calm 
how  many  eWl  passions  tomentedt 
When  the  caniage  of  Eva  Meredith 

2  will  still  give  her  that  name)  entered 
e  conrt-yard  <^  the  honse,  I  was 
there  to  receive  her.  Eva  held  oat 
her  hand  — ^^  Thanks,  thanks,  my 
ftiendl*'  she  mnrmnred.  She  wiped 
the  tears  that  trembled  in  her  eyes, 
and  taking  her  boy,  now  throe  years 
old,  and  of  great  beauty,  l^  the  hand, 
she  entered  her  new  abode.  **I  am 
afraid  I'*  she  said.  She  was^  stili  the 
weak  woman,  broken  by  afiUction, 
pale,  sad,  and  beantiiU,  incrednlons 
of  earthly  hopes,  bat  firm  in  heavenly 
fifttth.  I  walked  by  her  side ;  and  as 
she  ascended  the  steps,  her  gentle 
eonntenance  bedewed  with  tearL  her 
slender  and  feeble  form  inclined  to- 
wards the  balustrade,  her  extended 
arm  assisting  the  child,  who  walked 
still  more  slowly  than  herself  Lady 
Mary  and  her  son  appeared  at  the 
door.  Lad  V  Miuy  wore  a  brown  vel- 
vet dress,  rich  bracelets  encircled  her . 
arms,  a  slender  gold  chafai  bound  her 
brow,  which  in  truth  was  <^  those  on 
which  a  diadem  sits  welL  She  ad- 
vanced with  an  assured  step,  her  head 
lilgh,  her  glance  full  oi  pnde.  Such 
was  the  first  meeting  of  the  two 
mothers. 

^*  You  are  welcome,  madam,"  said 
Lady  Maiy,  bowing  to  Eva  Meredith. 

Eva  tried  to  smile,  and  answered  by 
a  few  affectionate  words.  How  could 
she  forbode  hatred,  she  idio  only 
knew  love  ?  We  proceeded  to  Lord 
James^sroom.  Mrs  Meredith,  scarcely 
able  to  support  herself,  entered  first, 
took  a  few  steps,  and  knelt  beside  her 
father-in-law's  arm-diair.  Taking  her 
ehUd  in  her  arms,  she  placed  him  on 
LcMrd  James  Eysington's  knee. 

'*His  sonl'^  she  said.  Then  the 
poor  woman  wept  and  was  silent. 

Lonff  did  Lord  James  gaie  upon 
the  child.  As  he  gradually  rec<M;nised 
the  features  of  the  son  he  had  lost, 
his  eyes  became  moist,  and  their  ex- 
prefldon  afllsctionate.  There  came' a 
moment  when,  forgetting  his  age, 
lapse  of  time,  and  past  misfortune, 
he  dreamed  himsdf  baok  to  the  hamy 
day  when  he  first  pressed  his  jaflmt 
aon  to  his  heart.  ^wmiam,^nDiamr' 


he  murmured.  ^  My  daughter  i" 
added  he,  extending  his  hand  to  Eva 
Meredith* 

My  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Eva 
had  a  fiunOy,  a  protector,  a  fortune.  I 
was  happy ;  perhaps  that  was  why  I 
wept. 

The  child  remained  quiet  upon  his 
grandfiither's  knees,  and  showed 
neither  pleasure  nor  fear. 

''Wm  you  love  me?"  said  the  old 
man. 

The  chOd  raised  its  head,  but  did 
not  answer. 

"Do  you  hear?  I  wHl  be  your 
&ther.*' 

"I  will  be  your  fkther,"  the  chOd 
gently  repeated. 

"  Excuse  him,"  saidhismother;  <*he 
has  always  be^  alone.    He  is  very 

S^ung;  the  presence  of  many  persons 
timidates  him.  By-and-by,  my 
lord,  he  will  better  understand  your 
kind  words." 

But  I  k)oked  at  the  child ;  I  exa- 
mined him  in  silence ;  I  recalled  my 
former  gloomy  ai^lirehensions.  Alas! 
tiiose  apprehensions  now  became  a  cer- 
tainty ;  the  terrible  shock  experienced 
by  Eva  Meredith  during  her  preg- 
nancy had  had  fatal  consequences  for 
her  child,  and  a  mother  only,  in  her 
youth,  her  love,  and  her  inexperience, 
could  have  remained  so  long  ignorant 
<^  her  misfortune. 

At  the  same  time  with  myself 
Lady  Mary  looked  at  the  child.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  expression  of 
her  countenance.  She  stood  erect, 
and  the  piercing  gaze  she  fixed  upon 
littie  William  seemed  to  read  his  very 
soul.  As  she  gaaed,  her  eyes 
sparkled,  her  mouth  was  half-opened 
as  by  a  smile-* she  breathed  short 
and  thick,  like  one  oppressed  by 
great  and  sudden  Joy.  She  lookedf, 
K)oked— 4iope,  doubt,  expectation,  re- 
placed each  other  on  her  foce.  At 
last  her  hatred  was  dear-sighted,  an 
internal  cry  of  triumph  burst  from 
her  heart,  but  was  checked  ere  it 
reached  her  lips.  She  drew  herself 
up,  let  fall  a  disdainfU  glance  upon 
Im^  her  vanquished  enemy,  and  re- 
sumed her  usual  calm. 

Lord  James,  &tigned  by  the  emo- 
UxmB  of  the  day,  disndssed  us  and 
remained  alone  all  the  evening. 

Upon  tiie  monow,  after  an  agitated 
night,  when  I  entoced  Lord  James's 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


560 


Madame  cPArboumUe's  ''  ViSage  Doctor:'  [Majr 

ayoid  answermg.     On  the  morning 


room,  all  the  family  were  already 
assembled  aronnd  him,  and  Lady  Mary 
had  little  William  on  her  knees:  it 
was  the  tiger  clutching  its  prey. 

"  What  a  beantiM  child  I"*  she  said. 
*'See,  my  lord,  these  fair  and  silken 
locks!  how  brilliant  they  are  in  the 
sunshine !  But,  dear  Eya,  is  your  son 
always  so  silent  ?  does  he  never  exhi- 
bit the  yivacity  and  gaiety  of  his  age?" 

"He  is  always  sad,"  replied  Mrs 
Meredith.  "  Alas !  with  me  he  could 
hardly  leam  to  laugh." 

"  We  will  try  to  amuse  and  cheer 
him,"  said  Lady  Mary.  *'  Come,  my 
dear  child,  kiss  your  grandfather! 
hold  out  your  arms,  and  tell  him  you 
love  him." 

William  did  not  stir. 

"  Do  you  not  know  how  ?  Harry, 
my  love,  kiss  your  uncle,  and  set 
your  cousin  a  good  example." 

Harry  jum;^  upon  Lord  Jameses 
knees,  threw  both  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  said,  "  I  love  you,  uncle !" 

"Now  it  is  your  turn,  my  dear 
William,"  said  Lady  Maiy. 

William  stirred  not,  and  did  not 
even  look  at  his  grandfather. 

A  tear  coursed  down  Eva  Meredith's 
cheek. 

"  '1^  my  fault,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
brought  up  my  child  badly."  And, 
taking  William  upon  her  lap,  her 
tears  fell  upon  his  face :  he  felt  them 
not,  but  slumbered  upon  his  mother's 
heavy  heart. 

"  Try  to  make  William  less  shy," 
said  Lord  James  to  his  daughter-in- 
law. 

"  I  will  try,"  replied  Eva,  in  her 
submissive  tones,  Uke  those  of  an 
obedient  child.  "  I  will  try ;  and  per- 
haps I  shall  succeed,  if  Lady  Mary 
will  kindly  tell  me  how  she  rendered 
her  son  so  happy  and  so  gay."  Then 
the*  disconsolate  mother  looked  at 
Harry,  who  was  at  play  near  his 
nude's  chair,  and  her  eyes  reverted 
to  her  poor  sleeping  child.  "  He  suf- 
fered even  before  his  birth,"  she  mur- 
mured ;  "  we  have  both  been  very 
unhappy !  but  I  will  try  to  weep  no 
more,  that  William  may  be  cheerfhl 
like  other  children." 

Two  days  elapsed,  two  painfhl  days, 
full  of  secret  trouble  and  ill-conceued 
uneasiness.  Lord  James's  brow  was 
care-laden;  at  times  his  look  ques- 
lioned  me.     I  averted  my  eyes  to 


of  the  third  day,  Lady  Mary  came 
into  the  room  with  a  number  of  play- 
things for  the  children.  Harry  seized 
a  sword,  and  ran  about  the  room^ 
shouting  for  joy.  William  remained 
motionless,  holding  in  his  little  hand 
the  toys  that  were  given  to  him,  but 
not  attempting  to  use  them ;  he  did 
not  even  look  at  them. 

"  Here,  my  lord,"  said  Lady  Mary 
to  her  brother,  "give  this  book  to 
your  grandson ;  perhaps  his  attention 
will  be  roused  by  the  pictures  it  oon- 
tams."  And  she  led  William  to  Lord 
James.  The  child  was  passive;  he 
walked,  stopped,  and  remained  like  a 
statue  where  he  was  placed.  Lord 
James  opened  the  book.  All  eyes 
turned  towards  the  group  formed  by 
the  old  man  and  his  grandson.  Loid 
James  was  gloomy,  silent,  severe; 
he  slowly  turned  several  pages,  stop- 
pine  at  every  picture,  and  looking  at 
William,  whose  vacant  ^e  was  not 
directed  to  the  book.  Lord  Jamea 
turned  a  few  more  pages;  then  his 
hand  ceased  to  move ;  the  book  fell 
from  his  knees  to  the  ground,  and  an 
irksome  silence  reigned  in  the  apart- 
ment. Lady  Mary  approached  me, 
bent  forward  as  if  to  whisper  in  my 
ear,  and  in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  by  all — 

"The  child  is  an  idiot,  doctor!'* 
she  said. 

A  shriek  answered  her.  Eva  started 
up  as  if  she  had  received  a  blow ;  and 
seizing  her  son,  whom  she  pressed 
convulBively  to  her  breast — 

"  Idiot !"  she  exclaimed,  her  indig- 
nant glance  flashing,  for  the  first  time, 
with  a  vivid  brilliance ;  "  idiot  I"  she 
repeated,  "  because  he  has  been  un- 
happy all  his  life,  because  he  has  se^ 
but  tears  since  his  eyes  first  opened ! 
because  he  knows  not  how  to  play 
like  your  son,  who  has  always  had 
joy  around  him!  Ah!  madam,  you 
insult  misfortune  I  Come,  iny  child !" 
cried  Eva,  all  in  tears.  "  Come,  let 
us  leave  these  pitiless  hearts,  that 
find  none  but  cruel  words  to  console 
our  misery!" 

And  the  unhappy  mother  carried  off 
her  boy  to  her  apartment.  I  followed. 
She  set  William  down,  and  knelt 
before  the  littie  child.  "My  son! 
my  son !"  she  cried. 

William  went  close  to  her,  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Madame  (TArbawniUU  «<  ViOage  Doctor:' 


561 


rested    his    head   on   his   mother^s 
shoulder. 

"Doctor!"  cried  Eva,  "he  loves 
me — ^yoQ  see  he  does  I  He  comes  when 
I  call  him ;  he  kisses  me  I  His  caresses 
have  sufficed  for  my  tranqoiUity — ^for 
my  sad  happiness !  My  Grod  I  was  it 
not  then  enough  ?  Speak  to  me,  my 
son,  reassure  me !  Find  a  consoling 
word,  a  single  word  for  your  despair- 
ing mother  I  HU  now  I  have  asked 
nothing  of  you  but  to  remind  me  of 
your  father,  and  leave  me  silence  to 
weep.  To-dav,  William,  you  must 
give  me  words  I  See  yon  not  my 
tears — my  terror?  Dear  child,  so 
beautiful,  so  like  your  father,  speak, 
speak  to  me !" 

Alas  !  alas  1  the  child  remained  mo- 
tionless, without  sign  of  fear  or  intel- 
ligence; a  smile  only,  a  smile  horrible 
to  bdiold,  flitted  across  his  features. 
Eva  hid  her  face  in  both  hands,  and 
remained  kneeling  upon  the  ground. 
For  a  long  time  no  noise  was  heard 
save  the -sound  of  her  sobs.  Then  I 
prayed  heaven  to  inspire  me  with  con- 
soling thoughts,  such  as  might  give  a 
ray  of  hope  to  this  poor  mother.  I 
spoke  of  the  future,  of  expected  cure, 
of  change  possible— even  probable. 
But  hope  is  no  friend  to  falsehood. 
Where  she  does  not  exist  her  phan- 
tom cannot  penetrate.  A  terrible 
blow,  a  mortal  one,  had  been  struck, 
and  Eva  Meredith  saw  all  the 
truth. 

From  that  day  forwards,  only  one 
child  was  to  be  seen  each  morning  in 
Lord  James  Kysington^s  room.  Two 
women  came  thither,  but  only  one  of 
them  seemed  to  live— the  other  was 
silent  as  the  tomb.  One  said,  "  My 
son  I"  the  other  never  spoke  of  her 
child ;  one  carried  her  head  high,  the 
other  bowed  hers  upon  her  breast,  the 
better  to  hide  her  tears;  one  was 
blooming  and  brilliant,  the  other  pale 


day.  Lord  James,  smitten  in  his 
dearest  hopes,  had  resumed  the  cold 
impassibility  which  I  now  saw  formed 
the  foundation  of  his  character.  Strict- 
ly courteous  to  his  daughter-in-law, 
he  had  no  word  of  affection  for  her : 
only  as  the  mother  of  his  grandson, 
could  the  daughter  of  the  American 

Elanter  find  a  place  in  his  heart.  And 
e  considered  the  child  as  no  longer 
in  existence.  Lord  James  KysingU>n 
was  more  gloomy  and  taciturn  than 
ever,  regretting,  perhaps,  to  have 
yielded  to  my  importunities,  and  to 
have  ruffled  his  old  age  by  a  painful 
and  profitless  emotion. 

A  year  elapsed;  then  a  sad  day 
came,  when  Lord  James  sent  for  Eva 
Meredith,  and  signed  to  her  to  be 
seated  b^de  his  arm-chair. 

"  Listen  to  me,  madam,"  he  said, 
"  listen  with  courage.  I  wiil  act 
frankly  with  you,  and  conceal  nothing. 
I  am  old  and  iU,  and  must  arrange  my 
affairs.  The  taak  is  painful  both  for 
you  and  for  me.  I  will  not  refer  to  my 
anger  at  my  son's  marriage;  your 
misfortune  disarmed  me — I  called  you 
to  my  side,  and  I  desired  to  behold 
and  to  love  in  your  son  William,  the 
heir  of  my  fortune,  the  pivot  of  my 
dreams  of  future  ambition.  Alas  I 
madam,  fate  was  cruel  to  us  I  My 
son's  widow  and  orphan  shall  have 
all  that  can  insure  them  an  honour- 
able existence  ;  but,  sole  master  of  a 
fortune  due  to  my  own  exertions,  I 
adopt  my  nephew,  and  look  upon 
him  henceforward  as  my  sole  heir. 
I  am  about  to  return  to  London, 
whither  my  affairs  call  me.  Come  with 
me,  madam— -my  house  is  yours — ^I 
shall  be  happy  to  see  you  there." 

Eva  (she  afterwards  told  me  so) 
felt,  for  the  first  time,  her  despondency 
replaced  by  courage.  She  had  the 
strength  that  is  given  by  a  noble 
pride :  she  raised  her  head,  and  if  her 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


562 


Madame  ^ArbamMt  *^  ViOage  Dottory 


DSmr^ 


Ing  day.  What  I  would  be  certain  to 
do  I  mast  do  at  cmce  and  without 
delay." 

**  Act  as  yon  think  proper,"  replied 
Era.  **I  return  to  the  dwelling 
where  I  was  happy  with  my  hnsband. 
I  retnm  thither  with  your  grandson, 
William  Kysington;  of  that  name,  his 
sole  inheritance,  yon  cannot  deprive 
him  ;  and  though  the  worid  should 
know  it  but  by  reading  it  on  his  tomb, 
your  name,  my  lord,  is  the  name  of 
my  son  I" 

A  week  later.  Era  Meredith  de- 
scended the  stairs  of  the  hotel,  holding 
her  son  by  the  hand,  as  she  had  d<me 
when  she  entered  this  fiatal  house. 
Lady  Mary  was  a  little  behind  her,  a 
few  steps  higher  np :  the  numerous 
servants,  sad  and  silent,  beheld  witJi 
regret  the  departure  of  the  gentle 
creature  thus  driyen  from  the  paternal 
roof.  When  she  quitted  this  abode, 
Eva  quitted  the  only  beings  die  knew 
upon  the  earth,  the  only  persons 
whose  pity  she  had  a  right  to  olaim — 
the  worid  was  before  her,  an  immense 
wildemees.  It  was  Hagar  going  forth 
into  the  desert 

**  This  Is  horrible,  doctor  I"  cried  Dr 
Bamaby's  audience.  **  Is  it  possible 
there  are  persons  so  utterly  unhappy? 
What!  youwitnessedallthisyoursdf?'* 

**  I  have  not  yet  told  you  all,"  re- 
plied the  village  doctor ;  ^*  let  me  get 
to  the  end." 

Shortly  after  Eva  Meredith's  depar- 
ture. Lord  James  went  to  London. 
Once  more  my  own  master,  I  gave  im 
all  idea  of  farther  study ;  I  had  enough 
leaning  for  my  village,  and  in 
haste  I  returned  thither.  Once  m<Mne 
I  sat  oi^[K>8ite  to  Eva  in  the  little 
white  house,  as  I  had  done  two  years 
befbre.  But  how  greatly  had  inter- 
vening events  incroMed  her  misfi^r- 
tune !  We  no  longer  dared  talk  of 
the  future,  that  unknown  moment  of 
which  we  all  have  so  great  need,  and 
without  which  our  present  joys  appear 
too  feeble,  and  our  misfortunes  too 
great. 

Never  did  I  witness  grief  nobler  in 
its  simplicily,  caLner  in  its  intensity, 
than  that  of  Eva  Meredith.  She  for- 
got not  to  pray  to  the  God  who  chas- 
tened her.  For  her,  God  was  the  being 
.in  whose  hands  are  the  springs  of 
hope,  when  earthly  hopes  are  exunct. 
Her  look  of  faith  remained  fixed  upon 


her  diild's  brow,  as  if  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  soul  her  prayers  invoked. 
I  cannot  describe  the  courageous  pa- 
tience <^  that  mother  speakhig  to  her 
son,  iriio  listened  without  understaod- 
ing.  I  cannot  tell  you  allthetre*- 
sures  of  love,  of  thought,  ofingemooa 
narrative  she  displayed  before  that 
torpid  intelligence,  which  repeated* 
like  an  edio,  the  last  of  her  gentle 
words.  She  explained  to  him  h^ven, 
God,  the  angels ;  she  endeavoured  to 
make  him  pray,  and  joined  his  handSi 
but  i^e  could  not  make  him  raise  htt 

r  to  heaven.  In  all  possible  shapes 
tried  to  give  him  the  first  lessooa 
<^  childhood;  she  read  to  him,  qxto 
to  him,  placed  pictures  before  his  eyea 
— hadreoourse  to  music  as  a  substitute 
for  words.  One  day,  making  a  terrible 
effort,  she  told  William  the  story  of  his 
father's  death ;  she  hoped,  expected  a 
tear.  The  diild  fell  asleep  whilst  yet 
she  i^K^e :  tears  were  shed,  but  th^ 
fell  from  the  eyes  of  Eva  Meredith. 

Thus  did  she  exhaust  herself  by  vaiD 
efforts,  .by  a  persevering  stiugs^a. 
That  she  might  not  cease  to  hope,  she 
continued  to  toil;  but  to  William's 
eyes  pictures  were  merely  colours ;  to 
his  ears  words  were  but  noise.  The 
child,  however,  grew  in  stature  and 
in  beauty.  One  who  had  seen  hhn 
but  for  an  instant  would  have  taken 
the  immobility  of  his  countenance  for 
placidity.  But  that  prolonged  and 
continued  calm,  that  absence  of  aU 
grief,  of  all  tears,  had  a  strange  and 
sad  effect  upon  us.  Suffering  must 
indeed  be  inherent  in  our  nature,  stnce 
William's  eternal  smUe  made  every 
one  say,  "  The  poor  idiot !"  Mothers 
know  not  the  happiness  concealed  in 
the  tears  of  their  child.  A  tear  is 
a  regret,  a  desbe,  a  fear ;  it  is  life.  In 
short,  which  begins  to  be  understood. 
Alas  I  William  was  content  with 
everything.  All  day  long  he  seemed 
to  sleep  with  his  eyee  open ;  angert 
weariness,  impatience,  were  alike  un- 
known to  him.  He  had  but  one  in- 
stinct :  ho  knew  his  mother — ^he  even 
loved  her.  He  took  pleasure  in  rest- 
ing on  her  knees,  on  her  shoulder; 
he  kissed  her.  .When  I  kept  him  long 
away  from  hor,  he  manifi^ted  a  sort 
of  anxiety.  I  took  him  back  to  his 
mother ;  he  showed  no  joy,  but  be  was 
again  tranquiL  This  tenderness,  this 
fUnt  gifanmering  of  William's  heart. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Madame  eTArbomnlU^s  '^  ViOaffe  Doctor.'' 


was  Eym'fl  life.  It  gave  her  strength 
to  striye,  to  hope,  to  wait.  If  her 
words  were  not  uo^ttrstood,  at  least 
her  kisses  were  I  How  oAen  she  took 
her  son^s  head  in  her  hands  and  kissed 
his  forehead,  as  long  and  forentlj  as 
if  she  hoped  her  lore  wonld  warm  and 
▼iyify  his  frozen  sonl  1  How  often  did 
she  dream  a  miracle  whilst  clasping 
her  son  in  her  arms,  and  pressing  his 
still  heart  to  her  bomin^  bosom  1 
Often  die  Imgered  at  night  m  the  vil- 
lage church.  (£ya  Meredith  was  of 
a  Koman  Catholic  family.)  Kneeling 
npon  the  cold  skme  before  the  Virgin's 
altar,  she  invoked  the  marble  statue 
of  Mary,  hoklinff  her  child  in  her 
arms,  "O  virgin r  she  said,  "my  boy 
is  inanimate  as  that  image  of  thy  Sonl 
Ask  of  God  a  sonl  for  my  diild  I" 

She  was  charitable  to  all  the  poor 
children  of  the  village,  gpvhig  them 
bread  and  clothes,  and  saying  to  them, 
"Prav  for  hhn."  She  consoled  af- 
flicted mothers,  in  the  secret  hope  tiiat 
consolation  wonld  come  at  last  to  her. 
She  dried  the  tears  of  othtfs,  to  enj<^ 
the  belief  that  one  day  she  also  wonld 
cease  to  we^  In  all  the  coantry 
roQnd,  she  was  loved,  blessed,  vene- 
rated. She  knew  it,  and  she  offered 
np  to  Heaven,  not  with  pride  bvt  with 
hope,  the  bleosings  of  the  nnf<Mrtnnate 
in  exdiange  for  the  recovery  of  her 
tMBu  She  loved  to  watch  William's 
sleep;  tiien  he  was  handsome  and 
like  other  children.  For  an  instant, 
for  a  second  perhaps,  she  forgot ;  and 
whilst  contemplating  tiiose  rc^ar 
features,  those  golden  locks,  those  long 
lashes  which  threw  their  shadow  on 
his  rose-tinted  dieek,  she  felt  a  mo- 
ther's Joy,  ahnost  a  mother's  pride. 
God  has  moments  of  mercy  even  for 
those  he  has  condemned  to  snfier. 

Thns  passed  the  first  years  of  Wil- 
liam's childhood.  He  attained  the 
age  of  ei^t  years.  Then  a  sad  change, 
which  could  not  escape  my  attentive 
observation,  occurred  in  Eva  Meredith. 
Either  that  her  son's  growth  made  his 
want  of  intelligence  more  striking,  or 
that  she  was  l&e  a  wortunan  who  has 
laboured  all  day,  and  sinks  at  eve 
beneath  the  load  of  toil,  Eva  ceased 
to  hq)e  ;  her  sonl  seemed  to  abandon 
the  task  undertaken,  and  to  recoil 
with  weariness  upon  itoelf,  asking  only 
resignation.  She  laid  aside  the  books, 
engravings,  the  mu^  all  the 


568 

means,  in  short,  that  she  had  called  to 
herald;  she  grew  sUent  and  despond- 
ing ;  only,  if  that  were  possible,  she 
was  mcHre  affectionate  tiian  ever  to  her 
son.  As  she  lost  hope  in  his  cure, 
she  felt  the  more  strongly  that  her 
child  had  bat  her  in  the  worid ;  and 
she  asked  a  miracle  of  her  heart— an 
increase  of  the  love  she  bore  him. 
She  became  her  son's  servant — his 
slave ;  her  whole  thoughts  were  con- 
centrated in  his  wdUMing.  If  she 
felt  cold,  she  sought  a  wanner  covering 
for  William ;  was  she  hungry,  it  was 
for  William  she  gathered  tie  fruits  of 
her  garden ;  did  she  suffer  from  fatigue, 
for  him  she  selected  the  easiest  chair 
and  the  softest  cushions ;  she  attended 
to  her  own  sensations  only  to  guess 
those  of  her  soil  She  still  dis- 
played activity,  thBti^  she  no  longer 
harboured  hope. 

When  William  was  eleven  years 
old,  the  last  phase  of 'Eva  Mere- 
dith's existence  began.  Remark- 
ably tall  and  strong  for  his  age,  he 
ceased  to  need  that  hourly  care  re- 
quured  by  earl^  childhood:  he  was 
no  longer  the  mfent  sleeping  on  his 
mother's  knees ;  he  walked  alone  in 
the  garden;  he  rode  on  horseback 
with  me,  and  accompanied  me  in  my 
distant  visits;  in  sh<Nrt  the  Inrd, 
although  wingless,  left  the  nest.  His 
misfortune  was  in  no  way  shocking  or 
painful  to  behold.  He  was  of  exceed- 
ing beauty,  silent,  unnaturally  cahn — 
his  eyes  expressing  nothing  but  repose, 
his  mouth  ignorant  of  a  smile:  he 
was  not  awkwurd,  or  disagreeable,  or 
importunate :  it  was  a  mind  sleej^g 
beside  yours,  asking  no  question, 
making  no  reply.  The  incessant 
maternal  care  wliich  had  served  to 
occupy  Mrs  Meredith,  and  to  divert 
her  mind  from  dwelling  on  her  s<Mr- 
rows,  became  unnecessary,  and  she 
resumed  her  seat  at  the  window, 
whence  she  beheld  the  village  and 
the  church-steeple— at  that  same 
window  where  she  had  so  long  wept 
her  husband.  Hope  and  occupation 
successively  felled  her,  and  nothing 
was  left  her  but  to  wait  and  watch, 
by  day  and  by  night,  like  the  lamp 
that  ever  bums  beneath  cathedral 
vaults. 

But  her  forces  were  exhausted.  In 
the  midst  of  this  grief  which  had 
returned    to   its   starting-point,   to 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Madame  (TArbotwiUe's  ^^  ViUage  Dodar.'' 


564 

silence  and  immobilitj,  after  having  in 
▼ain  essayed  exertion,  courage,  hope, 
£va  Meredith  fell  into  a  decline.  In 
spite  of  all  the  resonrces  of  my  art,  I 
beheld  her  grow  weak  and  thin.  How 
apply  a  remedy,  when  the  sickness  is 
ofthesonl? 

The  poor  foreigner !  she  needed  her 
nAtive  sun  and  a  little  happiness  to 
warm  her;  bnt  the  ray  or  snn  and 
the  ray  of  joy  were  alike  wantinsr.  It 
was  long  before  she  perceived  her 
danger,  becanse  she  thonght  not  of 
herself;  bnt  when  at  last  she  was 
nnable  to  leave  her  arm-chair,  she 
was  compelled  to  understand.  I  will 
not  describe  to  yon  all  her  angnish  at 
the  thonght  of  leaving  William  with- 
out a  guide,  without  friend  or  pro- 
tector— of  leaving  him  alone  in  the 
midst  of  strangers,  he  who  needed  to 
be  cherished  and  led  by  the  hand  like 
a  child.  Oh,  how  she  struggled  for 
life!  with  what  avidity  she  swallowed 
the  potions  I  prepared!  how  many 
times  she  tried  to  believe  in  a  cure, 
whilst  all  the  time  the  disease  pro- 
gressed! Then  she  kept  William 
more  at  home, — she  could  no  longer 
bear  to  lose  si^ht  of  him. 

^*  Remain  with  me,"  she  said  ;  and 
William,  always  content  near  his 
mother,  seated  himself  at  her  feet. 
She  looked  at  him  long,  until  a  flood 
of  tears  prevented  her  distinguishing 
his  gentle  countenance;  then  she 
drew  him  still  nearer  to  her^  and 
pressed  him  to  her  heart.  "Oh I" 
she  exclaimed,  in  a  kind  of  delirium, 
'^if  my  soul,  on  leaving  my  body, 
might  become  the  soul  of  my  child, 
how  happy  should  I  be  to  die !"  No 
amount  of  suffering  could  make  her 
wholly  despair  of  divine  mercy,  and 
when  all  human  possibility  disap- 
peared, this  loving  heart  had  gentle 
dreams  out  of  which  it  reconstructed 
hopes.  But  how  sad  it  was,  alas  I  to 
see  the  poor  mother  slowly  perishing 
before  the  eyes  of  her  son,  of  a  son 
who  understood  not  death,  and  who 
smiled  when  she  embraced  him. 

"  He  will  not  regret  me,**  she  sud : 
**  he  will  not  weep :  he  will  not  re- 
member.** And  she  remained  motion- 
less, in  mute  contemplation  of  her 
child.  Her  hand  then  sometimes 
sought  mine:  "You  love  him,  dear 
doctor?**  she  murmured. 

"  I  will  never  quit  him,**  replied  I, 


[May, 


"  so  long  as  he  has  no  better  Menda 
than  myself.**  God  in  heaven,  and 
the  poor  village  doctor  upon  earth, 
were  the  two  guardians  to  whom  she 
confided  her  son. 

Faith  is  a  great  thing  I  This  wo- 
man, widoweid,  disinherited,  dying, 
an  idiot  child  at  her  side,  was  yet 
saved  from  that  utter  despair  which 
brings  blasphemy  to  the  lips  of  death. 
An  invisible  fnend  was  near  her,  on 
whom  she  seemed  to  rest,  listening 
sometimes  to  holy  words,  which  she 
alone  could  hear. 

One  morning  she  sent  forme  early. 
She  had  been  nnable  to  get  up. 
With  her  wan,  transparent  hand  she 
showed  me  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which 
a  few  lines  were  written. 

"  Doctor,**  she  said,  in  her  gentlest 
tones,  "  I  have  not  strength  to  con- 
tinue ;  finish  this  letter  1** 

I  read  as  follows : — 

"  My  Lord,— I  write  to  you  for  the 
last  time.  Whilst  health  is  restored 
to  your  old  age,  I  suffer  and  am  about 
to  die.  I  leave  your  grandson,  Wil* 
liam  Eysington,  without  a  protector. 
My  Lord,  this  last  letter  is  to  recall 
him  to  your  memory ;  I  ask  for  him  a 
place  in  your  heart  rather  than  a  share 
of  your  fortune.  Of  all  the  things  of 
this  world,  he  has  understood  but  one 
—  his  mother*s  love;  and  now  she 
must  leave  him  for  ever  I  Love  him, 
my  Lord,— love  is  the  only  sentiment 
he  can  comprehend.** 

She  could  write  no  more.  I  added: — 

"Mrs  William  Eysington  has  but 
few  days  to  live.  What  are  Lord 
James  Ky8lngton*s  orders  with  re- 
spect to  the  cluld  who  bears  his  name? 
"The  Doctor  Bamaby.** 

This  letter  was  sent  to  London,  and 
we  waited.  Eva  kept  her  bed.  Wil- 
liam, seated  near  her,  held  her  hand 
in  his :  his  mother  smiled  sadly  upon 
him,  whilst  I,  at  the  other  side  of  the 
bed,  prepared  potions  to  assuage  her 

Eains.  Again  she  began  to  talk  to 
er  son,  as  if  no  longer  despairing 
that,  after  her  death,  some  of  her  words 
might  recur  to  his  memory.  She  gave 
the  child  all  the  advice,  all  the  in- 
structions she  would  have  given  to 
an  intelligent  being.  Then  she  turned 
to  me — "Who  knows,  doctor,**  she 
said,  "  one  day,  perhaps,  he  will  find 
my  words  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  I** 
Three  more  weeks  elapsed.    Death 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


Madame  (TArbauvilU^s  <«  VShge  Doctor.'' 


665 


approacbed,  and  sabmissive  as  was 
the  Christian  sonl  of  Eva,  she  jet  felt 
the  angnish  of  separation  and  the  so- 
lemn awe  of  the  fntnre.  The  village 
priest  came  to  see  her,  and  when 
he  left  her  I  met  hhn  and  took  his 
band. 

"  You  will  pray  for  her,"  I  said. 

^*  I  have  entreated  her  to  pray  for 
meP'  was  his  reply. 

It  was  Eva  Meredith's  last  day. 
The  snn  had  set :  the  window,  near 
which  she  so  long  had  sat,  was  open : 
she  conld  see  from  her  bed  the  land- 
scape she  had  loved.  She  held  her 
son  in  her  arms  and  kissed  his  face 
and  hair,  weeping  sadly.  ^^Poor 
chfldi  what  will  become  of  yon? 
Oh!"  she  said,  with  tender  earnest- 
ness, *^  Ibten  to  me,  William :— I  am 
dying  1  Yonr  father  is  dead  4dso; 
yon  are  alone ;  yon  must  pray  to  the 
Lord.  I  bequeath  you  to  Him  who 
watches  over  the  sparrow  upon  the 
house-top ;  He  will  shield  the  orphan. 
Dear  child,  look  at  me !  listen  to  me ! 
Try  to  understand  that  I  die,  that 
one  day  you  may  remember  mef* 
And  the  poor  mother,  unable  to  speak 
longer,  still  found  strength  to  embrace 
her  child. 

At  that  moment  an  unaccustomed 
noise  reached  my  ears.  The  wheels 
of  a  carriage  grated  upon  the  gravel 
of  the  garaen  drive.  I  ran  to  the 
door.  Lord  James  Evsington  and 
Lady  Mary  entered  the  house. 

"I  got  your  letter,"  said  Lord 
James.  **  I  was  setting  out  for  Italy, 
and  it  was  not  much  off  my  road  to 
come  myself  and  settle  the  future 
destiny  of  William  Meredith :  so  here 
lam.     Mrs  William? " 

''  Mrs  William  Kysington  still  lives, 
my  lord,"  I  replied. 

It  was  with  apainfhl  sensation  that 
I  saw  this  calm,  cold,  austere  man 
approach  Eva*B  chamber,  followed  by 
the  haughty  woman  who  came  to 
witness  what  for  her  was  a  happy 
event— the  death  of  her  former  rival ! 
They  entered  the  modest  little  room, 
80  different  from  the  sumptuous 
apartments  of  their  Montpellier  hotel, 
lliey  drew  near  the  bed,  beneath 
whose  white  curtains  Eva,  pale  but 
still  beautiftil,  held  her  son  upon  her 
heart.  They  stood,  one  on  the  '  * 
the  other  on  the  left  of  tiial 
suffering,  without  findiaf  A 


affection  to  console  the  poor  woman 
who  looked  up  at  them.  They  barely 
gave  utterance  to  a  few  formal  and  un- 
meaning phrases.  Averting  their  eyes 
from  the  painfhl  spectacle  of  death, 
and  persuading  themselves  that  Eva 
Meredith  neither  saw  nor  heard,  they 
passively  awaited  her  spirit's  depar- 
ture— ^their  countenances  not  even 
feigning  an  expression  of  condolence 
or  regret.  Eva  fixed  her  dying  ^aze 
upon  them,  and  sudden  terror  seized 
the  heart  which  had  almost  ceased  to 
throb.  She  comprehended,  for  the 
first  time,  the  secret  sentiments  of 
Lady  Mary,  the  profound  indifference 
and  egotism  of  Lord  James;  she 
understood  at  last  that  they  were 
enemies  rather  than  protectors  of  her 
son.  Despair  and  terror  portrayed 
themselves  on  her  pallid  face.  She 
made  no  attempt  to  soften  those  soul- 
less beings.  Bya  convulsive  move- 
ment she  drew  William  still  closer  to 
her  heart,  and,  collecting  her  last 
strength — 

"My' child,  my  poor  child!"  she 
cried,  *^you  have  no  support  upon 
earth ;  but  God  above  is  good.  My 
God !  succour  my  child !" 

With  this  ciy  of  love,  with  this  su- 

Ereme  prayer,  she  breathed  out  her  life : 
er  arms  opened,  her  lips  were  motion- 
less on  William*s  cheek.  Since  she 
no  longer  embraced  her  son,  there 
could  be  no  doubt  she  was  dead — dead 
before  the  eyes  of  those  who  to  the 
very  last  had  refused  to  comfort  her 
affliction— dead  without  giving  Lady 
Mary  the  uneasiness  of  nearing  her 
plead  the  cause  of  her  son— dead,  leav- 
ing her  a  complete  and  decided  vic- 
toi^. 

There  was  a  moment  of  solemn 
silence :  none  moved  or  spoke.  Death 
snakes  an  impression  upon  the  haugh- 
tiest. Lady  Mary  and  Lord  James 
Kysington  kneeled  beside  their  vic- 
tim's bed.  In  a  few  minutes  Lord 
James  arose.  *^  Take  the  child  from 
his  mother's  room,"  he  said,  *^  and 
come  with  me,  doctor ;  I  will  explain 
to  you  my  intentions  respecting 
him." 

For  two  hours  William  had  been 
resting  on  the  shoulder  of  Eva  Mere- 
dith, his  heart  against  her  heart, 
Ul  lips  pressed  to  hers,  receiving  her 
•M  ber  tears.  I  approached 
'  >>ttt  expending  useless 


Google 


56« 


Mmdme  tTArbounBi^i  ^  VObifft  Doctor.*'  [M^, 


wordB,  I  eodaftvonred  to  raise  and 
lead  him  finom  the  room ;  but  he  re- 
sisted, and  his  arau  clasped  hia  mother 
more  closely.  This  resistance,  the 
first  the  poor  child  had  ever  ofEered 
to  liTing  creature,  touched  mjvery 
sonL  On  my  renewinsr  the  attempt, 
howeyer,  William  yielded ;  he  maide 
a  movement  and  tnmed  towards 
me,  and  I  saw  his  beantifiil  counte- 
nance snffnsed  with  tears.  Until  Uiat 
day,  William  had.neverwept.  I  was 
greatly  startled  and  moyed,  and  I  let 
the  child  throw  himsdf  again  npon 
his  mother's  corpse. 

»Take  him  away,"  said  Lord 
James. 

''My  lord,"  I  exclaimed,  '« he 
weeps  I  Ah,  check  not  his  tears  I" 

I  bent  oyer  the  diild,  and  heaid 
him  sob. 

^'William  I  dear  William  r  Icried, 
anxiously  taking  his  hand,  '^  why  do 
you  weep,  William?" 

For  the  second  time  he  tnmed  his 
head  towards  me ;  then,  with  a  gentle 
look,  fall  of  sorrow,  ^*  My  mouer  is 
dead,"  he  replied. 

I  haye  not  words  to  tell  you  what 
I  felt.  William's  eyes  were  now  in- 
telligent :  his  tears  were  sad  and  sig- 
nificant ;  and  his  yoice  was  broken  as 
when  the  heart  suffers.  I  uttered  a 
cry ;  I  abnost  knelt  down  beside  £ya's 
bed. 

"Ah!  you  were  right,  Eya  I"  I 
exclaimed,  **not  to  ^pair  of  the 
mercy  of  God !" 

Lord  James  himself  had  started. 
Lady  Mary  was  as  pale  as  £ya. 

''  Mother  1  mother  1"  cried  William, 
in  tones  that  filled  my  heart  with  joy ; 
and  then,  repeating  the  words  of  Eya 
Meredith — ^Uiose  words  which  she  had 
so  truly  said  he  would  find  at  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart — ^the  child  exclaimed 
aloud, 

"  I  am  dying,'^my  son.  Your  fiUher 
is  dead ;  yon  are  alone  upon  the 
earth ;  you  must  pray  to  the  Lord  I" 

I  pressed  gently  with  my  hand 
npon  William's  shoulder;  he  obeyed 
the  impulse,  knelt  down,  joined  his 
trembling  hands — this  time  it  was  of  his 
own  accord — and,  raising  to  heayen  a 
lookfhlloflife  and  feeling:  ''My  God! 
hare  pity  on  me  I"  he  murmured. 

I  took  Eva's  cold  hand.  ''Oh 
mother !  mother  of  many  sorrows ! " 
I  exclaimed,  "  can  you  hear  your 


chad?  do  you  behold  him  fhMiaboye? 
Be  happy  I  your  son  is  saved  1" 

Dead  at  Lady  Mair's  feet,  Eva 
made  her  rival  tremble ;  for  it  wis 
not  I  who  led  William  fiiom  the 
room,  it  was  L(m^  James  EysingtoQ 
who  carried  out  his  grandson  in  his 
arms. 

I  have  little  to  add,  ladies.  Wil- 
liam recovered  his  reason  and  de- 
parted with  Lord  James.  Beinstated 
m  his  rights,  ho  was  subseqnently 
his  grandfather's  sole  heir.  Sdenoe 
has  recorded  a  few  rare  instanoes 
of  intelligence  revived  by  a  violent 
moral  shock.  Thus  does  the  fifu^t  I 
have  related  find  a  natural  explana- 
tion.  But  the  good  women  of  tho 
village,  who  had  attended  Eva  Mere- 
dith during  her  illness,  and  had  heard 
her  fervent  prayers,  were  convinced 
that,  even  as  she  had  asked  of 
Heaven,  the  soul  of  the  mother  had 
passed  into  the  body  of  the  child. 

"I^ie  was  so  good,"  said  they, 
"  that  God  could  refuse  her  nothing."* 
This  artless  belief  took  firm  root  in 
the  counby.  No  one  mourned  Mrs 
Maredith  as  dead. 

"  She  still  lives,"  said  the  people  of 
the  hamlet :  "speak  to  her  son,  and 
she  will  answer  you." 

And  when  Lord  William  Eysing- 
ton,  in  possession  of  his  grandfEtther's 
property,  sent  each  year  abundant 
alms  to  the  village  that  had  wit- 
nessed his  birth  and  his  mother's 
death,  the  poor  folks  exclaimed — 
"  There  is  mis  Meredith's  kind  soul 
thinking  of  us  still!  Ah,  when  she 
ffoes  to  heaven,  it  will  be  great  pity 
for  poor  people !" 

We  do  not  strew  flowers  upon  her 
tomb,  but  upon  the  steps  of  the  altar 
of  the  Virgin,  where  she  so  often  pray- 
ed to  Mary  to  send  a  soul  to  her  son. 
When  taldng  thither  their  wreaths  of 
wild  blossoms,  the  villagers  say  to  each 
other — "When  she  prayed  so  fer- 
vently, the  good  Virgin  answered  her 
softly :  '  I  will  give  thy  soul  to  thy 
childfl'" 

The  atrd  has  suflered  our  peasants 
to  retain  this  touching  siq>erBtition ; 
and  I  myself,  when  Lord  William 
came  to  see  me,  when  he  fixed  upon 
me  his  eyes,  so  like  his  mother's — 
when  his  voice,  which  had  a  weU- 
known  accent,  said,  as  Mrs  Meredith 
was  wont  to  say — "Dear  Doctor,  I 


digitized  by 


Google 


1849.] 


NoHonai  Edncaium  in  Seotitmd. 


567 


thank  you  P  Then,— fmfle,  ladies,  if 
joa  win— I  wept,  and  I  beliered,  like 
all  the  Tillage,  uat  Era  Meredith  was 
before  me. 

She,  whose  existence  was  but  a 
long  series  of  sorrows,  has  left  behind 
her  a  sweet,  consoling  memory,  which 
has  nothing  painfhl  for  those  who 
loved  her. 

In  thmking  of  her  we  think  of  the 
mercy  of  God,  and  those  who  iiare 
hope  in  their  hearts,  hope  with  the 
greater  confidence. 

Bnt  it  is  very  late,  ladies*— yonr  car- 
riages have  k>ng  been  at  the  door. 
Paidon  this  long  story:  at  my  age  it 
is  difficalt  to  be  ccmdse  in  speaking  of 
the  events  of  one's  youth.  For- 
give the  M  man  for  having  made 
you  smile  when  he  arrived,  and  weep 
before  he  departed.** 

These  last  words  were  spoken  in 
the  kindest  and  most  paternal  tone, 
whilst  a  half-smile  glided  across  Dr 
Bamaby*s  lips.  All  his  aaditors  now 
crowded  romd  him,  eager  to  ex^^ss 


their  thanks.  But  Dr  Bamaby  got 
np,  made  straight  for  his  riding-coat 
of  pnce-cok)iired  taffsty,  which  hong 
across  a  chair  back,  and,  whilst  one 
of  the  yonng  men  helped  him  to  put 
it  on — ^^ Farewell,  gentlemen;  fure- 
well,  ladies,"  said  the  village  doctor* 
**  My  chaise  is  ready;  it  is  dark,  the 
road  is  bad;  good-ni|^t:  I  rnnst 
be  gone." 

When  Dr  Bamaby  was  installed  in 
his  cabriolet  of  green  wicker-wcMrk, 
and  tiie  littie  gi*ay  cob,  tickled  by  the 
whip,  was  about  to  set  off,  Madame 
de  Moncar  stepped  quickly  forwardf 
and  leaning  towards  the  doctor, 
whilst  she  placed  one  foot  on  the  step 
of  his  vehide,  she  said,  in  quite  a  low 
voice — 

«« Doctor,  I  make  you  a  present  of 
the  white  cottage,  and  I  will  have  it 
fitted  up  as  it  was  when  you  loved 
Eva  Meredith  1" 

Then  she  ran  back  into  the  honse. 
The  carriages  and  the  green  chaise 
departed  in  different  directions. 


HATIOHAL  EDUGATIOK  IN  SCOTLAND. 


Thb  subject  of  the  Parochial  School 
Qystem  of  Scotland  claims  some  atten- 
tion at  the  present  moment.  Follow- 
ing np  certain  ominous  proceedings  of 
other  parties  high  in  authority,  Lord 
Melgund,  M.P.  for  Greenock,  has 
given  notice  of  a  motion  for  the  ap- 
pointment of  a  select  committee  of 
the  House  of  Commons  to  consider 
the  expediency  of  a  fundamental  re- 
vision of  that  system.  The  question 
here  involved  is  one  of  national  im- 
portance; and  the  family  and  other 
ties  Inr  which  Lord  Melgund  is  con- 
nected with  the  Government,  are  likely, 
we  fear,  to  secure  for  his  proposed  in- 
novations on  that  institution  which 
has  been  hitherto,  perhaps,  the  pre- 
eminent glory  of  Scotland,  a  certain 
degree  of  favour. 

It  may  be  of  some  use  to  preface 
the  few  observations  we  have  to  offer 
on  the  Scottish  system,  and  the  pro- 
posed alterations  of  it,  by  a  brief 
recapitulation  of  some  of  the  more 
prominent  methods  and  statistics  of 
popular  education  in  other  countries, 
taken  chiefly  fhnn  a  very  carefully  pre- 


pared and  important  Appendix  to  the 
Privy  Council  committee^s  Minutes  fbr 
1847-B.  The  information  was  obtain- 
ed through  the  Secretary  of  State  (cft 
Foreign  Affairs,  from  the  Govern- 
ments of  the  principal  states  of  Europe 
and  America. 

The  cost  of  puUic  instruction  is  de- 
frayed hy  different  means  in  different 
countries— means  varying,  however, 
more  in  detail  than  In  principle.  In 
Pi-ussia,  a  regular  school-rate,  vary- 
ing from  3d.  to  6d.  per  month,  accord* 
ing  to  circumstances,  is  levied  upon 
all  who  have  children;  but  this  ia 
supplemented  hv  a  grant  from  the 
state  budget  which,  for  elementary 
schools  alone,  amounted  in  1845  to 
£37,000.  A  similar  practice  prevails 
not  only  in  the  other  countries  of 
Central  Europe,  but  in  Pennsylvania, 
where  it  was  introduced  by  the  Ger- 
man emigrants,  and,  of  late  years, 
also  in  some  other  parts  of  the  United 
States.  The  income  of  schools  in  the 
Austrian  Empire  is  derived  from  a 
variety  of  sources,  of  which  school- 
money  constitutes  little  more  than 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


568 


National  Education  in  Scotland, 


one-third;  the  remainder,  as  far  as 
we  can  understand  the  technical 
phraseology  of  the  report,  being  partly 
derived  from  old  endowments,  partly 
from  provincial  revenues,  and  partly 
from  the  imperial  treasuiy.  In  Hol- 
land, the  governments  of  the  towns 
and  provinces  are  charged  with  the 
cost  of  maintaining  their  own  schools, 
aided  by  grants  from  the  state.  On 
the  first  year  that  separate  accounts 
were  kept  for  the  northern  provinces, 
after  their  separation  fi*om  Belgium, 
the  sum  raised  in  this  way  amounted 
(in  apopulationof  2,450,0()0)  to  no  less 
than  £76,317.  In  Belgium,  where  the 
funds  are  derived  from  old  foundations 
and  local  endowments,  aided  by  the 
government,  two-fifths  of  the  scholars 
received,  in  1840,  their  education 
gratuitously ;  but  the  provision  seems 
to  be  not  very  complete,  for  in  that 
year,  out  of  2510  communes,  163  were 
without  any  school. 

As  to  management,  there  appears  to 
be  no  country  in  Europe  in  which 
public  instruction  is  not  directed  by  a 
department  of  the  government.  No 
regular  system  of  superintendence, 
however,  has  yet  been  established  in 
the  United  States.  In  Prussia,  there 
is  a  minister  of  public  instruction,  who 
is  also  at  the  bead  of  church  affiurs, 
and  under  whom  are  local  consistories 
and  school  inspectors,  one  of  the  latter 
being  always  the  superintendant  or 
bishop  of  the  district.  In  Wtirtem- 
berg,  each  school  is  inspected  by  the 
clergyman  of  the  confession  to  which 
the  schoolmaster  belongs,  and  is  sub- 
ject to  the  control  of  the  presbytery. 
In  the  Grand-duchy  of  baden,  the* 
minister  of  the  interior  has  charge  of 
the  department  of  education.  The 
local  school  authority  is  commonly  a 
parochial  committee,  consistmg  of 
clemr  and  laymen  combined.  The 
parish  clergyman  is  the  regular  school 
mspector,  but  where  there  are  differ- 
ent confessions,  each  clergyman  in- 
spects the  school  of  his  own  church. 
Certain  functionaries,  called  *^  Visit- 
ors" and  ^*  County  Authorities,"  are 
also  intrusted  with  special  powers. 
In  Lombardy,  the  direction  is  com- 
mitted to  a  chief  inspector,  with  a 
number  of  subordinates,  and  the 
parish  clergy.  (By  clergy^  of  course, 
throughout  these  details,  must  usually 
be  understood RomanCatholic  priests.) 


[May, 

In  Holland,  every  province  was  in 
1814  divided  into  educational  districts, 
with  a  school  inspector  for  each  dis- 
trict, and  provincial  school  commis- 
sions chosen  from  the  leading  inhabi- 
tants, to  which  were  afterwards  added 
provincial  '*  juries."  In  Russia,  pub- 
lic instruction  is  superintended  by  the 
government. 

The  details  regarding  religious  in- 
struction are  not  so  full  as  we  should 
have  wished.  The  great  difficulty  as  re- 
gards this  appears,  however,  in  most  of 
the  European  states  to  be  met  by  the 
establishment  of  separate  schools  for 
the  different  sects.  In  Wiirtember^, 
^*  if,  in  a  community  of  different  reli- 
gious confessions,  the  minority  com- 
prises sixty  families,  they  may  claim 
the  establishment  and  support  of  a 
school  of  their  own  confession,  at  the 
expense  of  the  whole  community." 
The  ecclesiastical  authorities  of  the 
various  sects  are  not,  however,  inde- 
pendent of,  but  merely  associated 
with,  the  state  functionaries,  whose 
sanction  is  indispensable  for  the  cate- 
chisms and  school-books  in  use  in 
evety  school.  Such,  at  least,  is  said 
to  be  the  case  in  Wiirtemberg ;  and, 
as  far  as  we  can  judge  from  the  not 
very  precise  statements  made  on  this 
subject,  the  rule  appears  to  be  univer- 
sal. Roman  Catholic,  Protestant, 
Greek  Church,  and  Jewish  schools 
are,  in  the  Austrian  empire,  alike 
established  by  law,  according  to  the 
necessities  of  each  province  and  dis- 
trict. But  in  the  state  of  New  York 
(and  we  believe  a  like  practice  pre- 
vails in  other  parts  of  the  Union)  the 
sectarian  difficulty  is  overcome  in  a 
different  way.  By  a  recent  act  of  the 
legi^ture,  it  is  provided  that  "  no 
s(£ool  shall  be  entitled  to  a  portion 
of  the  school-moneys,  in  which  the 
religious  sectarian  doctrine  or  tenet  of 
any  particular  Christians,  or  other 
religious  sect,  shall  be  taught,  incul- 
cated, or  practised." 

The  only  other  particulars  we  shall 
notice  relate  to  school  attendance.  It 
must  be  premised  that,  in  the  coun- 
tries of  central  Europe,  the  attend- 
ance of  every  child  at  the  elementary 
schools  is  compulsory — the  only  al- 
ternative being  private  instruction. 
Fines  and  inymsonment  are  employed 
to  enforce  this  regulation.  Free  edu- 
cation is  also  provided,  at  the  general 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


National  Education  m  Scotiand. 


569 


expense,  for  those  unable  to  pay  the 
school  fees. 

In  Prnssia,  the  proportion  of  those 
enjoying  school  eaacation  was  to  the 
population,  in  1846,  as  1  to  6. 

In  Bavaria,  in  1844,  nearly  as  1 
to  4. 

In  the  Austrian  empire,  as  1  to  9 
for  boys,  and  as  1  to  12  for  girls ;  but 
in  Upper  and  Lower  Austria,  as  1  to 
6  for  DOYS,  and  as  1  to  7  for  giris. 

In  Holland,  1  in  8  received,  in 

1846,  public  instruction. 

In  Sweden,  in  1843,  the  proportion 
was  no  more  than  as  1  to  165  of  the 
population. 

In  Belgium,  in  1840,  it  was  as  1 
to  9. 

In  Russia,  the  number  attending 
schools  of  all  kinds,  including  the  uni- 
versities, amounted,  in  1846,  to  195,819, 
which,  in  a  population  of  60,000,000, 
gives  a  proportion  of  less  than  1  to 
800  of  the  mhabitants. 

In  Pennsylvania,  in  1840,  1  in  5 
of  the  population  had  the  advantage 
of  instruction  in  common  schools;  in 
New  York,  on  the  first  of  January 

1847,  nearly  1  in  16 ;  in  Massachus- 
setts,  about  1  in  6}  of  the  population. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  these  de« 
tails  without  two  reflections  especially 
being  immediately  suggested  to  the 
mind.  One  of  these  is  the  necessary 
connexion  between  the  success  of  any 
system  of  national  education  and  the 
special  circumstances  of  each  indi- 
vidual state  to  which  it  may  be  ap- 
plied. To  introduce  the  Prussian 
system  into  Scotland,  with  any  pros- 
pect of  its  working  here  as  well  as  it 
does  there,  one  would  require  to 
change  the  whole  character  of  the  go- 
vernment, and  the  whole  habits,  nay, 
the  very  nature  of  the  people,  to 
make  Scotchmen  Prussians  and  Sicot- 
land  Prussia. 

But  there  is  a  still  more  Important 
reflection  forced  upon  us.  How  little 
mere  secular  education,  apart  from 
that  which  we  hold  to  be  an  indis- 
pensable accompaniment  to  it — sound 
religious  education^avails  for. the  ele- 
vation of  the  people,  let  these  statis- 
tics, read  in  the  light  of  recent  events, 
toll!  The  murderers  of  Count  La- 
tour  were  all  well-educated  persons, 


after  that  fashion  which  it  has  been 
proposed  to  introduce  into  this  coun- 
try as  the  national  system.  They 
had  all  been  at  schools — at  schools 
from  which  religious  instruction,  how- 
ever, was  either  excluded,  or  worse 
than  excluded. 

But,  to  come  to  National  Education 
in  Scotland.  On  this  subject  there 
are  two  questions  wholly  distinct  from 
each  other,  which  at  present  occupy 
some  attention.  The  one  relates  to 
the  long-tried  and  approved  parochial 
system,  the  other  to  the  plans,  pro- 
fessedly of  a  supplementary  character, 
recently  introduced  by  a  committee  of 
the  Privy  Council,  which  constitutes  a 
government  board  for  the  application 
of  the  parliamentary  grant,  now  voted 
annually  for  some  years,  for  educa- 
tional purposes.  In  a  pamphlet* 
lately  published  by  Lord  Mdgund, 
which  is  of  some  importance  now,  as 
indicating  the  views  with  which  his 
motion  in  parliament  is  introduced, 
these  two  questions  have,  we  think, 
been  unfairly  confounded :  with  the 
former  we  have  particular  concern  at 
present. 

We  agree,  however,  with  Lord 
Melgund  in  condemning  utterly  the 
procedure  of  the  Privy  Council  in  re- 
gard to  those  schools  which  are  at  this 
moment  rising  up  in  almost  every 
parish  in  Scotland,  not  for  the  purpose, 
even  ostensibly,  of  supplying  desUtnte 
localities  with  the  means  of  education, 
but  as  parts  of  an  ecclesiastical  system, 
whose  avowed  object  is  to  supersede 
in  all  its  departments  the  Established 
Church.  These  schools  receive  much 
the  greater  part  (in  fact  nearly  two- 
thurds^  of  the  whole  sum  voted  for 
education  in  Scotland ;  that  is  to  say, 
about  two-thirds  of  the  parliamentary 
grant,  intended  to  promote  genend 
education  in  thispart  of  the  kingdom, 
is  by  the  Privy  Council  diverted  alto- 
gether from  its  proper  object,  and  ap- 
plied to  purposes  exclusively  and 
avowedly  sectarian. 

This  is  an  abuse  which  cannot  be 
too  severely  reprobated.  Lord  Mel- 
gund, in  his  pamphlet,  with  some 
justice  calls  attention  to  the  strictly 
exclusive  characterof  the  Free  Church 
— an  exclnsiveness  to  which  theEstab- 


•  BtmarU  on  ike  Government  Scheme  of  National  Education  in  Scotland,  1848. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


570 


Natkmal  Educatum  m  SootbouL 


CM»7, 


lished  Chnrch  affords  no  parallel-- to 
the  factthat  it  is  an  irresponsible  bodjr, 
with  whose  affairs  no  man  not  a 
member  has  any  more  right  to  interfere, 
than  he  has  with  tiiose  of  a  ndlway 
company  to  which  he  does  not  belong. 
It  is  notf  however,  on  this  ground 
alone,  or  diiefly,  that  the  Piivy  Coun- 
cil's proceedings  in  regard  to  the  Free 
Church  schools  are  objectionable. 

Out  of  the  sum  of  £6463  granted, 
according  to  the  committee's  minutes 
last  issued,  to  Scotland]  in  1847,  no 
less  than  £3485  was  apportioned  to 
Free  Church  schools.  Let]  us  inquire 
on  what  conditions,  in  what  dnmm- 
stances,  so  large  a  proportion  of  the 
fund  at  the  disposal  of  the  committee 
has  been  thus  expended.  If  this  sum 
had  been  appropriated  bond  fldt  for 
educational  purposes,  to  aid  hi  build- 
ing schools  in  localities  previously  un- 
provided with  them,  periiaps  no  very 
serious  exception  could  have  been 
taken  to  the,  in  that  case,  compara- 
tively, trivial  circumstance,  that  the 
persons  by  whom  the  money  was  to  be 
applied  happened  to  be  dissenters  fit>m 
the  Established  Church,— dissenters 
whose  doctrinal  standards  are  the  same 
as  those  recognised  by  law.  In  this 
case,  it  might  with  some  reason  have 
been  said  by  defenders  of  the  Privy 
Council,  ^^  Why  should  these  localities 
remain  without  sdiools  of  any  kind, 
merely  because  the  Free  Churchmen 
have  been  the  only  parties  zealous 
enough  to  obtain  for  them  this  boon?" 

But  what  are  the  facts  ?  Even  on 
the  faoe  of  the  minutes  of- council 
themselves,  it  appears  that  at  least  the 
^"eater  part  of  tne  laiige  ^rant  in  ques- 
tion has  been  given  to  aui  in  erecting 
sehooU  where  there  was  no  pretence  at 
all  of  deetitution-^lxi  localities  already 
amply  supplied  with  the  means  of 
education,  including  both  parochial 
and  non-parochial  schools ;  and  has 
been  given,  therefore,  not  for  the  pur- 
pose of  supplementing,  bat  for  the 
purpose  of  suppukNrmo  existing  in- 
stitutions; not  for  the  advancement 
of  education,  but  ibr  the  advancement 
ofFreeChurchism. 

An  assertion  of  so  serious  a  nature 


as  this  requires  proof;  and  proof  is 
easily  given. 

In  the  return  in  the  miirates  of 
coondl  for  1847-8,  of  the  grants  for 
education  in  Scotland,  sixteen  of  the 
schools  aided  are  marked  F.  C.  S., 
(Free  Church  of  Scotland ;)  and  there 
is,  in  the  case  of  most  of  these,  a  re- 
turn as  to  the  existing  school  accom- 
modation of  the  dls^ct,  an  inquiry 
on  this  8ul]||ect  being  always  and  very 
properly  made— oftener,  as  appears, 
however,  made  than  attended  to. 
The  ftdlowing  are  some  of  the  returns, 
taken  almost  at  nmdom : — 

Brigton  in  Po^non/.  —  Population 
of  school  district,  8584 :  existing 
schools — "The  parish  school,  Esta- 
bliefttment,  (attended  by  150  scholars ;) 
Bedding  Muir,  Establishment,  (100 ;) 
Bedding  village,  EstaUishment  and 
Free  Chnrch,  (80;)  Bedding  Muir, 
Methodist,  C^.)«  Grant  to  Free 
Church,  £143. 

DoOtfiM.— Peculation,  6000:  ex- 
isting school  accommodation — "The 
parodiial  or  grammar  school,  and 
other  ediooUy  partially  supported  by 
tiie  Duke  of  Buodeucn."  No  further 
partioulars.  Grant  to  Free  Churdi, 
£248.^In  the  following  instance,  a 
notaUe  attempt  is  made  to  manu&c- 
ture  a  case  of  cryhig  destitution  : — 

.Ea{m.--Population,  8000:  existing 
schools»"The  parodiial  school  is 
situate  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dis- 
tant, at  the  eastern  extremity  of  the 
okl  town ;  the  new  school  will  be  at 
the  western  extremity  of  the  new 
townP  In  considenUion,  however, 
of  the  "one-fourth  mile,"  coupled 
with  the  interesting  topographical  in- 
formation that  this  is  the  exact  dis- 
tance between  the  eastern  extremity 
of  the  old  and  the  western  extremi^ 
for  "  west-end"]  of  the  new  town  of 
Ellon,  and,  doubtless,  for  other  grave 
reasons  not  expressed,  £162  is  sub- 
scribed to  the  ftmds  of  the  Free 
Church. 

These  are  average  examples  of  all 
the  cases.  Everybody,  indeed,  knows 
what  the  practice  of  the  Free  Seces- 
sion has  been  in  choosing  sites,  alike 
for    their  ehurdies    and  for  thehr 


*  We  obsorrt,  howerer,  that  by  the  Parliamentary  Betuzns  of  1884,  the  school 
aeoommodation  was  even  then  considerably  greater  than  is  here  stated.  The  greatest 
number  attending  the  parish  school  was  246,  and  non-parochial  schools  443  :  whieh^ 
to  the  population  there  giyen  of  3210,  was  nearly  a  proportion  of  1  in  5  of  the  inha- 
bitsats— a  laif{«  proportion  than  la  Prusila  I 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18490 


NatiomalEducatummScoAmd. 


671 


schools.  Their  endeayour  has  been 
to  i^t  both  as  near  as  possible  to 
the  palish  chnrdi  and  the  parish 
schoolf^a  most  natoral,  and,  for  their 
purposes,  wise  arnmgement;  but  an 
arrangemrat,  one  wovld  imagine, 
which  ought  not  to  have  been  eonnte- 
nanced  by  the  Friyy  Coandl.  That 
body  might  lutre  been  expected  to 
reply  to  siidi  an  application  as  that 
mm  Polmont  pazish— "  The  fonds  at 
onr  disposal  are  intended  to  svpply 
defidencies  in  the  means  of  education. 
We  cannot  recognise  your  case  as  one 
of  destitntion.  As  a  public  body ,  ad- 
ministering public  money,  it  is  not 
permitted  to  ns  to  agree  with  yon  in 
setting  aside  the  parochial  schools, 
and  ue  other  schools  in  the  district 
as  of  no  account,  merely  because  th^ 
an  not  under  your  sectarian  contrdL 
Yon  arB  a;pph^ng  for  our  aid,  not  to 
supplement,  but  to  supersede  existing 
educational  institntions;  and  this  is 
an  object  to  which  we  could  not  con- 
tribute without  a  gross  misappropria- 
tion of  the  national  fhnds.*'  In  hay- 
ing, instead  of  returning  this  amnrer 
to  the  promoters  of  the  inroposed  new 
sdiool  in  Pohnont,  sent  them  £143, 
the  Priyy  Gonndl^s  committee  haye, 
be  it  noticed,  established  a  precedent 
which  is  not  likely  to  be  left  unim- 
prored :  indeed  the  Free  Church  are 
said  to  haye  about  500  rimilar  appli- 
cations ready.* 

The  practical  eyils  of  such  a  course 
are  obVious.  ^  Suppose,"  (say  the 
parish  schoolmasters,  in  their  memo- 
rial to  Lord  John  Russell,)— ^*  suppose 


the  people  of  the  parishes  where  these 
schools  shall  be  established  wished  to 
bediyidedbetwixttheparocbialschools 
and  those  of  the  Free  Church,  instead 
of  resorting  exdusiyely  to  tiie  former, 
are  Ihep  hkdy  to  he  b^ter  tdtuxAed  m 
ccnmqwnce  of  the  changed  Is  it  not 
rather  to  be  foared  that,  instead  of 
one  efildent,  two  comparatiyety  ineffi- 
cient sdiools  will  in  consequence  be 
established  in  a  great  number  of 
parishes?  ....  Atalleyents, 
the  loss  resulting  from  the  injury  done 
to  the  old  and  tried  system  is  certain ; 
the  adyantages  of  the  new  system  are 
problematical ;  and  the  sacrifice  of  the 
former  to  the  latter,  therefore,  seems 
to  ns  to  be  inexpedient  and  nnwise«'*t 

That  ^^old  and  tried  system"  is, 
howeyer,  exposed  to  other  perils. 
Lord  Melgnnd  not  only  finds  fault 
with  the  aboye  and  other  abuses  of 
the  Priyy  CouncQ*s  scheme  of  educa- 
tion, but  with  the  original  parochial 
system;  and  not  only  suggests  that 
that  recent  scheme  should  be  re- 
organised, but  that  the  whole  system 
of  national  education  in  Scotiand 
should  undergo  a  thorough  revisal. 
Let  us  come  at  once  to  that  reform 
which  it  appears  to  be  the  chief  aim 
of  his  pamphlet  to  recommend,  and  of 
his  motion  to  effect ;  which  is  of  a 
yery  sweeping  and  fhndamental  cha- 
racter, and  which,  in  a  word,  consists 
in  the  seyeranoe  of  the  subsisting  con- 
nexion between  the  parochial  schools 
and  the  Established  Church. 

It  is  not  necessary  at  present  to  go 
back  to  the  origin  of  the  ecclesiastical 


*  They  hare  taken  cire  to  Bound  the  committee  on  the  subject,  and  hare  receired 
an  answer  encouraging  enough.  The  following  extract  is  from  their  report  of  a 
deputation  to  the  I^rd  President :— ^  2.  In  regard  to  applications  for  annual  grants 
under  the  minutee,  it  was  asked — What  evidence  will  ordinarily  be  required  to  satisfy 
the  Committee  of  the  Privy  Ck>uncil  that  any  particular  school  is  needed  in  the  dis- 
trict in  which  it  stands,  and  that  it  ought  to  be  recognised  as  entitled  to  its  flftir  share 
of  the  grant  equally  with  others  similarly  situated  !  Supposing,  in  any  given  school, 
an  the  other  conditions,  as  to  pecuniary  resources,  the  qualifications  of  teachers,  &o., 
•atisfketorily  eoraphed  with,  will  it  be  held  enough  to  have  the  report  of  the  Oovem- 
ment  inspector  or  inspeotors  that  a  sufficient  number  of  children  (say  50  or  60  in  the 
eoontry,  and  90  or  100  in  towns^  either  are  actually  in  attendance  upon  the  school, 
or  engaged  to  attend,  unJ^ko/vZ  the  question  being  raited  as  to  the  contiguity  of  other 
BckooU  of  a  different  denomination,  or  the  amount  of  vacant  accommodation  in  such 
sehools  !  In  reply,  it  was  stated  that  the  Ck>mmittee  of  Privy  Council  could  not 
Innit  their  discretion  in  Judging  of  the  comparative  urgency  of  applications  ;  their 
lordships  were  disposed  to  liraive  representations,  and  to  inquire  as  to  the  sufficiency 
of  the  existing  school  accommodation ;  and  they  would  alsoeoasider  any  other  ground 
iririeh  might  be  urged  fbr  the  ereetlon  of  a  new  school  where  a  school  or  schools  had 
been  prenrionsly  ettabHshed.'*— ilfHNrtet/br  1847-8,  voL  1|  p.  Ixiv. 

t  SekodlmatUr^  Memorial^  p.  8. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


572 


National  Education  in  Scotland, 


[May, 


institntions  of  Scotland.  The  ques- 
tion is,  not  what  the  law  if,  bot 
what  the  law  ooght  to  be ;  and  we 
shall  here  assume  that,  whatever  may 
be  the  vested  interests  of  the  Chnrch 
in  the  parish  schools,  it  is  competent 
for  parliament  to  consider  the  pro- 
priety, in  existing  circmnstances,  of 
introducing  a  new  national  system  of 
education,  irrespective  altogether  of 
historical  considerations.  By  thus 
arguing  the  question  on  its  merits, 
to  the  exclusion  of  historical  associa- 
tions, we  deprive  ourselves  of  many 
pleas  against  a  change  which  appear 
relevant  and  cogent  to  friends  of  the 
Church  whose  judgment  is  entitled  to 
the  highest  respect.  But  we  take 
the  ground  which,  if  the  matter  be 
discussed  at  all,  will  doubtless  be 
taken  by  most  of  those  who  engage 
in  the  controversy,  and  on  which, 
doubtless,  the  result  will  be  made 
ultimately  to  depend. 

The  parish-school  system  of  Scot- 
land may  be  described  m  a  few  words. 
In  every  parish,  at  the  present  day, 
there  is  (except  in  the  case  of  some 
of  the  larffe  towns)  at  least  one 
school,*  which,  with  the  teacher's 
house,  has  been  erected,  and  is  kept  up 
by  the  heritors,  or  landed  proprietors, 
of  each  parish;  by  whom  also  a 
salary  is  provided  for  the  school- 
master, which,  exclusive  of  house  and 
garden,  at  present  varies,  according 
to  circumstances,  from  £25  the 
minimum,  to  £34  the  maximum  al- 
lowance. This  certainly  most  inade- 
quate remuneration  is  supplemented 
partly  by  school  fees — wMch,  how- 
ever, are  fixed  at  a  low  rate,  and 
always  dispensed  with  in  cases  of 
necessity— partly  by  the  schoolmaster 
being  allowed  to  hold,  in  conjunction 
with  his  school,  the  offices  of  heritors* 
and  session  clerk,  which  yield,  on  an 
average,  to  each  about  £14  more, 
(Remarks^  p.  15 ;)  and  partly,  though 
in  comparatively  few  parishes,  by 
local  foundations.  In  1834,  the 
number    of    parochial    schools   was 


1,047;  and  the  emoluments  of  the 
teachers  amounted  for  the  whole 
(excluding  the  augmentations  from 
the  Dick  Bequest)  to  £55,339  :  of  this 
sum  £29,642  being  salaries,  £20,717 
school  fees,  and  £4,979  other  emolu- 
ments.f 

With  regard  to  manaf;ement:  the 
election  of  the  teacher  is  vested  in 
the  heritors  (the  sole  rate-payers)  and 
minister  of  the  parish.  Before  ad- 
mission to  his  office,  however,  the 
schoolmaster-elect  must  pass  a  strict 
examination  before  the  presbytery  of 
the  bounds,  as  to  his  qualifications  to 
teach  the  elementary  branches  of 
education,  and  such  of  the  higher 
branches  as  either  the  heritors  on  the 
one  hand,  or  the  presbytery  t  on  the 
other  hand,  may  think  necessary  in 
every  case ;  and  must  profess  his 
adherence  to  the  Established  Church 
by  signing  the  Confession  of  Fidth 
and  formula.  The  parish  minist^ 
acts  as  the  regular  sdiool-inspector : 
and  every  presbyteiy  is  bound  to 
hold  an  annual  examination  of  all  the 
schools  within  its  jurisdiction,  usually 
conducted  in  the  presence  of  the 
leading  inhabitants,  and  to  make 
returns  to  the  supreme  ecclesiastical 
court  of  the  attendance,  the  branches 
taught,  the  progress  of  the  scholars, 
and  the  efficiency  of  the  teachers. 
It  must  be  here  added  that,  although 
thus  placed  under  the  superinten- 
dence of  the  national  church,  and 
although  based  on  the  principles  of 
the  national  fidth,  the  parish  schools 
are  acknowledged  to  be  free  from 
anything  which,  in  Scotiand  at  least, 
could  be  called  a  sectarian  character. 
Lord  Melgnnd  frankly  admits  that 
"the  teachers  and  presbyteries  ap- 
pear to  have  dealt  liberally  by  all 
classes  of  Dissenters  in  religious 
matters,  and  certainly  cannot  be 
reproached  with  having  given  offence 
by  dogmatical  teachiog,  or  by  at- 
tempts to  proselytise — (  Remarks, 
p.  24 ;)  and  adduces  some  proofs  in 
support  of  this  view,  with  which  we 


*  In  many  parishes  side  schools  are  built  and  endowed,  in  addition  to  the  parish 
school,  from  the  same  fonds :  the  salary  in  these  cases  being  fixed  by  the  Act  at 
about  £17. 

t  Pariiamtntari/  Inquiry,  1837,  Appendix. 

X  That  the  presbytery  has  the  power  of  .insisting  upon  qualifications  supplemen- 
tary to  those  prescribed  by  the  heritors,  was  decided,  we  think  about  a  dozen  years 
ago,  in  the  case  of  Sprouston. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


National  Education  in  Scotland, 


573 


Bball  content  ourselves,  though  they 
might  easily  be  mnltiplled.  Abont 
twelve  years  ago,  a  series  of 
qoeries  was  sent  to  all  the  parish 
schools,  containing,  among  many 
others,  the  following,—"  Do  children 
attend  the  school  withoat  reference  to 
the  religions  persuasion  of  their  pa- 
rents ?"  and,  as  quoted  by  Lord  Mel- 
gnnd,  ont  of  924  answers,  915  were 
in  the  afllnnative. — (^Remarks,  p.  27.) 
"It  is  but  justice  to  the  present 
teachers,"  said  the  Rev.  Dr  Taylor  of 
the  Secession  Church  to  the  House  of 
Lords'  Committee,  in  1848,  (Remarks, 
p.  34,)  "  to  say  that,  as  far  as  my 
knowledge  goes,  they  do  not  generally 
attempt  to  proselytise  or  interfere  with 
the  religious  opinions  of  the  children.'* 
Mr  John  Gibson,  the  Government  in« 
spectbr,  states,  that  not  only  the 
children  of  orthodox  Dissenters,  but 
even  Roman  Catholic  children,  find 
these  schools  non-sectarian.  "  Ro- 
man Catholic  children  (he  says)  have 
been  wont  to  attend  the  schools  of  the 
Church  of  Scotland  in  the  Highlands 
and  Islands.  This  they  seem  to  have 
done  in  consequence  of  the  manner  in 
which  these  schools  have  been  con- 
ducted in  reference  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  population.'' — (Remarks,  p. 
32.)  With  respect,  indeed,  to  the 
great  body  of  dissenters  from  the 
Established  Church,  there  can  be  no 
difficulty.  The  Catechism  taught  in 
the  parish  schools,  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  Bible,  the  only  text- 
book insisted  upon  by  the  church,  is 
a  religious  standard  acknowledged  by 
them  all,  and  is  taught  almost  as  ge- 
nerally in  the  non-parochial  as  in  the 
parochial  schools. 
Our  answer  to  Lord  Melgund's  prin- 


cipal reason  for  a  fimdamental  revisal 
of  this  the  present  parochial  school 
system  of  Scotland  is,  that  that  reasonis 
founded  on  a  great  delusion.  Thereason 
may  be  thus  stated,  that  while  the 
parish  schools,  however  useful  as  far  as 
the^r  go,  are  confessedly  inadequate  to 
the  increased  population,  their  present 
constitution  stands  in  the  way  of  the 
introduction  into  Scotland  of  a  general 
system  of  national  education. — (See 
Remarks,  p.  35  and  passim.) 

It  may  be  here  noticed,  in  passing, 
that  rather  more  than  enough  is  per- 
haps sometimes  said  as  to  the  inade- 
quacy of  the  provision  for  education 
made  in  the  parish  schools.  The 
population  has  certainly  enormously 
increased  since  1696 ;  but  so  has  the 
wealth  of  the  country,  and  so  also, 
along  with  the  power,  has  the  desire 
incr^used,  of  compensating,  by  volun- 
tary efforts,  for  the  growing  dispro- 
portion between  the  legal  provision 
and  the  actual  wants  of  the  people  in 
regard  to  education.  In  a  great  mea- 
sure, the  parish  schools  continue  to 
serve  efficiently  some  of  the  main  ])ur- 
poses  contemplated  in  their  institution, 
lu  a  great  measure,  they  still  afford  a 
legal  provision  for  education,  as  far  as 
legal  provision  is  absolutely  neces* 
sary* 

That  a  strictly  national  system  of 
education  is  on  many  accounts  desir- 
able, no  one  will  doubt,  any  more  than 
that  the  connexion  between  the  parish 
schools  and  the  National  Church  is,  in 
the  present  state  of  opinion  in  the 
country,  an  insuperable  obstacle  to 
any  such  material  extension  of  the 
present  machinery,  as  would^con^titute 
a  strictly  national  educational  system. 
But  whether  the  necessity  or  propriety 


*  The  Charch  herself,  to  a  considerable  extent,  sapplementa  deficiencies  in  the 
legal  school  provision  by  means  of  her  ^  Education  Scheme,"  whose  object  and  effi- 
ciency  may  be  partly  gathered  from  the  two  first  sentences  of  the  last  report  of  the 
managing  committee  : — 

'*  l^e  schools  under  the  charge  of  your  committee  (as  has  often  been  stated)  are 
intended  to  form  aunliaries  to  the  parish  schools,  not  to  compete  or  interfere  with 
these  admirable  institutions ;  and,  accordingly^  are  never  planted  except  where, 
owing  to  local  peculiarities,  it  is  impossible  that  all  the  youth  of  the  district  requiring 
instruction  can  be  gathered  into  one  place.  While  much  needed,  your  schoolB  con- 
tinue to  be  most  useful ;  and,  indeed,  by  the  divine  blessing,  they  appear  to  have 
been  rendered  eminently  beneficial. 

^  The  number  of  schools  under  the  care  of  your  committee  may  be  reported  of 
thus  :— Those  situated  in  the  Highlands  and  Islands,  125  ;  those  in  the  Lowlands^ 
64 ;  and  those  pUnted  at  the  expense  of  the  Church  of  Scotland's  Ladies'  Gaelic  School 
Society,  and  placed  under  your  committee's  charge,  20 :  in  all,  209." 

VOL,  Lxv. — ^No.  ccccm. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


574 


Rationed  Education  m  Scotland. 


[Maj, 


of  an  alteration  of  the  present  system 
be  an  inference  from  these  premises  is 
a  different  question.  Onr  answer  to 
Lord  Melgand  here  is,  that  to  remove 
the  parish  schools  from  the  superin- 
tendence of  the  Chnrch  wonld  not  have 
the  smallest  effect  in  facilitating 
arrangements  for  the  purpose  which 
Lord  Melgnnd  and  others  profess — 
doubtless,  sincerely— to  have  so  much 
at  heart,  and  that,  upon  the  whole, 
a  national  system  of  education  for 
Scotland,  of  a  more  general  description 
than  the  one  already  in  operation,  is, 
at  least  in  present  circumstances, 
V)hoUy  impracHcabie  on  any  conations 
or  terras,  after  any  fiashion,  or  mode, 
or  plan  whatsoever.  It  is  right  that 
this  should  be  distinctly  understood. 
If  Lord  Melgnnd  believes  that  the 
only  or  even  the  principal  difficulty  in 
the  way  of  his  Utopian  sdieme  of  a 
strictly  national  system  for  this  coun- 
try, which  shall  unite  all  sects  and 
parties,  is  the  connexion  between  the 
parish  school  and  the  parish  church, 
he  must  be  extremely  ignorant  of  the 
state  of  public  opinion  in  Scotland, 
where,  in  fact,  any  such  scheme  is,  on 
«very  account,  notoriously  out  of  the 
question. 

Whether,  with  all  its  defects,  the 
present  system  is  not  better  than  no 
system  at  all,  is  therefore  a  question 
deserving  the  serious  consideration 
even  of  those  who  are  most  inimical 
to  it.  We  would  venture  here  to 
suggest,  that  if  the  existing  system 
is  to  be  interfered  with,  that  interfer- 
ence should  not  at  least  be  attempted 
until  a  stricify  national  substtttUe  fer 
it  has  been  actually  agreed  upon. 
But  It  is  vain  to  talk  thus.  The 
education  system  of  1696,  already 
established,  to  which  the  i>eople  have 
long  been  habituated,  and  whose  value 
they  have  had  the  best  means  of  ap- 
preciating, is  the  only  approximation 
to  a  national  system  which  would  now 
be  tolerated  for  a  moment,  and,  if  it 
were  set  aside,  could  not  be  replaced 
by  any  other. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Church  her- 
self would  not  consent  to  any  scheme 
which  deprived  her  of  her  present  se- 
curities for  the  "  godly  upbringing  " 
of  the  children  of  her  own  communion. 
Abolish  in  the  pnish  schools  the  tests 
and  rights  of  snpeiririon  which  she 
now  possesses,  and  she  must  seek,  in 


schools  raised  by  voluntaiy  contriba- 
tion,  the  means  of  carrying  out  her 
principles  on  the  subject  of  ^ucation. 
It  is  equally  well  known,  that  neither 
Ivould  the  dissenters  agree  amon|; 
themselves  as  to  a  national  system  of 
education.  Of  these  member?  of  the 
community,  a  large  proportion  wonld 
object  to  any  system  which  excluded 
the  Bible  and  the  Shorter  Catechisn 
from  the  schools ;  and  another  large 
proportion — all  who  are  voluntaries- 
would  be  equally  bound,  on  their  own 
principles,  to  oppose  any  plan  which 
did  NOT  exclude  the  Bible  and  the 
Shorter  Catechism— the  latter  class 
holding  that  the  state  cannot,  without 
sin,  interfere  in  any  way  in  the  reli- 
gious instruction  of  the  people,  as 
strongly  as  the  former  dass  holds  such 
interference  to  be  the  duty  of  th« 
state.  But  this  is  not  all.  jHius,  for 
instance,  the  Free  seceders  have  ahown, 
in  the  most  unequivocal  manner,  that 
their  objection  is  not  only  to  the 
parish  schools,  as  at  present  organ- 
ised, but  to  all  schools  not  imder 
their  own  special  superintendence. 

What  the  views  of  the  present  rate- 
payers would  be  remidns  to  be  seen. 
The  endowment  of  the  parish  schools 
cannot  be  called  national.  It  comes 
exclusively  out  of  the  pockets  of  the 
landed  gentry  and  other  heritors  <rf 
the  country,  who,  as  fer  as  we  are 
aware,  have  never  as  a  class  expressed 
any  dissatisfaction  with  its  present 
application,  or  any  wish  to  intafec 
at  all  with  the  ceneral  ecclesiastical 

SBtem  with  which  ft  is  connected, 
ow  far  their  concurrence  to  a  radical 
alteration  in  the  appropriation  of 
ftmds,  for  which  they  originally  con- 
sented to  assess  thenasdves  on  speci- 
fied conditions,  could  be  secured,  we 
do  not  know;  but  we  have  strong  sus- 
picions that  not  the  least  of  the  diffi- 
culties would  arise  from  this  quartor, 
which  is  not  usually  taken  into 
aconnt.  In  short,  let  the  question  be 
put  to  the  test.  Propose  a  substitute 
for  the  enactment  of  1696.  Draw  up 
a  bin  in  which  the  detiuls  of  a  work- 
able national  system  of  education  are 
intelligibly  set  forth,  and  let  that  sys- 
tem be  what  it  will,  liberal  or  illibend, 
exdnsive  or  catholic — a  system  in 
which  all  sects  are  endowed,  as  in 
many  of  the  German  states,  or  from 
whidi    aU   regions    instniotion  is 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


NaHonal  Education  m  Scotiand. 


blf> 


^xdaded,  as  in  Amenca — let  it  be  the 
wisest,  most  eomprehensive,  most 
flexible  scheme  ever  devised — and  see 
the  result :  see  whether  the  true  diffi- 
cvltv  la  setting  in  motion  a  more  ex- 
tended and  more  strictly  national  sys- 
tem of  edncation  than  at  present  exists, 
lies  in  the  connexion  between  the  parish 
8dbools  and  the  Established  Ohorch, 
which  an  aot  of  parliament  might 
xemedy  any  day,  or  in  causes  which 
no  strong-handed  measure  of  the  legis- 
latare  can  reach— in  the  irremedliJi>le 
differences  of  opinion  on  the  subject  of 
education,  and  on  the  subject  of  reli- 
^  gion,  and  on  the  subject  of  national 
endowments,  prevalent  at  this  day  in 
Scotland,  to  a  degree,  and  with  com- 

SUcations,  perhaps,  nowhere  else  to 
e  found  in  the  worlds 
We  consider  it  unnecessary  to  say 
anything  as  to  the  only  other  reason 
aUe^  by  Lord  Melgund  for  an  inter- 
ference with  the  present  management 
of  the  parish  schools — ^namely,  the 
practical  ii^nstice  suffered  by  dissen- 
ters from  the  Established  Church,  by 
the  exclusive  character  of  that  man- 
agement. We  almost  hope  we  mis- 
m^ret  his  lordship's  statement,  in 
attributing  to  him  an  objection  which 
Is  nowhere  announced  in  explicit 
terms,  but  which  seems  to  us  to  be 
not  the  less  obviously  suggested.  The 
objection,  however,  is  a  common  <aie. 
Thus,  as  quoted  by  Lord  Melgund 
himself,  the  Bev.  Dr  Taylor  stated  be- 
fore the  Lords'  Committee,  that  the 
^*  Dissenters  desired  the  reform  of  the 
parish  schools  less  on  account  of  the 
education  of  the  children,  than  to  open 
a  field  of  emplovment  for  perscMis  who 
wish  to  be  schoolmasters,  and  are 
members  of  congregations  not  belong- 
ing to  the  Estabiiahed  Church ;"  and 
that  ^'  Dissenteors  consider  it  a  griev- 
«noe,  or  badge  of  inferiority,  and  an 
act  of  injustice,  that  they  should  be 
excluded  from  holding  office  in  scho(^ 
which  are  national  institutions." 

We  think  it  needless  to  enter  upon 
this  topic,  for  if  the  reason  here  al- 
leged be  valid  as  against  the  parish 
schools,  it  is  also  valid  as  against  the 
parish  churches — against,  in  a  word, 
the  whole  system  of  the  national  reli- 
gious Establishment;  and  we  trust 
that  the  time  is  not  yet  come  when 
the  propriety  of  overthrowing  that  in- 
stitution, and — ^for  all  must  stand  or 


fall  together— those  of  the  sister  king- 
doms, admits  of  serious  discussion.  It 
is  worthy  of  notice,  however,  in  pass- 
ing, not  only  that  such  is  at  bottom 
the  true  state  of  the  question,  but  that, 
with  almost  the  whole  of  the  advo- 
cates of  a  change,  it  is  acknowledged 
to  be  80  j  and  that  that  change,  like 
the  similar  proposed  innovations  in 
the  universities,  and  like  the  Lord 
Advocate's  Marriage  and  Begistration 
Bills,  is  mainly  desired,  when  desired 
at  all«  as  an  important  step  towards 
the  gradual  accomplishment  of  an 
ulterior  ot^t,  which  it  is  not  yet  ex- 
pedient to  seek  by  open  and  straight- 
forward means. 

Before  concluding  this  protest 
against  the  sweeping  measures  pro- 
posed by  Lord  Melgimd  and  the  party 
which  he  represents,  it  is  right  to  take 
some  notice  of  another  question.  Is 
the  school  system  of  Scotland  inca- 
pable of  any  alteration  whatever  fpr 
the  better  ?  Granting  that  its  funda* 
mental  principles  ought  to  remam  in- 
tact, may  it  not,  and  should  it  not, 
be  rendered  more  efficient  in  the  de- 
tails of  its  administration,  by  the  aid 
of  the  legislature? 

One  matter  of  detail  which  has  been 
often  pointed  out  as  calling  for  legis- 
lative interference,  is  the  dijQkulty, 
under  the  present  law,  of  relieving 
parishes  £rom  the  burden  of  incompe- 
tent schoolmasters,  and  particularly 
of  schoolmast€0rs  who  ha^e  become 
unfit  for  their  duties  by  age  or  infir- 
mity. Unhappily  there  are  no  retir- 
ing allowances  provided  in  the  paro- 
chial school  system  of  ScotlsAd.  The 
consequence  is,  that  it  depends  upon 
the  mere  libemlitf  of  the  heritors^ 
who  however,  to  tneur  honour,  are  sel- 
dom found  wanting  in  such  cases — 
whether  a  man  who  has  outlived  his 
usefulness  shall  oontiuue  to  exercise 
his  functions.  For  this  evil  it  is  very 
desirable  that  tlie  obvious  remedy 
should  be  furnished;  and  we  think 
that  there  are  no  insurmountable 
practical  difficulties  to  arran^> 
ments  on  the  subject  being  earned 
into  effect.  It  might  also  ^  proper 
to  give  greater  facilities  to  presbv- 
teries  in  dismissing  teachers  for  wilral 
neglect  of  duty—a  contingency  which 
it  is  right -to  mention  is  both  of  very 
rare  occurrence^  and  is  best  provided 
against  by  care  in  the  selection,  on 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


576 


NcUionai  Education  in  Scotland. 


[Maj, 


the  part  of  the  heritors,  and  in  the 
rigorous  exercise  hr  presbyteries  of 
their  large  powers  of  examination  and 
rejection,  when  the  appointments  are 
originally  made. 

With  regard  to  the  existing  salaries, 
thehr  inadequacy  has  been  already  in- 
sisted npon.  Nor,  for  many  reasons, 
can  we  accept  the  recently  pro- 
pounded— if  it  can  be  said  to  be  pro- 
pounded, for  its  terms  are  not  a  little 
ambiguous — plan  of  the  Privy  Coun- 
cil's Committee  for  their  augmenta- 
tion as  any  remedy  whatever.  That 
plan— not  to  speak  of  more  serious 
objections  to  it— includes  certain  con- 
ditions which  are  so  framed,  as  prac- 
tically to  exclude  from  participation 
in  the  grant  all  parishes  except  the 
wealthiest  and  most  liberal,  which,  of 
course,  least  need  it.  It  is  enough  to 
mention  here,  that  one  of  the  condi- 
tions on  which  this  grant,  in  every 
case^  depends,  is  the  voluntary  con- 
currence of  the  heritors  themselves  in 
the  payment  of  a  considerable  propor- 
tion of  any  addition  to  the  present 
salary.  We,  of  course,  wish,  that 
eventually  some  truly  practicable 
means  may  be  adopted  to  secure  for 
the  parish  schoolmasters,  throughout 
the  country,  allowances  more  in  pro- 
portion than  their  present  pittances 
to  the  importance — ^which  can  hardly 
be  overrated— of  their  duties,  and,  we 
may^  add,  to  their  merits. 

These  matters  of  detail  admit,  we 
repeat,  of  improvement.  It  is  desir« 
able  that  somethingshould  be  done  in 
the  case  of  both.  Better,  however,  a 
hundredfold,  that  things  should  remain 
altogether  as  they  are,  than  that  the 
principles  lying  at  the  foundation  of 
the  system  should  be  shaken.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  the  Church  will  be 
true  to  herself  in  resard  to  the  ques- 
tion of  pecuniary  aid  either  from  so- 
Temment,  or  by  government  legisla- 
tion ;  ref^ising  for  its  sake  to  compro- 
mise in  the  least  degree  her  sacred 
rights — or  let  us  rather  call  them  her 


sacred    duties — of   superintendence. 
Better  to  be  poor  than  not  pure. 

One  word  more.  Alarming  as  is 
the  proposal  of  the  member  for  Green- 
ock, we  have  to  state,  with  great  re^ 
gret,  that  it  does  no  more  than  con- 
firm apprehensions  for  the  safety  of  a 
system  hitherto  found  to  work  well, 
which  have  been  awakened  by  actual 
proceedings  already  adopted.  It  is 
impossible  that  any  one  can  have 
watched  the  gradual  development  of 
the  plan,  in  regard  particularly,  though 
not  exclusively,  to  Scotland,  of  that 
anomalous  board,  the  Privy  Council's 
Committee  on  Education,  without  be- 
ing persuaded  that  they  are,  we  do  not 
say  mtended,  but,  at  least,  most  nicely 
adapted  to  the  eventual  attainment  of 
the  very  same  object  which  Lord  Mel- 
ffund  would  accomplish  per  saUum, 
The  every-day  increasmg  claims  of  the 
Board  to  a  right  of  intmerence  with 
the  internal  management  of  <m  schools, 
its  assumption  of  apparently  unlimited 
legislative  powers,  and  its  continual 
indications  of  special  hostility  to  the 
parochial  school  system,  constitute  an 
ominous  combination  of  unfavourable 
circumstances.  Even  in  the  act  of 
ostensibly  aiding,  it  is  secretly  under- 
mining tiiat  system.  It  is  not  only 
weakening  its  effidency  by  the  en- 
couragement of  rival  schools — rival  in 
the  strictest  sense  of  the  term — but,  by 
its  grants  to  the  parish  schools  them- 
selves, on  the  conditions  now  exacted, 
it  is  purchasing  the  power,  and  pre- 
paring the  way,  for  an  eventual  ab- 
sorption of  these  schools  in  a  compre- 
hensive system  to  be  under  its  own 
exclusive  control,  and  to  be  regu- 
lated by  principles  at  direct  variance 
with  those  under  the  influence  of 
which,  in  the  schools  of  Scotland, 
have  been  for  neariy  two  centuries 
brought  up  a  people — ^we  may  say  it 
with  some  pride— not  behind  any  oUier 
in  intelligence,  or  in  moral  and  rdigions 
worth. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Ararat  and  the  Armenian  Highlands, 


577 


ARARAT  AND  THE  ARMENIAN  HIGHLANDS. 


It  were  a  worthy  and  novel  under- 
taking for  a  man  of  science,  enter- 
prise, and  letters,  to  explore  and 
describe  in  succession  the  most  cele- 
brated of  the  earth's  mountains.  And 
we  know  of  no  person  better  fitted 
for  such  a  task,  and  likely  to  accom- 
plish it  with  more  honour  to  himself 
and  advantage  to  the  world,  than  the 
persevering  traveUer  and  able  writer, 
the  title  of  whose  latest  work  heads 
this  page.  Has  he  allotted  himself 
that  task  ?  We  cannot  say ;  but 
what  he  has  already  done  looks  like 
its  commencement,  and  he  has  time 
before  him  to  follow  the  path  upon 
which  he  has  so  successfully  and  credit- 
ably entered.  In  Dr  Moritz  Wagner 
we  have  an  instance  of  a  strong 
natural  bent  forcing  its  way  in  defi- 
ance of  obstacles.  Compelled  by  the 
pressure  of  peculiar  circumstances  to 
abandon  his  academical  studies  at 
Augsburg  before  they  were  completed, 
and  to  devote  himself  to  commercial 
pursuits,  he  entered  a  merchant's 
Louse  at  Marseilles.  Business  took 
him  to  Aiders,  and  his  visit  to  that 
country,  Uien  in  the  early  years  of 
French  occupation,  roused  beyond  the 
possibility  of  restraint  the  ardent 
thirst  for  travel  and  knowledge  which 
had  always  been  one  of  his  charac- 
teristics. Abandoning  trade,  be 
returned  to  Oermany  and  devoted 
himself  to  the  study  of  natural  history, 
and  especially  to  that  of  zoology, 
which  he  had  cultivated  in  his  youth. 
In  1836,  being  then  in  his  twen^- 
ninth  year,  he  started  from  Paris  iov 
Algeria,  where  he  travelled  for  two 
years,  sharing,  in  the  capacity  of 
member  of  a  scientific  commission, 
in  the  second  and  successful  expedi- 
tion to  Constantina.  It  is  a  pecu- 
liarity, and  we  esteem  it  laudable,  of 
many  German  travellers  of  the  more 
reflective  and  scientific  class,  that 
they  do  not  rush  into  type  before  the 
dust  of  the  journey  is  shaken  from 


their  feet,  but  take  time  to  digest  and 
elaborate  the  history  of  their  researches. 
Thus  it  was  not  until  three  years 
after  his  return  to  Europe,  that  Dr 
Wagner  sent  forth  from  his  studious 
retirement  at  Augsburg  an  account 
of  his  African  experiences,  in  a  book 
which  still  keeps  the  place  it  at  once 
took  as  the  best  upon  that  subject  in 
the  Grerman  language.*  The  work 
had  not  long  been  issued  to  the  public, 
•when  its  author  again  girded  himself 
for  the  road.  This  time  his  footsteps 
were  turned  eastwards  ;  Asia  was  his 
goal:  he  passed  three  busy  and 
active  years  in  Turkey  and  Bussia^ 
Circassia  and  Armenia.  The  strictly 
scientific  results  of  this  long  period  of 
observant  travel  and  diligent  research 
are  reserved  for  a  great  work,  now 
upon  the  anvil.  To  the  general 
reader  Dr  Wagner  addressed,  a  few 
months  ago,  two  volumes  of  remark- 
able spiiit  and  interest,  which  we 
recently  noticed ;  and  he  now  comes 
forward  with  a  third,  in  its  way 
equally  able  and  attractive.  The 
apparent  analogy  between  the  sub- 
jects of  the  two  books,  as  treating  of 
contiguous  countries  and  nations,  but 
slightly  cloaks  their  real  contrast. 
The  two  mountain  ranges,  whose 
world- renowned  names  figure  on  their 
title-paffes,  are,  although  geographi- 
cally adjacent  to  each  other,  as  far 
apart  as  the  antipodes  in  their  history 
and  associations,  and  in  the  character 
of  their  inhabitants.  Of  the  one  the 
traditions  are  biblical,  of  the  other 
pagan  and  mythological.  Upon  a 
crag  of  Caucasus  Prometheus  howlSf 
and  Medea  culls  poison  at  its  base ; 
upon  Ararat's  summit  the  ark  reposes, 
and  Noah,  stepping  forth  upon  the 
soaked  and  steaming  earth,  founds  the 
village  of  Arguri>  and  plants  the  first 
vine  in  its  vidley.  In  modem  days 
the  contrast  is  not  less  striking. 
Amongst  the  Caucasian  difib  the 
rattle  of  musketry,  the  howl  of  war- 


Be%94  naek  dem  Ararat  nnd  dem  Hoekiand  Amtenien,  ron  Dr  Moairz  WioifSR. 
Mit  eiiiem  Anbange :  Beitrlge  znr  Natnrgeahiohte  des  Hoehlandes  Armenien. 
^Stuttgart  und  Tttbinger,  1848. 

»  JM»»»ilfar  at9im$9kaft  Ai^in  den  Jahren  1836»8.  STolames.  Leipzig,1841. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


&I8 


Ararai  and  the  Armeman  Bigkkuub. 


[May, 


like  fanatics,  the  glitter  of  Mahomedan 
mail,  ttie  charging  hoofe  of  chiyalrons 
Bquadrons,  the  wave  of  rich  robes  and 
the  gleam  of  costly  weapons  pur- 
ehased  with  tb«  fleali  and  blood  of 
Circassians  comely  dangfaters.  *^  Curse 
upon  the  Mascoyitel  Freedom  or 
death  !'*  is  here  the  cry.  Upon  Ara^ 
rat*s  skirts  how  different  the  scene 
and  sounds !  Cloisters  and  churches, 
monks  and  bishops,  precious  relics 
and  sainted  sites,  the  monotonous 
chant  of  priests  and  the  prayer*beirs 
musical  clang,  tho  holy  well  of  Jacob 
and  the  vestiges  of  Noah's  floating 
caravan.^  Dr  Wagner  esteems  his 
journey  to  Armenia  one  of  the  most 
interesting  episodes  of  his  three  jears' 
Asiatic  wanderings*  In  the  preface 
to  its  record,  he  pays  a  handsome 
and  well-deserved  tribute  to  the 
enterprise  of  Englfeh  travellers— to 
the  names  of  Ker  rorter,  Wilbraham, 
Eraser,  Hamilton,  Ahisworth,  and 
many  others— who  have  contributed 
more,  he  sajs,  to  our  geographical 
knowledge  of  Asia,  than  the  learned 
travellers  of  all  the  other  nations  of 
Europe.  He  himself,  he  modestly 
and  truly  intimates,  has  added  in  the 
present  volume  to  the  8t(Hre  of  in- 
formation. 

**  When  1  undertook,  in  the  year  1843, 
a  journey  to  Rassian  Armenia,  Mount 
Ararat  was  the  object  I  had  particularly 
in  Tiew.  Various  circumstances  then 
compelled  me  to  content  myself  with  a 
visit  to  the  north  side  of  that  mountain. 
But  in  the  following  year,  during  my 
journey  to  Turkish  Armenia  and  Persia, 
it  was  Touchsafed  me  to  explore  the  pre- 
viously entirely  unknown  south  side  of 
the  Ararat  group,  and  to  abide  upon 
I'urkish  and  Persian  territory,  in  the 
Vicinity  of  the  mighty  boundary- stone  of 
three  great  empires.  The  striking  posi- 
tion of  Ararat,  almost  equidistant  from 
Chin*  and  ttom  tlra  Iberian  peninsula, 
from  the  ice-bound   Lena  in  the  high 


northern  latitudes  of  Siberia,  and  from 
the  slimy  current  of  the  Ganges  in  South- 
em  Hindostan,  has  at  all  periods  attract- 
ed the  attention  of  geographers.  For 
years  I  had  harboured  the  ardent  wish 
to  visit  the  mysterious  mountain.  Tower- 
ing in  the  centre  of  the  Old  Continent,  an 
image  of  the  fire  whose  mighty  remains 
extend  to  the  regions  of  eternal  ice, 
Ararat  is  indicated  by  Jewish  and  Ar* 
menian  tradition  as  the  peak  of  refuge, 
round  which  the  deluge  roared,  unable  to 
orerflow  It.  From  the  summit  of  the 
gigantic  cone  descended  the  pairs  of  all 
creatures,  whose  descendants  people  the 
earth." 

On  Ararat,  as  in  many  other  places, 
tradition  and  science  disagree.  Di- 
luvial traces  are  sought  there  in  vain. 
On  the  other  hand,  evidences  of  vol- 
canic devastation  on  every  sid© 
abound;  and  a  wish  to  investigate 
this,  and  to  ascertain  the  details  of 
the  subterranean  commotion  that  had 
destroyed  Argun  three  years  previous- 
ly, was  one  of  the  principal  motive* 
of  Dr  Wagner's  visit  to  Armenia. 
Towards  the  middle  of  May  he  started 
from  Tefflis,  the  most  important  town 
of  the  Russian  trans-Caucasian  pro- 
vinces, accompanied  by  Abowian,  a 
well-educated  Armenian  and  accom* 
plishcd  linguist,  and  attended  by 
Ivan,  the  doctor's  Cossack,  a  sham 
fellow,  and  a  faithful  servant  after  hfo 
kind,  but,  Hke  all  his  countrvmen,  an 
inveterate  thief.  Their  vehicle  was  a 
Russian  tekffa^  or  posting  carriage^ 
springless,  and  a  perfect  bone-setter 
on  the  indifferent  roads  of  Armenia. 
They  travelled  in  company  with  that 
well-known  original  and  indefatigable 
traveller,  General  Baron  Von  Hall- 
berg,t  of  whose  appearance,  and  of 
the  sensation  it  excited  In  the  streets 
of  Erivan,  Dr  Wagner  gives  aft 
amusing  account : — 

^  Amongst  the  travellers  was  a  strange 


*  The  Armenian  Christians  abound  in  traditions  respectmg  Noah  and  his  ark. 
We  have  already  mentioned  the  one  relating  to  Arguri,  which  he  is  said  to  have 
founded,  and  which  should  therefore  hare  been  the  oldest  tillage  in  the  worid,  up  to 
its  destruction  in  1840  by  aa  earthquake  and  Tolcanic  eruption,  of  which  Dr  Wagner 
giTes  an  interestiag  account.  The  simple  and  credulous  Christians  of  Armenia 
beliere  that  fragments  of  the  ark  are  still  to  be  found  upon  Ararat. 

t  This  eccentric  old  soldier  and  author,  who  calls  himself  the  Hermit  of  Gauting, 
from  the  name  of  an  estate  he  possesses,  is  not  more  remarkable  for  the  oddity  of  his 
dress  and  appearaaee,  than  for  the  peculiarities  and  affected  roughness  of  his  literary 
style,  and  for  the  orerstrained  originality  of  many  of  his  riews.  In  his  own  country 
he  is  cited  as  a  contrast  to  Prince  Puckler  Muskau,  the  dilettante  and  siWer-fork 
tourist  par  egeeilenct,  whose  affectation,  by  no  means  less  remarkable  than  that  of  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Ar€urat  and  (fte  Armenian  Highhndt. 


figare,  around  which  the  inqaisitlTe  mob 
assembled,  with  ezpreseions  of  the  ut- 
most wonderment.  It  was  that  of  an 
old  man,  hard  upon  eighty,  but  who, 
neyertheless,  sprang  into  the  carriage, 
and  took  his  seat  bedde  a  young  Russian 
lady,  with  an  air  of  juyenile  vigour. 
From  his  chin  and  fiirrowed  cheeks  ^11  a 
Tenerable  gray  beard,  half  concealing  the 
diamondrstudded  order  of  St  Anna,  which 
hnng  round  his  neck,  whilst  upon  his  left 
breast  four  or  fiye  other  stars  and  crosses 
glittered  from  under  the  black  Russian 
caftan,  and  his  bald  head  was  corered  by 
a  red  Turkish  fez,  to  the  front  of  which  a 
leathern  peak  was  sewn.  ',Who  can  he  be  !* 
murmured  the  curious  Armenians  and 
Tartars,  who  could  not  reconcile  the  old 
gentleman's  brilliant  decorations  with  his 
coachman's  caftan  and  Turkish  cap. 
'Certainly  a  general,  or  perhaps  a  great 
lord  from  the  emperor's  court  —  a  man 
of  the  first  t$ckin!*^*  Or  mayhap  a  fo- 
reign ambassador  1'  quoth  others.  'Since 
he  wears  the  fez,  he  must  come  firom 
Stamboul.'  A  Munich  gamin  would  haye 
enlightened  the  good  folks  of  Erivan. 
The  interesting  stranger,  as  some  of  my 
readers  may  already  have  conjectured, 
was  no  other  than  Baron  Von  Hallbergof 
Munich,  (known  also  as  the  Hermit  of 
Gauting,)  my  much-respected  country- 
man. I  made  the  aequaintanee  of  this 
remarkable  man,  and  great  trareller,  in 
1836,  at  Algiers,  where  we  passed  many 
ft  cheerful  day  together,  in  the  society  of 
■ome  jovial  fellow-countrymen.  After  a 
lapse  of  seven  years,  I  again  met  him  at 
Tefflis,  and  we  travelled  together  to  Ar- 
menia. Since  our  parting  at  the  foot 
of  Atlas,  he  had  visited  the  pyramids  of 
Egypt,  and  the  ruined  temples  of  Helio- 
polis,  and  now  the  unwearied  traveller 
thirsted  after  a  sight  of  the  capital  of 
Persia's  kings.  He  had  come  down  the 
Wolga,  and  over  the  Caucasus,  and  was 
ftboat  to  cross  the  Persian  frontier." 

At  Pipis,  the  chief  town  of  a  circle, 
and  residence  of  its  captain,  Dr  Wag- 


579 

ner  was  stnick  bj  the  appearance  of 
a  handsome  moidem  boiidiDg;  and 
soon  he  learned,  to  his  astonishment, 
that  it  was  a  district-school  erected 
by  the  former  governor,  General  Von 
Bosen.  A  school  in  this  wild  dis- 
trict, scantilj  peopled  with  rude  Tar- 
tars and  Armenians,  seemed  as  much 
ont  of  place  as  a  circulatiDg  library  in 
an  OJibbeway  village.  He  proceeded 
forthwith  to  visit  the  seminary,  whose 
fblding-doors  stood  invitingly  open. 
The  spacione  halls  were  anfumished 
and  untenanted;  over  the  mouldy 
walls  spiders  spread  their  webs  with 
impunity  ;  the  air  was  damp,  the 
windows  were  broken,  and  a  great 
lizard  scuttled  out  of  sight  upon  the 
traveller's  intrusion.  There  were 
neither  benches  nor  desks,  teachers 
nor  pupils.  Nor  had  there  ever  been 
any  of  these,  said  a  Cossack  lieutenant^ 
whose  horses  were  feeding  in  the 
court-yard.  The  school-house  was  a 
mere  impromptu  in  honour  of  the 
Russian  emperor.  In  many  coun- 
tries, when  the  sovereign  travels,  his 
progress  is  celebrated  by  triumphal 
arches^  garlands,  and  illuminations. 
In  Russia  it  is  different.  Nicholas  is 
known  to  prefer  use  to  ornament,  and 
when  he  visits  the  remote  provinces 
of  his  vast  dominions,  his  Ueutenants 
and  governors  strain  their  ingenuity 
to  niake  him  credit  the  advance  of 
civilisation  and  the  prosperity  of  his 
subjects.  The  property-men  are  set 
to  work,  and  edifices  spring  up,  more 
solid,  but,  at  present,  scarcely  more 
useful  than  the  pasteboard  mansions 
on  a  theatrical  stage.  On  his  ap- 
proach to  Tefflis,  the  school  was  run 
up  in  all  haste,  and  plans  and  schemes 
were  shown  for  the  education  of 
Tartar  and  Armenian.  Languages 
and  every  branch  of  knowledge  were 


baron,  is  qaite  of  the  opposite  description.    Yon  Hallberg's  works  are  numerous,  and 

•f  various  merit.    One  of  his  most  recent  publications  is  a  ''  Journey  through  Eng- 

landy'*  (Stuttgard,  1841.)  The  chief  motive  of  his  travels  is  apparep*!^  •.!«»•  ^f  Inm. 

motion  and  novelty.    When  travelling  with  Dr  Wagner,  he  took  li 

companion's  geological  and  botanical  investigatious,  and  directec 

men  rather  than  to  things.    After  passing  the  town  of  Pipis,  three  c 

Teflli3,  the  country  and  climate  assumed  a  very  German  aspect,  s 

the  travellers  of  the  vicinity  of  the  Hartz  Mountains.    "  It  is  foil 

Baron  Hallberg,  almost  angrily,  **  perfect  folly,  to  travel  a  couple 

to  visit  a  country  as  like  Genrany  as  one  egg  is  to  another."    "  I  » 

man,  who  had  daily  to  support  the  rude  jolting  of  the  Russian  tdi 

ing  greatly  from  the  assaults  of  vermin,  and  who  found  so  little  mai 

fill  his  joomaL"— JStftM  nach  dem  Ararat,  jfc,  p.  15. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


680 


Ararat  and  the  Armenian  Highlands, 


[Mar, 


to  bo  taught,  and  money  was  to  be 
given  to  the  people  to  induce  them  to 
send  their  children  to  the  hall  of 
learning.  ^*  The  project  was  splen- 
did," said  the  Cossack  officer  to 
Dr  Wagner,  "  but  there  the  matter 
rested.  No  sooner  had  the  Emperor 
seen  the  school-house,  and  expressed 
his  satisfaction,  than  the  hands  of 
masons  and  carpenters  seemed  sud- 
denly crippled.  Not  another  ruble 
reached  Pipis  for  the  prosecution  of 
the  philanthropical  work,  the  architect 
took  himself  off,  and  we  took  posses- 
sion of  the  empty  house.  The  court- 
yard is  convenient  for  our  horses,  and 
in  the  hot  summer  days  my  Cossacks 
find  pleasant  lying  in  the  large  cool 
halls.**  Not  all  the  acuteness,  fore- 
sight, and  far-sightedness,  and  many 
kmgly  qualities,  which  combine  to  ren- 
der Nicholas  the  most  remarkable  of 
existing  monarchs,  can  protect  from 
such  impositions  as  this  the  sovereign 
of  so  extensive  a  country  as  Russia. 
In  vain  may  the  czar,  indefatigable 
npon  the  road,  visit  the  remotest  cor- 
ners of  his  dominions ;  unless  he  do 
so  incognito,  after  the  fashion  of 
Haroun  Alraschid,  he  will  still  be 
cheated.  The  governing  part  of  the 
population,  the  civil  and  military  offi- 
cials, conspire  to  deceive  him ;  and  the 
governed  dare  not  reveal  the  truth, 
for  their  masters  have  abundant  means 
at  their  disposal  to  punish  an  indiscre- 
tion. ''  Life  is  delightful  in  this 
country,"  said  Mr  Ivanoff,  a  Russian 
district  overseer  in  Armenia,  as  he 
reclined  npon  his  divan,  wrapped  in  a 
silken  caftan,  sipping  coffee  and 
smoking  a  cigar;  *'how  absurd  of 
people  in  Russia  to  look  upon  Caucasus 
as  a  murder-hole,  and  to  pity  those 
who  have  to  cross  it,  as  if  they  were 
going  straight  to  purgatory  1  I  reckon 
one  vegetates  here  very  endurably, 
and  he  who  complains  is  either  an  ass, 
a  rascal,  or  a  liar.  You  see,  my  house 
is  tolerably  comfortable,  my  table  not 
bad*  I  have  four-and>twenty  saddle- 
horses  in  my  stable,  superb  beasts,  fit 
for  a  princess  stud,  and  to  crown  all, 
I  am  loved  and  honoured  by  the  twenty 
thousand  human  beings  over  whom  I 
rule  as  the  sardar^s  representative." 
Ivanoff^s  frank  avowal  of  his  satisfac- 
tion contrasted  with  the  hypocritical 
complaints  of  many  of  his  colleagues, 
who,  whilst  filling  their  pockets  and 


consuming  the  fat  of  the  land,  affect 
to  consid^  residence  in  trans-Cau- 
casus the  most  cruel  of  inflictions. 
"  Truly,"  says  Dr  Wagner,  "  nothing 
was  wanting  to  the  comfort  of  life  ia 
Mr  Ivanoff *s  dwelling:  convenient 
furniture,  a  capital  kitchen,  wine  from 
France,  cigars  from  the  Havannah^ 
horses  of  the  best  breeds  of  Arabia, 
Persia,  andTurkistan — all  these  things 
have  their  value,  and^yet,  to  procure 
them,  Mr  Ivanoff  had  a  salary  of  only 
six  hundred  paper  rubles,  (about  six- 
and-twenty  pounds  sterling !)  He  had 
a  tolerably  pretty  wife,  on  whom  he 
doated,  and  to  whom  he  brought  all 
manner  of  presents  whenever  he  re- 
turned from  the  Erivan  bazaar,  which 
he  visited  generally  once  a-week. 
Trinkets  and  silken  stufis  and  rich 
carpets — whatever,  in  short,  the  littie 
woman  fancied — she  at  once  got,  and 
if  not  to  be  had  at  Erivan,  it  was 
written  for  to  Teffiis.  .  .  When 
Ivanoff  rode  forth  in  his  official  capa- 
city, it  was  with  a  following  of  twenty 
horsemen,  all  belonging  to  his  house- 
hold, and  with  a  banner  waving  before 
him.  What  a  life !  comfort,  riches, 
oriental  pomp,  and  despotic  power! 
Who  would  not  be  chief  of  a  Russian 
district  in  Armenia?"  All  this  upou 
ten  shillings  a-week  I  It  was  more 
astounding  even  than  the  school-house 
at  Pipis.  Abowlan,  as  yet  inexpe- 
rienced in  Russian  w^,  regarded  the 
riddle  as  unsolvable.  Ivanoff  confessed 
he  had  nothing  beside  his  salary.  How 
then  did  he  maintain  this  princely 
existence  ?  He  assured  the  travellers 
he  was  beloved  by  his  people,  and 
the  Armenian  peasants  confirmed  the 
assurance.  Extortion  and  violent 
plunder  could  not  therefore  be  the 
means  employed.  It  was  not  till  some 
days  later,  and  in  another  district, 
that  Dr  Wagner  elucidated  the 
mystery.  He  saw  a  long  procession  of 
Armenian  and  Tartar  peasants  pro- 
ceeding to  the  house  of  Ivanoff*s 
official  brother.  They  were  gift-laden ; 
one  led  ahorse,  another  a  sheep,  a  third 
dragged  a  stately  goat  by  the  horns, 
and  forced  the  bearded  mountaineer 
to  kneel  before  the  Rnssian^s  corpulent 
wife,  who  received  the  animals,  the 
eggs,  milk,  cakes,  and  other  offerings, 
as  well  in  coin  as  in  kind,  quite  as 
matter  of  course.  Nay,  she  even 
looked  sour  and  sulky,  as  though  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1840.] 


Ararat  and  Ute  Armenian  Highlands, 


581 


tribate  were  scanty;  and  Dr  Wagner, 
who  was  an  unobserved  witness  of  the 
scene,  heard  her  say  to  the  leader  of 
the  deputation,  (probably  the  mayor 
of  some  Armenian  village :)  **  Think 
yourselves  lucky  to  get  ofif  so  cheaply, 
for  if  it  were  known  that  the  tschuma 
is  amongst  you !  .  .  **  The  shrewd 
doctor  caught  at  this  menacing  phrase, 
as  a  possible  key  to  what  had  so  greatlj' 
puzzled  him.  The  meaning  of  the  Rus- 
sian word  Uchuma^  which,  upon  the 
man  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
seemed  to  have  the  effect  of  a  thunder- 
bolt, being  unknown  to  him,  he  in- 
quired it  of  his  companion.  T$chuma 
means  the  plague.  This  frightful 
disease  the  governor  of  the  trans- 
Caucasian  provinces,  stimulated  by 
stringent  orders  from  St  Petersburg, 
makes  it  his  constant  effort  to  extir- 
pate at  any  price  from  the  territory 
under  his  rule.  Let  a  district-overseer 
report  a  village  infected,  and  forth- 
with it  is  placed  in  the  most  rigid 
quarantine  by  means  of  a  circle  of 
Cossack  pickets ;  for  months  the  un- 
lucky  inhabitants  are  deprived  of  com- 
munication with  the  surrounding 
country ;  their  agriculture  is  suspen- 
ded, their  crops  rot  in  the  ground,  and 
the^  lack  the  necessaries  of  life.  All 
theirclothes,  bedding,  blankets,  every- 
thing capable  of  conveying  infection, 
are  burned  without  reserve,  and  the 
compensation  allowed  does  not  repay 
a  tithe  of  the  loss.  Hence  the  terrible 
power  of  the  district- overseer:  a  word 
suffices;  he  will  declare  the  village 
infected  1  The  first  death  from  fever,  or 
any  other  endemic,  furnishes  him  with 
a  pretext.  At  the  least  threat  of  this 
nature,  the  peasants,  apprehending 
ruin,  hasten  to  sacrifice  part  of  their 
substance,  and  to  avert  the  evil  by  gifts 
to  the  great  man,  who  is  maintain^  in 
opulence  and  luxury  by  these  illegiti- 
mate imposts.  Here  was  the  secret  of 
Ivanoff*s  five- and-twenty  horses  and 
other  Uttle  comforts.  Nevertheless  he 
was  liked  in  the  country,  for  he  did 
not  over-drive  the  willing  brute  he 
lived  upon,  neither  did  he  hoard  Uke 
his  colleagues,  but  spent  his  money 
freely  and  generously.  And  the  poor 
peasants  brought  him  their  contribu- 
tions unasked  and  almost  gladly,  eager 
to  keep  him  in  good  humour,  and  fear- 
ful of  changing  him  for  a  severer  task- 
master.   Suppose  Czar  Nicholas  on  a 


visit  to  his  Armenian  provinces,  and 
how  can  it  be  expected  that  the  poor 
ignorant  wretches  who  offer  up  their 
sheep  and  chickens  as  ransom  from 
the  plague-spot,  will  dare  carry  to  his 
august  feet  a  complaint  against  their 
tyrants?  They  may  have  heard  of  his 
justice,  and  feel  confidence  in  it  —  for 
it  is  well  known  that  the  emperor  is 
prompt  and  terrible  in  his  chastisement 
of  oppressive  and  unjust  officials,  when 
he  can  detect  them — and  yet  they  will 
hesitate  to  risk  greater  evils  by  irymg 
to  get  rid  of  those  that  already  afflict 
them.  Thfiesprit'de-corpsoiiiViSSAKTi 
employes  is  notorious,  and  a  disgraced 
governor  or  overseer  may  generally 
reckon  pretty  confidently  on  his  suc- 
cessor for  vengeance  upon  those  who 
denounced  Mm.  The  corruption,  ac- 
cording to  Dr  Wagner,  extends  to  the 
very  highest;  and  men  of  rank  and 
birth,  piinces  and  general  officers,  are 
no  more  exempt  from  it  than  the  un- 
derstrapper with  a  few  hundred  rubles 
per  annum.  ^^One  crow  does  not 
pick  out  another^s  eyes,**  says  the 
Grerman  proverb.  But  in  spite  of  his 
officers*  cunning  and  caution,  the  em- 
peror can  hardly  visit  his  distant  pro- 
vinces without  detecting  abuses  and 
getting  rid  of  illusions.  One  of  these 
was  dispelled  when  he,  for  the  first  time, 
beheld,  upon  his  journey  to  Russian  Ar- 
menia in  1887,  the  much-vaunted  for- 
tifications of  £rivan*s  citadel.  Count 
Paskewitch*s  pompous  bulletins  had 
led  him  to  expect  something  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  feeble  walls,  composed 
of  volcanic  stones,  loosely  cemented 
with  mud  and  straw,  upon  whose 
conqueror  a  proud  title  had  been 
bestowed.  The  result  of  all  the  em- 
peror's observations  at  that  time  had 
great  influence — so  says  Dr  Wagner 
— upon  his  subsequent  policy.  His 
love  of  peace,  and  his  moderation  with 
respect  to  Asiatic  conquest,  were  con- 
firmed by  the  impression  he  then  re- 
ceived. Of  this  the  doctor  was  assured 
by  many  well-informed  and  trust- 
worthy persons  in  the  trans-Caucasus. 
**  This  country  needs  much  improve- 
ment,'* said  Nicholas  to  a  high  official 
who  accompanied  him  throuffh  the 
monotonous,  thinly-peopled,  ana  scan- 
tily-tilled wildernesses,  and  through 
the  indigent  towns  and  villages  of 
Armenia.  His  desire  for  conquest 
was  cooled,  and  his  wish  to  consolidate 


Digitized  by 


Google 


562 


Ararat  and  the  Armenkm  HtgUandi, 


[May, 


and  improve  what  he  already  possess- 
ed was  strengthened  tenfold.  Eyeiy- 
where  upon  the  south-eastern  frontier 
of  Russia  Dr  Wagner  traced  eridence 
of  this  latter  ^ling.  Bat  he  also 
beheld  forts  on  a  scale  and  of  a  con- 
atmction  hinting  offensive  as  well  as 
defensive  projects  on  the  part  of  their 
boilder.  One  of  them  was  in  process 
of  erection  at  Erivan^  to  replace  the 
orasy  edifice  already  referred  to.  In 
1^3,  the  progress  of  the  works  was 
alow,  for  anoiher  expensive  citadel 
was  building  on  the  Turkish  frontier, 
and  it  was  desirable  to  limit  the  annual 
outlay  for  this  item.  And  a  hostile 
demonstration  against  Russia,  from 
Persians  beyond  the  river  Araxes,  was 
the  last  thing  to  be  ^>prehended. 

"  The  great  new  fortrese  is  far  less  in- 
tended for  a  defence  than  for  a  storehouse 
and  place  of  master  for  a  Russian  army 
of  operations  against  the  Persian  frontier 
proTinees,  whose  conquest  the  Emperor  Ni- 
cholas undoubtedly  bequeaths  to  bis  suc- 
cessors. The  formidable  constructions  at 
Seyastopol,  Nieolajeff,  and  Grumri,  are  to 
answer  the  same  end  against  Turkey  as 
that  of  EriTan  against  Persia.  These 
frontier  forts  are  the  sword  of  Damocles, 
which  the  emperor — not  greedy  of  con- 
quest bimself,  but  far-calculating  for  the 
ftiture — suspends  over  the  heads  of  his 
Moslem  neighbours,  to  be  drawn  from  its 
scabbard  under  more  fayourable  circum- 
stances by  a  warlike  son  or  grandson.** 

The  appearance  of  the  forts  in 

Question  gives  a  show  of  reason  to 
)r  Wagner's  prognostications.  Gumri 
^or  iiexandropol,  as  the  Russians 
have  re-baptised  the  contiguous  town 
— is  built  on  a  rocky  eminence,  whose 
crags  serve  it  in  some  measure  for 
waUs.  It  contains  barracks,  case- 
mates, storehouses,  and  hospitals,  all 
as  strong  as  they  are  spacious,  and 
which  could  be  defended  as  detached 
citadels,  supposing  an  enemy  to  have 
mastered  the  wsdls  and  rocky  out- 
works. It  is  adapted  fcnr  an  army  of 
sixty  thousand  men,  and  is  so  roomy, 
that  in  case  of  a  sudden  inroad  of  the 
Pasha  of  Kars — ^who,  if  war  broke 
out,  could  probably  bring  an  army  to 
the  river  Arpatschai  before  the  Rus- 
sians could  assemble  one  at  Tefflis, 
and  march  to  the  frontier — not  onlv 
the  whole  population  of  Alexaodropol, 
(in  lSi3  about  6000  souls,)  but  the 
entire  peasantry  of  the  surrounding 


country  wonld  ftnd  shelter  within  its 
walls.  Its  natural  and  artificial 
strength  is  so  great,  that  a  small  gar- 
rison might  laugh  at  the  attacks  of 
Turks  and  Persians. 

^ '  From  these  turrets,'  said  the  mus- 
taohed  Russian  major  who  showed  me  all 
that  was  worth  seeing  in  the  fortress  of 
Gumri,  *  our  eagle  wUl  one  day  wing  its 
TictoriouB  flight.'  If  tiie  Rossiaiis  erer 
conquer  Asia^o  Turkey,  the  first  it«p 
will  undoubtedly  be  taken  from  this  spot, 
and  therefore  has  the  sagacious  emperor 
commanded  no  expense  to  be  spared  ia 
the  perfection  of  the  works.  '  The  power 
of  Russia  is  patient  as  time,  vast  as 
space,'  once  exclaimed  a  renowned  orator 
in  the  tribune  of  the  French  Chamber. 
Persons  who  assert  that  Nicholas  has  no 
ambition,  that  all  thirst  of  conquest  is 
foreign  to  his  character,  are  perhaps 
right ;  bit  greatly  do  those  err  who  be- 
lieve  that  he  contents  him  with  playing 
the  part  of  the  first  Tory  in  Europe,  and 
thinks  only  of  closing  the  Russian  fron- 
tier to  liberal  ideas,  of  drilling  his  guards 
and  passing  brilliant  reriews.  The  works 
done,  doing,  and  planned,  at  Nioolajeff^ 
Seyastopol,  Gumri,  Eriran,  prove  the 
potent  monarch  to  hare  ulterior  Tiews» 
For  himself^  he  may  be  content  not  to  en- 
large the  enormous  territory  within  whose 
limits  his  voice  is  law.  So  long  as  he 
lives,  perhaps,  no  ukase  will  silence  the 
Uatti-sohertf  of  the  padidiad  beyond  the< 
Arpatschai.  But  under  the  slukdow  of 
this  much-vaunted  moderation  and  love- 
of  peace,  the  prudent  emperor  forgets  not 
to  clear  the  road  of  conquest  into  Asia> 
and  to  leave  it  broad,  smooth,  and  con- 
venient for  some  succeeding  RomanoC" 

Such  speenlatiMifl  as  these,  proceed- 
ing from  a  man  who  has  travelled^ 
with  slow  step  and  observant  eye, 
every  inch  of  the  ground  to  which  he- 
refers,  and  to  whom  a  dear  head^ 
reAective  habits,  and  much  oommn> 
nion  with  the  people  of  the  country  ,^ 
have  given  peculiar  facilities  for  the 
formation  of  a  sound  judgment,  are  of 
high  interest  and  value.  Dr  Wagner 
is  no  dogmatist,  but  a  dose  and 
candid  reasoner,  abounding  in  fiicts  to 
support  what  he  advances,  and  hav- 
ing at  his  fingers'  ends  all  that  haa 
been  written  not  only  in  his  own 
country,  bnt  in  En^and  and  elsewhere^ 
on  the  subject  of  Russia  and  her 
emperor,  of  her  policy  and  her  eastern 
neighbours.  And  it  is  to  the  credit 
of  his  impartiality  that  his  vrritinga 
afibrd  no  due  to  his  own  poUticai 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Ararat  and  <fttf  Armenian  Highlands. 


58a 


predilectioiiB.  He  stigmatises  abases 
whereyer  he  meets  tibem,  and  from 
whatever  cause  proceeding;  but  whilst 
showing  doe  sympathy  with  the  gal- 
lant Curcassians  and  long-soffering 
Armenians,  he  wholly  eschews  the 
insane  propagandism  so  rife  in  the 
writings  of  many  of  his  eonntrymen. 
He  is  evidently  not  of  opinion  that 
antocrat  and  (^pressor  are  always 
synonymous,  and  that  absolutism  is 
essentially  the  worst  tyranny. 

A  preferable  site  havlDg  been  fonnd 
for  the  new  fort  of  Erivan,  the  old 
one  was  still  standing  at  the  period  of 
Dr  Wagner's  visit.  He  gives  an 
amusing  aceoirat  of  its  interior,  and 
especiatty  of  the  apartments  <k  the 
ex-sardar,  Hussein  Khan,  whose  walls 
were  painted  in  firesco,  an  art  still 
quite  m  its  infancy  amongst  the  Per- 
sians. The  pictures,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, were  rather  grotesque  than 
graceful  in  their  execution. 

^  The  mbjeot  of  one  •t  them  ie  the  his- 
tory of  Jusiuf  (Joseph)  in  Egypt,  based 
apon  the  Arabian  tradition^  Zuleikha, 
the  wife  of  Potiphar — so  runs  the  Moslem 
legend — ^bad  become  the  laaghing-stock 
of  the  ladies  ef  Pharaoh's  court,  by  the 
fkilure  of  her  attempt  to  seduce  the  beau- 
tiful Joseph.  To  rcTenge  herself,  she 
inyited  all  those  court-dames  to  risit  her, 
and  commanded  Joseph  to  hand  them 
fhiit  and  sherbet.  But  when  the  women 
beheld  him,  they  were  so  bewitched  by 
his  beauty,  that  they  bit  their  ftngers  in- 
stead of  the  pomegranates.  This  is  the 
moment  selected  by  the  Persian  artist. 
One  of  the  ladies  is  seen  to  swoon  from 
snrprisey  and  Znleikha  triumphs  at  this 
incident,  and  at  the  oonfdsion  of  the 
scoffers.'^ 

There  was  considerable  license  in 
the  subjects  of  some  of  the  other  pic- 
tures, one  of  which  was  intended  to 
turn  the  Armenian  Christians  into 
ridicule,  by  representing  their  priests 
and  bishops  in  profane  society  and 
riotous  revel.  Amongst  the  portraits, 
one  of  the  last  sardar  of  Erivan  re- 
presented him  with  a  gloomy  and  for- 
bidding countenance— an  expression 
which,  if  true  to  Hfe,  was  by  no 
means  in  conformity  with  his  cha- 
racter. 

"  Hassein  Khan  was  esteemed,  eren  by 
the  Armenians,  as  an  able  ruler.  He 
was  a  brare  warrior,  a  great  protector  of 
the  fine  arts^  and  tolerably  moderate  and 


just  in  his  actions.  In  the  straggle  with 
the  Russians  he  exhibited  the  utmost 
personal  gallantry,  but  his  example  had 
no  effect  upon  his  cowardly  soldiery. 
Without  his  knowledge  his  brother  haid 
attempted  to  have  the  Russian  general 
murdered.  When,  after  the  surrender  of 
the  citadel,  they  both  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  Russians,  Ck>unt  Paskewitch  was 
inclined  to  take  his  reyenge,  by  exclud- 
ing the  sardar's  brother,  as  an  assassin^ 
from  the  benefits  of  the  ci^itulation.  But 
the  firm  bearing  and  cold  resignation  of 
the  Persian,  when  brought  before  his 
conqueror,  moTcd  the  latter  to  mercy. 
'  £yery  nation,'  said  the  prisoner  to  €k>unt 
Paskewitch,  (the  words  were  repeated  to 
Dr  Wagner  by  an  eye-witness  of  the  in- 
terview,) '  has  its  own  way  of  making  war. 
With  us  Persians,  all  means  are  held  good 
and  praiseworthy  by  which  we  can  injure 
our  foe.  Thy  death  would  hare  profited 
us,  by  spreading  confusion  and  alarm 
amongst  thy  troops,  and  we  should  haT» 
ayail^  ourselyes  of  the  ciroumstanee 
for  an  attack.  And  if  I  sought  to  kill 
thee,  it  was  solely  in  the  interest  of  my 
soyereign's  cause.  If  you  desire  revenge, 
you  are  tree  to  take  it.  I  am  in  your 
power,  and  shall  know  how  to  meet 
my  fkte.'  This  calm  courage  made  a 
great  impression  upon  the  staff  of  general 
Paskewitch,  (although  the  Persian  noble 
yyas  a  man  of  yery  bad  reputation,)  and 
the  Russian  commander  generously  gaye- 
his  enemy  his  life,  and  ultimately  his  f^- 
dom." 

The  sardar^s  harem  has  less  deco- 
ration  than  the  state  apartments* 
Formerly  its  walls  were  covered  with 
frescos,  mosaic  work,  and  porcelain 
ornaments  of  many  colours ;  but  since 
the  Russians  took  possession  all  these 
have  disappeared,  leaving  the  walls 
bare  and  white.  During  the  csar*» 
short  stay  at  Erivan,  he  inhabited  one 
of  these  rooms,  and  wrote,  with  his 
own  hand,  in  firm,  well-formed  cha- 
racters, his  name  upon  the  wall.  The 
signature  is  now  framed  and  glazed. 
In  many  houses  where  the  emperor 
passed  a  ni^t,  when  upon  his  travels^ 
he  left  a  similar  memento  of  his  pre- 
sence, sometimes  adding  a  few  friendly 
words  for  his  host. 

From  Erivan  Dr  Wagper  started 
for  the  far-famed  Armenian  convent 
of  Eshmiadsini ;  his  journey  enlivened^ 
or  at  least  saved  from  complete  m(>- 
notony,  by  the  eccentricities  of  his 
Cossack  attendant.  Ivan,  warmed 
by  a  glass  of  wodka,  and  no  wiy 
affected  by  the  jolting,  which  to  his 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


584 


Ararat  and  the  Armenian  HigKUmd$. 


[May? 


master  was  martyrdom,  basked  in  the 
morning  snn,  and  chanted  a  ditty  of 
the  Don,  from  time  to  time  taming 
ronnd  his  mnstached  physiognomy, 
and  looking  at  the  doctor  as  for  ap- 
plause. An  active,  cunning  fellow, 
with  a  marvellous  facility  for  making 
himself  understood,  even  by  people  of 
whose  language  he  knew  not  a  syll- 
able, Dr  Wagner  was,  upon  the  whole, 
well  contented  with  him,  although 
utterly  unable  to  break  him  of  steal- 
ing. He  never  left  his  night's  quar- 
ters without  booty  of  some  kind,  al- 
though his  master  always  warned  the 
host  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  upon  his  fin- 
gers. But  when  anything  was  to  be 
pilfered,  the  Don-Cossack's  sleight 
of  hand  threw  into  the  shade  that 
of  the  renowned  Houdin  himself. 
Even  from  the  wretched  Jesides,  who 
have  scarcely  anything  to  call  their 
own,  he  carried  off  a  pot  of  buttermilk 
rather  than  depart  empty-handed. 

**  Carefully  as  I  locked  away  firom  him 
my  little  stock  of  travelling  money,  he 
neTertheless  found  some  inexplicable 
means  of  getting  at  it.  At  last  I  adopted 
the  plan  of  counting  it  erery  evening  be- 
fore his  eyes,  and  making  him  answerable 
for  all  deficiencies.  Still,  fVom  time  to 
time,  something  was  missing,  and  Ivan 
employed  his  utmost  eloquence  to  con- 
vince me  of  the  culpability  of  the  Arme- 
nian driyers  whom  I  occasionally  had  in 
my  service.  I  never  could  catch  him  in 
the  fact ;  but  one  eyening  I  examined  his 
clothes,  and  found  a  packet  of  silver  ru- 
bles in  a  secret  pocket.  Whereupon  the 
Cossack,  with  a  devout  grimace,  which 
tat  comically  enough  upon  his  sly  fea- 
tures, held  up  his  ten  fingers  in  the  air, 
and  swore,  by  all  the  saints  of  the  Rus- 
sian calendar,  that  he  had  economised 
the  sum  out  of  his  wages,  and  had  hidticn 
it  for  fear  of  an  attack  by  robbers.*' 

The  doctor  pardoned  his  servant*s 
peculations  more  easilv  than  his 
blunders— ^ne  of  which,  that  occurred 
upon  the  road  to  Erivan,  was  cer- 
tainly provoking  enough  to  so  eager 
a  naturalist.  On  the  lonely  banks  of 
a  canal,  apparently  the  work  of  na- 
ture rather  than  of  man,  (although 
local  traditions  maintain  thecontrary,) 
one  of  the  outlets  of  the  alpine  lake 
of  Chenk-sha,  or  Blue  Water,  Dr 
Wagner  encountered  some  Armenian 
anglers,  who  had  secured  a  rich  store 
of  extremely  curious  fish.  He  pur- 
chased a  dozen  specimens,  and  on 


arriving  at  the  next  posting  station, 
he  bade  his  Cossack  put  them  in  a 
leathern  bottle  of  spirits  of  wine, 
whilst  he  himself,  armed  with  the  geo- 
logical hammer,  availed  himself  of  the 
short  halt  to  explore  some  adjacent 
rocks.  On  his  return,  he  found  Ivan 
hard  at  work  executing  his  orders, 
in  obedience  to  which  this  Fair- 
service  from  the  Don  had  duly  im- 
mersed the  icthyological  curiosities 
in  alcohol,  but  had  previously  cut 
them  in  pieces^  "in  order  that  on  ar- 
riving at  Erivan,  they  might  taste 
more  strongly  of  the  pickle." 

Eshmladizinl  is  about  fifteen  miles 
from  Erivan,  across  the  plain  of  the 
Araxes,  a  monotonous  stony  fiat, 
ofi'ering  little  worthy  of  note.  Dr 
Wagner  had  expected,  in  the  church 
and  residence  of  the  chief  of  the 
Armenian  Christians,  a  stately  and 
imposing  edifice,  something  after  the 
fashion  of  Strassburg  cathedral ;  and 
he  wondered  greatly  not  to  behold  its 
turrets  or  spire  rising  in  the  distance 
long  before  he  came  within  sound  of 
its  bells.  In  this,  as  in  various  other 
instances  during  his  travels,  by  in- 
dulging his  imagination,  he  stored  up 
for  himself  a  disappointment.  A 
clumsy  stunted  dome,  a  mud-walled 
convent,  ugly  envurons,  a  miserable 
village,  black  pigs  wallowing  in  a  pool 
of  mud— ^uch  was  the  scene  that  met 
his  disgusted  vision.  The  people  were 
worthy  of  the  place,  but  firom  them  he 
had  not  expected  much.  He  had  seen 
enough  of  the  Armenian  priesthood  at 
Teffi&,  in  Constantinople,  and  else- 
where, to  appreciate  them  at  their 
just  value.  Some  dirty,  stupid-look- 
ing monks  lounged  about  the  convent 
entrance,  gossiping  and  vermin- 
hunting.  The  travellers  were  con- 
ducted into  a  large  room,  where  the 
archbishop  held  their  conclaves.  Five 
of  these  dignitaries  were  seated  at  a 
long  table,  dressed  in  blue  robes  with 
loose  sleeves,  and  with  cowls  over 
their  heads.  The  one  in  a  red  velvet 
arm-chair,  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
represented  the  absent  patriarch.  He 
was  a  handsome  man,  with  an  impos- 
ing beard,  of  which  he  was  very  vain. 
Laying  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  with 
an  assumption  of  great  dignity,  he 
addressed  a  few  words  of  fiattering 
welcome  to  Dr  Wagner,  of  whose 
coming  he  had  been  forewarned  by 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Ararat  and  the  Armenian  highlands. 


the  Russian  general  Keidhardt.  *^We 
have  long  expected  jon,"  he  said. 
"The  whole  of  our  clergy  rejoice  to 
welcome  within  thehr  walls  a  man  of 
year  merit  and  reputation.*'  The  com- 
pliment, although  laconic,  was  not  ill 
turned,  but  It  was  thoroughly  insincere. 
An  eruption  of  Ararat,  or  a  troop  of 
Kurdish  robbers  at  their  gates,  were 
scarcely  a  more  unwelcome  sight  to 
the  reverend  inmates  of  Eshmiadzini 
than  is  the  arrival  of  a  literary  tra- 
veller. They  well  know  that  little 
good  can  be  written  about  them,  and 
that  even  Parrot,  habitually  so  lenient 
in  his  judgments,  gave  but  an  un- 
flattering sketch  of  the  Armenian 
priesthood.  European  learning  is  an 
evil  odour  in  their  nostrils,  and  natu- 
ralists, especially,  thev  look  upon  as 
fireethinkers  and  unbelievers,  con- 
demned beyond  redemption  to  an 
eternal  penal^.  Moreover,  the  holy 
fratemi^  are  accustomed  to  measure 
the  importance  of  their  visitors  by 
the  Russian  standard  of  military  rank 
and  decorations,  and  Dr  Wagner's 
plain  coat  excited  not  their  re- 
spect. With  wondering  eyes  they 
examined  the  unassuming  stranger, 
and  asked  each  other  in  whispers 
how  the  governor -general  could 
possibly  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
announce  the  advent  of  an  individual 
without  epaulets  or  embroidered  uni- 
form, without  (i9cAm  or  orders.  "When 
I  at  last  left  the  room,  to  visit  the 
church  and  other  buildings,  Arch- 
bishop Barsech  (the  patriarch's  sub- 
stitute) accompuiied  me,  and  seemed 
disposed  to  act  as  my  cicerone,  but 
suddenly  bethinking  himself,  he 
deemed  it  perhaps  beneath  his  dig- 
nity, for  he  hastily  retired.  I  was 
escorted  by  an  archimandrite,  and 
Abowian  by  a  young  Russian  official. 
Barsech's  absence  was  doubly  agree- 
able to  me,  as  permitting  me  to 
examine  at  leisure  all  parts  of  the 
convent,  and  to  ask  many  questions 
which  the  patriarch's  reverend  vicar 
might  have  deemed  scarcely  becom- 
ingJ' 

The  attention  of  the  various  Enelish 
travellers  who  have  written  about 
Armenia  has  been  chiefly  directed  to 
its  southern  portion,  to  the  regions 
adjacent  to  the  great  alpine  lakes  of 
Urmia  and  Van.  The  northern  parts 
of  Upper  Armenia,  north  of  Mount 


585 

Ararat,  and  adjacent  to  Caucasus, 
have  received  the  notice  of  several 
French  and  German  writers.  But 
most  of  these  took  travellers'  license 
to  embellish  the  places  they  wrote 
about;  or  else  the  change  for  the 
worse  since  their  visits^  now  of  rather 
ancient  date,  has  been  most  grievous. 
In  the  second  half  of  the  seventeenth 
centurv,  three  Frenchmen,  Tavemier, 
Chardm,  and  Toumefort,  gave  glow- 
ing accounts  of  the  prosperity  and 
opulence  of  Eshmiadzini.  At  the 
time  of  Tavemier's  visit,  (1655,)  large 
caravans  of  traders  and  merchandise 
were  frequently  upon  the  road,  bring- 
ing wealth  to  the  country  and  numerous 
pilgrims  to  the  church,  many  of  these 
be&g  opulent  Armenian  merchants, 
whose  generous  ofibrings  enriched  the 
shrine.  Tavemier  was  astonished  at 
the  treasures  of  Eshmiadzini,  which 
apparently  had  then  not  sufiered  from 
the  spoliating  attacks  of  Turks  and 
Persians.  The  church  was  fitted  up 
with  the  utmost  luxury,  and  the  con- 
ventual life  was  not  without  its  plea- 
sures and  diversions,  relieving  the 
wearisome  monotony  that  now  cha- 
racterises it.  In  honour  of  Monsieur 
Tavemier  and  of  his  travelUng  com- 
panions, the  Christian  merchants  of 
the  caravan,  the  patriarch  gave  agrand 
buU-fight,  in  which  eight  bulls  were 
exhibited  and  two  killed.  Toumefort 
wrote  in  raptures  of  the  fertility  and 
excellent  cultivation  of  the  environs  of 
the  convent,  dividing  his  praise  be- 
tween the  rich  adommentsof  thechurch 
and  the  blooming  parterres  of  the  gar- 
den, and  winding  up  by  declaring  Esh- 
miadzini a  picture  of  paradise.  Dr 
Wagner,  who,  before  visitingacountry, 
makes  a  point  of  reading  all  that  has 
been  written  of  it,  had  perused  these 
glowing  descriptions,  and  was  duly 
disappointed  in  consequence. 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  he  exclaims,  in  in- 
tense disgnst,  ''how little  do  those  enthu- 
siastic  descriptions  agree  with  what  is 
now  to  be  seen !  To-day  the  conyent 
garden  is  small,  ran  to  waste^  miserably 
stocked.  Instead  of  pinks  and  ama- 
ranths, which  rejoiced  the  senses  of  the 
Inck J  Tonraefort,  I  oonld  discern  in  thia 
Armenian '  paradise '  naught  besides  tar- 
nips  and  cabbages,  with  here  and  there  a 
stonted,  unhealthy-looking  mulberry  or 
apricot  tree,  and  the  melancholy  wild  oUtc, 
with  its  flaronrlesa  fruits.     No  shade 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


586 


ArwnA  tmdthe  Armenkm  Bighkmdi. 


U^V. 


from  ihe  Bim,  nothing  pleasant  to  the  eye. 
And  neither  the  interior  of  the  convent 
nor  that  of  the  chordi  exhibit  any  traces 
of  the  splendoor  vaonted  by  the  old  tra- 
vellers. In  the  patriarch's  reception- 
chamber,  the  windows  are  prettily  painted 
in  the  Persian  style  ;  and  here  my  guide 
expected^  bnt  In  yain,  to  see  me  stmck 
"irith  wonder  and  admiration.  In  the 
same  room  is  a  bust  of  the  Eraper<^ 
Nieholas,  dating,  doubtless,  from  the  early 
years  of  lus  reign,  for  it  has  no  mnstaches^ 
and  the  breut  wants  breadth.  In  the 
next  apartment,  where  the  patri«roh  daily 
receives  the  higher  clergy  of  the  esta- 
blishment, is  a  Madonna,  after  Raphael, 
fio  exquisitely  embroidered  in  silk,  that 
at  a  short  distance  it  appears  a  painting, 
lliis  piece  of  needlework  was  sent  to  the 
patriarch  from  Hindostan,  by  a  pious 
Amenian  woman.  Then  there  is  an 
ivory  bass-relief  of  Abraham's  sacrifice  ; 
and  on  the  walls  are  depicted  horrible 
scenes  of  martyrdom,  especially  the  sof- 
feringi  of  St  Qregory,  buried  alive  in  a 
deep  weDL  A  moat  artistically  carved 
arm-chair,  occupied  by  the  patriarch  upon 
state  occasions,  was  iJso  sent,  only  a  few 
years  ago,  from  Hindostan,  whence,  and 
firom  other  foreign  communities  of  Arme- 
nian Christians,  far  more  gifts  are  re- 
ceived than  from  TefiSis  and  other 
neighhourini;  places  inhabited  by  many 
rich  Armenians.  Behind  this  arm-chair 
Is  a  fhll-length  portrait  of  the  Czar  of  all 
the  RuBBias,  of  whom  the  prelates  never 
q[>eak  bnt  in  a  tone  of  anxious  humility.'' 

The  church  of  Eshmiadzim  is  rich 
in  monkish  legends  and  x>recions  relics. 
It  contains  an  altar,  throngh  which  Is 
a  passage  into  subterranean  excava- 
tions, and  which  stands  on  tlie  exact 
q)ot  where  the  Bavionr  is  said  to  have 
appeared  to  St  Gregory,  armed  with 
a  clnb,  and  to  have  hnrleid  the  heathen 
gods  and  evil  spirits  into  the  chasm. 
To  this  day,  when,  as  often  happens, 
the  wind  whistles  throngh  the  vanhs, 
the  bigoted  and  ignorant  monks  be- 
lieve they  hear  the  liowling  of  the 
tortured  demons.  Eshmiadzini^s  relics 
are  renowned  far  and  wide  amongst 
the  scattered  Armenian  congregations 
of  the  East. 

^The  chunber  of  relxoa,  situated  on 
the  south-east  side  of  the  church,  eentains, 
besides  the  right  hmd  (tf  St  Gtegory, 
(vrith  the  possession  of  this  relic,  the 
dignity  of  the  Cathdiooe  is  indiisolably 
connected,)  and  a  portion  of  tiie  akull  of 
St  Hripsime,  a  bit  of  Noah's  arl^  and  the 
lance  with  whidi  Christ's  side  vras 
piereed.    I  ezpressed  a  wish  io  aee  these 


relics,  te  which  &e  aiehiinandrite  repli«d 
that  their  exhibition  oould  take  pUee 
only  with  great  ceremonies,  with  pnqrers 
and  choral  wnpng,  for  which  a  sxnaU  pe- 
cuniary sacrifice  was  necessary.  *Two 
ducats,'  he  whispered  in  my  ear.  Curious 
though  I  was  to  have  a  dose  view  of  the 
lance  and  the  piece  of  the  ark,  and  to  as- 
certain vrhat  effect  the  lapse  of  so  many 
centuries  had  had  upon  them,  I  thonghi 
the  price  too  high,  and  as  the  wertliy 
arehknandxite  looked  inquiringly  in  my 
&ce,  I  told  his  dryly,  tiiai  for  tiie  si^t 
of  a  piece  of  wood,  however  old  and  hclj, 
a  poor  German  natnzalist  had  no  dncata 
to  spare." 

The  first  stone  of  the  choich  of 
Eshmiadzini  was  laid  l^  St  Giegoi^ 
in  tlie  year  302,  since  which  date  it 
haa  frequently  been  partially  restored, 
and  more  thaa  <Hice  entiFelv  rebult, 
and  now  exhibits  a  very  motley  archi- 
tecture. The  convent  library  would 
doubtless  afiiord  an  Armenian  schoJar 
much  curious  informatioa  concerning 
Its  Mstory.  This  library  long  lay  in 
dusty  hei^  in  a  dark  holfi,  {nobably 
to  protect  it  from  the  Yafldalic  out- 
rage of  Persian,  Kurd,  and  Turkidi 
plunderers.  When  Erivaa  was  an- 
nexed to  Busflia,  and  Uw  reBt(»od  to 
the  land,  a  room  was  cleared  for  it, 
and  a  good  many  volumes  wore 
ranged  upon  shelves;  but  %  large 
numb^,  Dr  Waf^ner  informs  ua,  ioH 
are  heaped  in  frightful  discH'der  i^n 
the  floor.  At  the  time  of  his  visit, 
the  confusion  in  this  celebrated  library 
was  as  great  as  if  Frendi  marauders 
had  had  the  run  of  it. 

'^  I  can  aver,  as  an  cya^wMaess,*  sm 
^  doctor,  who  gladly  reverts  to  ms 
African  adventnraa,  ^that  after  the 
storming  of  Constantitta,  whsB  the 
soientifio  eommisaiDn  ridted  the  boose 
of  Ben-Aiflsa,  the  library  oC  that 
wealthy  Kunigli,  which  had  been  ran- 
sacked by  the  conquerors,  presented  not 
a  picture  of  worse  desolation  than  ths 
library  of  the  patriarch  of  Armenia's 
residence.  I  asked  the  monk-librarian. 
Who  accompanied  me,  to  show  me  amongst 
the  histori(»l  works  the  book  of  Moses  of 
C%orene.  The  «nswer  was,  he  eovld  Mt 
find  it.  The  learned  guardian  of  ^ko 
library  knew  not  where  to  seek  evan  thia 
bert^mosm  and  moat  popular  4f  Awam 
nian  books  of  bistory  1  I  then  iajahwd 
the  nnmber  of  the  mannsoz^i^  Sfca 
monk  replied  shoztlyi  he  did  Jiol  IMV 
itl" 

WeU  mi^  the  vioe^reat  *tf  4» 


Digitized  by 


5d  by  VjOO       < 


1849.] 


Ararat  and  the  Armeman  Higkiandt, 


687 


Armenian  pope — ^which  the  Cathoficos 
in  fact  is,  although  his  title  is  impro- 
perly rendered  ly  foreigners  as  patri- 
arch— ^and  his  brother  archbishops, 
feel  misgivings  at  sight  of  the  qniet- 
looldng  German,  who  replied  to  their 
welcome  by  a  gravely  ironical  com- 
pliment on  their  many  virtues  and 
distinguished  reputation  ;  and  who 
now,  having  got  them  upon  paper, 
draws,  quarters,  and  dissects  them' 
with  a  merciless  scal^  Whatever 
their  previous  ex|)erience  of  note- 
taking  travellers,  it  was  insufficient 
to  guard  them  from  imprudence,  and 
they  allowed  Dr  Wagner  to  witness 
an  examination  of  the  pupils  in  their 
clerical  seminary.  Here  proof  was 
ouickly  elicited  of  the  almost  incre- 
aible  ignorance  of  scholars  and  teach- 
ers. The  oldest  lad  in  the  school, 
which  included  youns  men  eighteen 
and  twenty  years  olo,  was  unable  to 
decline  the  Eussian  noun  mafj^ 
(mother,)  although,  for  years  past, 
an  archiroandrite  had  officiatea  as 
professor  of  that  langua^  The  pro- 
fessor came  to  the  assistance  of  his 
embarrassed  pupU,  (whom  Abowian 
questioned,)  and  managed  to  prove 
beyond  possibility  of  doubt,  that  he 
himself  did  not  Imow  the  Russian 
declensicms. 

*^  I  now  requested  Mr  Abowian  io  ask 
the  boys  the  eimpleat  possible  questions, 
as,  for  instanoe,  how  many  days  the  year 
has.  Not  one  of  them  could  answer,  al- 
though many  were  already  bearded  men. 
And  from  these  dunces  are  selected  arch- 
bishops for  an  Armenia  I  The  instruc- 
tion in  this  convent-seminary  is  limited 
to  mechanical  learning  by  rote,  and  to  a 
heedless  and  unmeaning  repetition  of 
prayers  and  Scripture  passages.     The 


system  adopted  at  Eshmiadzini.     At 
one  in   the  morning  church -service 
begins,  attended  by  every  one  but  the 
patriarch.  The  archbishops  and  bishops 
read  prayers  and  portions  of  Scrip- 
ture;   the  archimandrites,  deacons, 
and  seminarists  sing.     This  service 
lasts  from  three  to  four  hours,  and  as 
every  one  stands  during  its  whole 
duration,  it  is  productive  of  no  slight 
fatigue.    On  returning  to  their  cells 
and  dormitories,  those  priests  who 
have  private  resources  take  refresh- 
ment before  retiring  to  sleep ;  but  the 
younger  portion  of  the  congregation, 
who  have  greatest  need  of  such  susten- 
ance, are  generally  penniless,  and  must 
wait  till  ten  In  the  forenoon  before 
obtaining  a  scanty  meal  of  soup  or 
milk,  followed  by  rice  or  fish.    During 
the  long  fasts  even  the  fish  is  sup- 
pressed.   To  break  a  fast  in  Armenia  is 
a  most  heinous  sin,  far  exceeding  theft 
in  enormity.  In  the  day-time,  school ; 
in  the  afternoon  and  evening,  more 
chanting  and  praying ;  then  to  bed, 
to  be  again  roused  at  midnight — such 
is  the  joyless  wearisome  Ufe  of  the 
inmates  of  Eshmiadzini.    No  study  of 
science  or  history,  no  cultivation  of 
the  fijie  arts,  varies  the  monotony  of 
their  tedious  existence.   Instrumental 
music  is  unknown   amongst   them. 
Whatever  contributes  to  the  cheerful- 
ness or  elegance  of  sednsion  is  rigidly 
banished  and  prohibited.  "Nowhwe," 
says  Dr  Wagner,  "  does  an  educated 
European  find  Ufe   so    tiresome    as 
amongst  Armeman  monks,  in  com- 
parison   with    whom    even    Italy's 
monachlsm  appears  genial  and  agree- 
able." 

The  election  of  the  patriarch  oc- 
curred in  April  1843,  and  Dr  Wagner, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


588 


Ararat  and  the  Armenian  Highkmdi, 


[Ifaj, 


laymen,  hj  reason  of  his  mild  and 
amiable  character,  that  he  would  have 
been  elected  ten  years  previously,  on 
the  death  of  old  Jephrem  (Ephraim) 
— the  venerable  patriarch  of  whom 
Parrot  and  Dubois  make  mention— 
but  for  a  serious  dispute  with  Count 
Paskewitch. 

>  ^  In  the  time  of  the  war  between  Rnssia 
and  Persia,  when  the  crooked  sabres  of 
Aderbi4jan's  Tartars  had  driTon  the 
Cossaok  lances  across  the  Araxes,  a  short 
pause  ensued  in  the  operations  of  the 
campaign,  Count  Paskewitch  awaiting 
reinforcements  flrom  the  interior  of  Russia 
before  crossing  the  Araxes  and  marching 
upon  Tauris.  A  division  of  the  Persian 
army,  chiefly  Kurds  and  Tartars,  attempt- 
ed to  surprise  Eshmiadzini;  but  the  reve- 
rend tenants  were  on  their  guard,  and 
intrenched  themselves  behind  their  lofty 
earthen  walls.  Besieged  and  sorely 
pressed  by  the  wild  hordes,  Narses  (then 
archbishop  of  Eshmiadzini)  sent  a  courier 
to  a  Russian  colonel,  who  lay,  with  a  few 
battalions,  a  short  day's  journey  distant. 
This  colonel  was  an  Armenian  by  birth, 
and  entertained  a  child-like  veneration 
for  Archbishop  Narses.  Unable  to  resist 
the  hitter's  earnest  entreaty  for  assist- 
ance, he  made  a  forced  march  upon  the 
convent,  although  he  had  been  strictly 
forbidden  by  his  general  to  quit  his  posi- 
tion without  express  orders.  Meanwhile 
the  Persians  had  been  reinforced  by  a 
detachment  of  Abbas  Mirza's  regular 
troops,  and  were  five  times  the  strength 
of  their  advancing  foe.  In  front  of  l^h- 
miadzini  the  Russians  suffered  a  defeat, 
and  the  fault  was  imputed  to  Archbishop 
Narses,  whose  priestly  influence  had 
moved  the  colonel  to  disregard  the  orders 
of  his  chief.  By  imperial  command, 
Narses  was  remored  from  Eshmiadzini, 
and  sent  as  archbishop  to  Kischenew. 
But  in  1 843,  when,  in  spite  of  his  disgrace 
with  the  emperor,  the  venerated  prelate 
received  the  unanimous  suffhiges  of  the 
electors,  convoked  at  Eshmiadzini,  Nicho- 
las would  not  oppose  the  manifest  wish 
of  priests  and  laymen,  but  confirmed  the 
election.  Once  more  the  sun  of  imperial 
grace  and  fiiTour  shone  full  upon  Narses. 
He  was  sent  for  to  St  Petersburg,  was  re- 
ceived with  the  utmost  distinction,  and  soon 
the  star  of  the  first  class  of  the  order  of  St 
AnnagUttered  upon  his  blue  caftan.  In  the 
autumn  of  1844  he  crossed  the  Caucasus, 
met  a  joyfbl  reception  at  Tefllis,  and, 
amidst  sound  of  beUs  and  song  of  priests, 
re-entered,  as  spiritual  chief  of  Armenian 
Christendom,  the  old  convent  upon  the 
Araxes,  which,  sixteen  years  previously, 
he  had  quitted  almost  as  an  exile.  Narses 


is  eighty  years  old  ;  his  intellects,  which 
long  preserved  their  healthy  tone,  have 
latterly,  it  is  said,  beoome  weakened." 

The  election  here  referred  to  was 
one  of  particular  significance  and  im- 
portance. There  has  been  no  lack  of 
schism  in  the  Armenian  church. 
Ambitious  priests  and  false  patri- 
archs have  at  various  periods  started 
up  and  found  adherents.  For  several 
centuries,  one  of  these  sham  patri- 
archates had  its  seat  on  an  island 
in  the  lake  of  Van,  and  maintained 
itself  independent  of  the  Eshmiadzini 
synod.  These  Armenian  anti-popes 
never,  however,  obtained  a  very 
widely-spread  influence,  and  latteriy 
that  which  thev  did  enjoy  sensibly 
dwindled.  ^^The  mother -church  of 
Ararat  gradually  resumed  its  un- 
divided authority  and  privileges, 
and,  in  1843,  Eshmiadzini  witnessed, 
what  for  many  years  it  had  not  seen, 
the  presence  within  its  walls  of 
deputies  from  almost  all  the  Grego- 
rian congregations  of  the  East,  united 
at  the  historical  centre  of  their  country 
for  the  choice  of  a  spiritual  shepherd.^ 

With  his  usual  shrewdness  Dr 
Wagner 'analyses  Russian  policy  in 
Armenia,  and  for  a  moment  dwells 
admiringly  on  its  depth,  foresight,  and 
activity.  We  have  already  heard  him 
express  his  conviction  that  under  the 
emperor^s  present  moderation,  lun 
vast  designs  of  future  conquest,  which 
he  will  bequeath  as  a  legacy  to  his 
descendants,  should  time  and  circum- 
stances prevent  their  execution  by 
himself.  This  is  the  doctor's  fixed 
idea,  and  he  certainly  makes  out  a 
good  case  in  its  support.  He  has 
shown  us  the  extensive  forts  that  are 
to  serve  as  depots  and  places  of  muster 
for  the  Russian  armies,  which,  accord- 
ing to  his  theory  and  belief,  will 
sooner  or  later  assail  Turkey  and 
Persia.  He  now  turns  to  the  con- 
sideration of  the  support  the  Russians 
may  expect  beyond  their  own  frontier. 
He  extols  the  wisdom  of  the  emperor's 
conduct  towards  his  Armenian  sub- 
jects, and  points  out  the  ulterior 
advantages  to  be  derived  from  it  by 
Russia.  We  shall  conclude  our  article 
by  an  extract  from  this  curious  chap- 
ter of  a  very  interesting  book. 

*'  In  Asia,  the  Islam  nations  and  gov- 
ernments daily  decline,  whilst  the  Chris- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


tian  elements  daily  Msnme  greater  weight; 
these  are  not  yet  strong  enough  to  fonnd 
a  dominion  of  their  own  ;  bn^  as  auxili- 
aries to  a  conqaering  European  power, 
the/  wonld  be  of  high  importance.  When, 
after  the  triumphant  entrance  of  Paske- 
witch's  armyinto  theoapitalof  Aderbi<iljan, 
Feth  Ali  Shah  trembled  on  his  throne, 
and  submissiyely  subscribed  the  conditions 
of  peace  dictated  to  him  by  tiie  Russian 
general,  many  thought  that  Russia  had 
been  extraordinarily  generous  to  her 
humbled  foe :  she  might  just  as  easily 
hare  kept  the  conquered  district  of  Ader- 
bidjan  for  herself,  or  hare  compelled  the 
Persian  king  to  gire  up  the  beautifVa 
prorinces  of  Gilan  and  Masendran.  The 
portion  of  Armenia  with  which  die  con- 
tented herself  is  no  very  enticing  posses- 
sion, either  for  its  size  or  for  its  fertility, 
but  it  includes  within  its  limits  the  Gre- 
gorian mother-church ;  and  its  temporal 
ruler  disposes  of  the  spiritual  weapons  of 
the  Catholicos  and  of  the  synod,  whose 
religious  influence  extends  whithersoeyer 
Armenians  dwell.  In  its  last  trea^  of 
peace  with  Turkey  and  Persia,  the  Rus- 
sian goTemment  tacitly  but  AiUy  recog- 
nised the  Talue  of  this  territory,  so  sacred 
to  all  Armenians.  It  was  also  prudent 
enough  to  annex  to  the  country  on  the 
left  bank  of  the  Araxes,  where  Eshmi- 
adiini  is  situated,  a  portion  of  the  territory 
on  the  right  bank  of  that  stream,  and  to 
secure  a  part  of  Ararat  itself— the  north 
side  of  the  mountain,  riewed  witii  such 
holy  rcTcrence  by  the  Armenian  people, 
with  the  conrent  of  St  Jacob,  since  over- 
whelmed by  the  eruption  of  1 840.  These 
districts  compose  the  really  classic  ground 
of  the  Armenian-Gregorian  church  history. 
No  spot  in  the  entire  Orient  is  more 
attractive  and  hallowed  to  the  religious 
feelings  of  the  Armenians — ^not  even  the 
grave  of  the  Redeemer  at  Jerusalem,  or 
the  renowned  convent  of  John  the  Baptist 
on  the  eastern  Euphrates.  The  annual 
number  of  pilgrims  to  Eshmiadzini,  al- 
though not  so  great  as  when  Tavemier 
andChardin  explored  that  neighbourhood, 
is  still  very  considerable  ;  and  at  Easter 
It  is  by  no  means  rare  to  find  collected 
there  pious  travellers  from  the  Ganges, 
the  Indus,  the  Don,  the  Jordan,  and  the 


Ararat  and  the  Amuman  Highlands.  58^ 

Nile.  Both  the  Shah  and  the  Porte  well 
know  the  importance  of  Russian  occupa- 
tion of  that  territory,  as  the  point  where 
all  the  religious  sympathies  of  the  Ar- 
menians concentrate.  As  viceroy  of  Ader- 
bidjan,  Abbas  Mirza  always  made  much 
of  the  Catholicos  and  the  synod,  and  sought 
to  win  them  to  the  Persian  interest.  And 
long  did  the  warlike  prince  urge  his  royal 
father  rather  once  more  to  try  the  fortune 
of  arms,  than  to  suffer  a  territory  to  be 
wrenched  from  him,  less  valuable  from  the 
revenue  it  yielded  than  from  the  religious 
power  it  gave  over  the  Christian  sub- 
jects of  PersU." 


The  treaty  of  cession  condaded,  the 
Shah  did  aUin  his  power  to  discourage 
the  emigration  of  Armenian  Chris- 
tians into  Russian  Armenia,  and  his 
example  was  followed  hj  the  Porte ; 
bat  the  labour  of  both  was  in  vain. 
Permission  for  such  emigration  was 
stipulated  by  the  treaty,  and  the  only 
real  check  upon  it  was  mistrust  of 
Russia,  whose  intolerant  reputation 
made  many  Armenian  priests  suspect 
an  Intention  of  proselytising.  Bat 
Russia,  cruel  ana  unsparing  to  her 
Roman  Catholics,  whose  spiritual 
chief  is  Qjat  of  the  reach  of  her  direct 
influence,  showed  herself  tolerant  and 
considerate  towards  the  Armenian 
church,  in  which  she  discerned,  ac- 
cording to  Dr  Wagner,  a  most  useful 
instrument  for  her  projects  of  future 
aggrandisement :  and,  on  occasion  of 
the  election  of  1843,  the  Russian 
government  particularly  insisted  that 
the  new  patriarch  should  be  named 
by  the  voices  of  dl  the  Ajmenian 
congregations  in  the  entire  East. 
Flattered  by  this  invitation  to  direct 
co-operation,  the  Armenian  priest- 
hood of  Constantinople,  who,  last  of 
all,  still  recused  the  authority  of  the 
Eshmiadzini  synod,  suffered  them- 
selves to  be  won  over,  and  sent  their 
dele£^tes  to  th^  convocation.  For 
Russia  it  was  another  triumph,  for 
Turkey  a  fresh  vexation. 


VOL.  Lxv.— NO.  ccccm. 


2p 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


690 


[May, 


LEOniHACT  IN  FSAKCE. 


Under  the  drcamstanoes  of  the 
Btnuige  anonudj  presented  by  the 
BCtaal  oondition  of  France,  which 
never  better  deserved  its  title  of  a 
mnblic  withoat  republicans,  it  may 
fiurly  become  a  matter  of  specalation. 
in  how  mnch  a  return  to  monarchical 
Institutions  possesses  a  degree  of  pro- 
bability in  the  future,  and,  more 
especially,  how  far  the  principles  of 
legitimjacy  stand  a  chance  of  assum- 
ing, hereafter,  a  supremacy  in  France. 
We  say  **  a  matter  of  speculation,"  in 
as  much  as  the  umeertam  must  ever 
remahi  the  presiding  genius  of  the 
chances  of  a  revolutionary  q>ocfa: 
and,  in  such  times,  it  would  be  more 
than  presumption  to  attempt  to  pro- 
phesy npoa  a  nation's  destinies.  But 
still  there  are  signs  of  the  times  fai 
France,  which  are  of  sufficient  im- 
portance to  be  chronicled;  curious 
nets,  that  cannot  but  attract  atten- 
tion; and  revelations  that  possess  a 
deep  interest — all  bearing  upon  the 
possible  restoration  of  the  exiled 
prince  of  the  dder  branch  of  the  Bour- 
bons; and,  as  &r  as  regards  this 
eventuality — and  who  can  any  more 
Bay  it  shaU  not  be  than  they  can  say 
it  shall?— the  chances  appear  not  so 
unequal  in  the  balance  held  by  the 
hand  of  fate — they  may  be  considered 
worthy  of  notice  and  comment. 

It  would  be  scarcely  correct,  how- 
ever, to  speak  of  sudi  a  passibU 
eventuality  as  the  reaUsation  of  the 
prospects  of  a  Legitimate  partv.  As 
upcarfyy  properly  so  called,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  poUtical  and  revolutionary 
struggle,  tiie  legitimists  of  France 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  exist,  even 
although  a  stanch  bat  small  nucleus, 
professing  decidedly  legitimist  prin- 
ciples, may  be  found  among  a  certain 
body  of  men,  chiefly  belonging  to  the 
old  families  of  France,  in  private  life. 
During  the  reign  of  the  Orleans 
branch,  the  legitimists  gradually 
dwindled  into  comparative  obscurity 
—almost  every  family  which  professed 


to  entertain  legitimist  opinions  hav- 
ing attadied  itself,  openly  or  in  an 
nnderfaand  manner,  to  the  existing 
order  of  things,  by  means  of  some  one 
of  its  memb^ :  and  even  in  the  pre- 
sent day  they  have  pursued  the  same 
line  of  policy — a  policy  which  wears 
now,  however,  a  more  respectable 
garb,  inasmuch  as  it  is  professedly 
based  upon  the  seemingly  patriotic 
and  disinterested  maxim,  ^*  jFVtm^ou 
aoani  tout,'"  which,  in  declaring  the 
revolution  that  caused  the  fall  of 
Louis  Philippe  the  work  of  the  *^  fin- 
ger of  God,"  and  in  accepting  a 
government  founded  upon  a  nation's 
universal  suffrage,  as  preferable  to 
that  of  a  '^  usurping  kln£[,"  they  have 
adopted  as  the  device  of  chivalry,  to 
influence  every  action  of  their  lives  in 
soch  a  juncture.  In  fact,  with  this 
appearance  of  more  straightforward 
pmotism,  they  bide  their  time  in  faith 
and  patience,  and,  with  a  feeling  al- 
most allied  to  superstition,  repudiate 
every  idea  of  political  intrigue,  much 
more  of  anv  conspiracy  against  the 
existing  order  of  tilings. 

But,  if  this  passive  position  of  the 
old  legitimists  does  not  pei-mit  tjiem 
to  assume  the  attitude  of  a  decided 
pcai^^  <»r  even  of  bearing  property 
such  a  designation,  it  must  not  be 
supposed  that  the  cause  of  legitimacy 
to  dead,  or  even  dormant,  in  France. 
Far  from  it.  The  present  state  of 
legitimacy  in  France,  however,  must 
be  studied  less  among  the  avowed 
legitimists,  who  have  long  given  them- 
selves the  name,  than  in  the  dispersed 
and  floating  elements  pervading  the 
mass  of  the  nation.  The  preference 
of  the  great  minority  of  the  countiy 
for  monarchical  institutions,  or,  at  aU 
events,  its  strong  anti-revdutionaiy 
feeling,  and  aversion  to  the  republican 
rule,  after  the  sad  experience  of  much 
misei^  and  misfortune— and  from  its 
despair  of  the  realisation  of  that  ^^hope 
deferred,"  in  the  restoration  of  confi- 
dence and  prosperity,  which  ^*  maketh 


Une  VitUe  d  Momlsur  U  Due  de  Bordeaux, 
JDieu  le  Veut»    Par  Yioomtb  n'AaLiMoouaT. 


Par  CHiauES  Didub. 
Paris:  1848-9. 


Paris:  1849. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Legitimae^  m  Fhmce, 


591 


the  heart  dck*^ — are  iiacto  which  can- 
not be  denied  by  any  man  of  nnpre- 
jadiced  feelinss  and  sincere  convic- 
tions.  By  degrees,  then,  feelings 
have  been  latterly  assuming  a  form 
fayoorable  to  the  canse  of  legitimacy: 
and  that  such  sentiments  nownoto- 
rionsly  exist  in  the  hearts  of  a  great 
proportion  of  the  country  at  large 
can  scarcely  be  disputed.  They 
are  based,  it  is  true,  in  no  ways, 
among  the  mass,  upon  any  politi* 
cal  Olsons  or  philosophiod  piin- 
dples — they  spring  up  from  a  desire  of 
having  a  **  something"  at  the  head  of 
the  state  which  maybe  the  type  of 
•talHlity,  and  thus  tiie  reiM'esratatiye 
of  confidence,  peace,  and  restore^  pros- 
perity :  and  this  ^  something"  is  best 
embodied,  in  the  minds  of  men,  in 
the  person  of  a  young  prince,  who  re- 

S resents  the  i^parenUy  most  staUe 
>rm  of  monarchical  government — 
that  founded  on  legitimacy.  They 
arise  from  no  personal  attachment  to 
the  elder  branch  of  the  Bourbons,  or 
to  the  Duke  of  B<vdeanx  indiyidually, 
but  afMj  fixHU  a  desire  to  return  to 
monarchical  govemment,  and  from 
the  growing  conviction  that,  among 
the  many  pretenders  to  the  supreme 
power  in  Invnce,  were  a  monarchy  to 
be  established,  Uie  sole  one  who  pre- 
sents a  firmer  hope  of  stalMlity— who 
represents  a  principle,  and  who  thus 
best  offers  to  be  pilot  to  the  terra 
Jhrma  of  a  ^^  promised  land"  to  those 
who  are  still  tossing  hither  and  thither 
upon  the  waves  m  revolution,  with 
atorms  eternally  menacing  a  still  more 
complete  shipwreck  on  the  horixon—is 
he  who  bases  his  pretensions  upon  the 
long-scouted  theory  of  legitimacy.  To 
this  form  of  hoped-for  stability,  then, 
men  now  begin  to  attach  themselves 
more  and  more,  in  their  aspirations 
for  the  future;  and  tiius  legitimist 
erpectations,  predilections,  sympa- 
thies— call  them  what  you  will— grow, 
increase,  spread  like  a  banian  tree, 
which  still  ever  plants  its  droppinff 
branches,  and  takes  root  farther  and 
fiuther  still ;  and  they  thus  implant 
themselves  more  and  more,  on  all 
Bides,  on  the  son  of  the  revolution. 
We  speak  here  of  a  great  proportion 
<^  men  of  all  cla»u$  in  France.  At 
the  same  time,  it  is  very  clear  tiiat 
%  conviction  is  dafly  gaining  more 
ground,  that,  in  the  ponible  or  prob- 


able revolutionaiy  chances,  spite  of 
the  popularity  of  the  President  in  the 
capital,  the  pruHge  more  or  less  at- 
tached to  his  name,  and  the  party 
supposed  to  be  connected  with  his 
interests,  the  balance  chiefly  lies  be- 
tween the  republic  as  it  is  and  Henry 
v.  Even  the  ultra-republicans  and 
Socialists  i^pear  to  feel  this  so  strong- 
ly, that,  in  a  pamphlet  entitled  ^^  La 
RSpubHque  on  Henri  V.—ouel^ues  mots 
h  Bomapartt^^  a  certain  Monsieur  Per- 
tus,  a  violent  Socialist  and  adherent 
of  the  so-called  democratic  and  social 
republic,  has  given,  in  powerful  lan- 
guage, the  reasons  of  the  party  why 
the  destinies  of  France  may  be  sup- 
posed to  lie  between  these  two  alter- 
natives onlv,  and  why  Louis  Napo- 
leon, should  he  put  forward  his 
pretensions  to  an  ultimate  perma- 
nency of  power,  would  probably  meet 
with  an  utter  defeat  from  the  nation 
at  large.  The  immediate  interests  of 
tiie  younger  Bourbon  branch  are  en- 
tirelv  set  out  of  sight  in  the  political 
combinations  upon  wliich  men  specu- 
late in  France :  adherents  they  have 
none :  they  exist  not  in  men*s  minds, 
mudi  less  in  their  hearts :  they  are 
never  spoken  (^. 

It  is  evident,  then,  to  every  observ- 
^g  eye,  that  the  cause  of  ledtimacy 
is  dally  gaining  ground  in  France ; 
although  it  must  be  admitted  that, 
with  all  this,  attachment  to  the  per- 
son of  the  exiled  prince  of  the  elder 
branch  of  the  Bourbons,  to  the  familv, 
or  even  to  legitimist  principles  in 
theoiT,  has  as  yet  had  little  to  do. 
Bat  that  even  this  personal  attachment 
has  been  grow&g  gradually  and 
steadily  in  men^s  minds,  as  a  natural 
consequence,  may  also  be  seen.  To  this 
latter  feeling  two  men  have  contri- 
buted bv  their  writings — the  one  a 
friend,  the  other  an  avowed  enemy  to 
the  ancient  dynasty— and  p^aps  the 
latter  far  the  most  powenhUy.  The 
Btranse  drcumstances,  which  havepro- 
duced  results  that  may  have  a  power- 
ful influence  on  the  fhtnre  destiniea  of 
the  country,  are  worthy  of  record. 
A  singular  fate  has  been  attached  to 
the  two  small  books  here  alluded  to, 
more  especially  in  the  case  of  that 
written  by  a  stanch  republican, 
naturally  hostile  to  monarenies  and 
princes:  and,  on  that  account,  al- 
fhouc^  it  is  postericnr  in  date  of  publi- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


592  Legitimaof 

cation,  it  maybe  as  well  first  to  direct 
our  attention  to  this  latter. 

In  sight  of  the  struggle,  which  is 
contmnadly  going  on  in  newspapers, 
pamphlets,  printed  notices,  ana  every 
other  form  of  publication,  between  the 
Socialists  and  Red-Republicans  on  the 
one  haqd,  and  the  ^^finends  of  order  ^' 
on  the  other— a  struggle  carried  on  by 
the  former  not  only  with  the  utmost 
Tiolence  and  virulence,  but  with  every 
most  desperate  weapon  of  calumny, 
falsehood,  distorted  fact,  and  perverted 
reasoning — in  sight  of  the  propagan- 
dising em>rts,  made  bv  these  same  men, 
to  demoralise  and  debauch  the  army 
from  its  allegiance  to  the  country  by 
every  underhand  corrupting  poison — 
it  is  quite  "  refreshing*'  to  the  spirit, 
to  use  a  hackneyed  phrase,  to  greet  a 
few  words  of  conviction  in  favour  of 
those  considered  the  enemies  of  the 
republic,  penned,  in  spite  of  previous 
prepossessions  and  firm  opinions,  by 
an  honest-hearted  republican.  To 
men  of  real  and  genmne  convictions 
all  honour  is  due,  more  especially  in 
the  confusion  of  party  intrigue  and 
reckless  personal  ambition  of  these 
revolutionary  times,  even  although 
they  be  our  adversaries :  respect  may 
be  shown  them,  even  if  they  appear  to 
us  mistaken.  Unhappily,  such  men 
seem  in  France  to  be  but  few.  But 
if  we  find  them  firm  and  honest  in 
the  expression  of  their  convictions, 
even  when  in  open  opposition  to  their 
preconceived  notions,  and  to  the  direct 
tendency  of  their  political  opinions,  a 
tribute  of  especial  admiration  may  be 
given  them.  And  such  a  tribute  may 
be  frankly  and  willingly  bestowed  upon 
M.  Charles  Didier,  for  his  little  book 
entitled  Une  visiie  au  Due  de  Bor- 
deaiLgy — a  book  which  has  lately 
excited  considerable  sensation  in 
France,  not  so  much  as  a  curious  his- 
torical document,  giving  a  simple  but 
charming  account  of  the  life,  manners, 
appearance,  and  attitude  in  exile  of 
such  prominent  historical  figures  as 
the  Duke  of  Bordeaux,  and  that  pa- 
tient and  pious  victim  of  revolutions, 
the  Duchess  d*AngouUme ;  but,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  legitimists,  as  a  striking 
refutation  of  various  calumnies  at- 
tached to  the  person,  as  well  as  the 
education  and  opinions  of  the  young 
prince,  and  the  highest  eulogium  of 
their  monarch— in  the  eyes  of  all,  as  a 


in  France. 


CMV» 


*^  feeler,*'  (in  spite  of  the  intentions  of 
the  author,)  in  the  obscure  chances  ^ 
the  foture. 

Had  not  the  character  of  Monaieur 
Charles  Didier  stood  so  high,  and 
had  not  his  almost  rough  honesty, 
and  perhaps  nalotti  of  nature,  been 
so  generally  acknowledged  by  rightly- 
thinking  men,  doubts  might  have 
been  entertained,  on  the  one  hand, 
whether  he  was  really  acting  in 
good  faith  in  his  character  as  a  re- 
publican; had  not  his  talent,  dis- 
cernment, and  good  sense  been  sufil- 
dently  appreciated  in  public  as  well  as 
private  life — in  his  literary  and  lately 
political  career,  as  well  as  among  his 
acquaintances — suspicions  mighthave 
been  excited,  on  the  other,  that  he  had 
been  led  into  delusions  bv  artful  man- 
oeuvre. But  neither  of  tnese  supposi- 
tions are  admissible.  Due  credit  must 
be  given  to  his  good  faith  in  the  one 
respect,  and  to  his  enlightenment  of 
mind  and  clear-sightecUiess  in  the 
other.  Such  an  explanation  becomes 
necessary  for  a  full  appreciation  of  the 
contents  of  this  remarkable  little  book. 
To  a  French  reader  it  would  be  need- 
less, for  M.  Didier  is  well  known. 

As  has  ahready  been  said,  the  sensa- 
tion produced  by  this  work  has  been 
great :  and  there  can  be  littie  doubt 
that  the  effect  which  the  publication 
will  produce  must  necessarily  have  a 
very  considerable  influence  upon  a 
great  portion  of  the  nation,  in  the 
present  state  of  France. 

Under  such  circumstances,  and  with 
such  probable  results,  which  could  not 
but  be  partly  apparent  to  the  author 
himself,  the  production  of  such  a  book 
by  a  well-known,  stanch,  and  honest 
republican,  such  as  M.  Charles  Didier, 
requires  some  explanation.  It  was 
well  known  among  the  party  that  M. 
Didier  had  been  sent  upon  a  quasi-^ 
diplomatic  mission  to  Germany,  in  the 
first  days  of  the  French  revolution ;  it 
was  afterwards  rumoured  that,  upon 
some  occasion,  he  had  paid  a  visit  to 
the  members  of  the  exiled  family  of 
France  in  their  retreat  in  Austria— 
and,  upon  these  datti^  M.  Didier  be- 
came tne  object  of  various  calumnies 
and  misrepresentations.  His  enemies 
dedared  that  he  had  been  sent  ex- 
pressly as  a  spy  upon  the  ex-royal 
family.  But  it  was  more  especially 
his  soi'disant  friends  and  allies,  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Legitimacy  in  France. 


59^ 


republicans  de  la  veiUe^  who  attached 
a  host  of  nnfoanded  misrepresenta- 
tions to  the  objects  and  results  of  his 
journey.  While  some  attacked  him 
as  a  traitor,  who  had  betrayed  his 
tmst,  and  deserted  his  cause,  by  ca- 
balling with  the  exiled  family,  others 
publi^ed  accounts  in  their  journals, 
as  if  emanatmg  from  his  month,  which 
affixed  not  only  the  greatest  ridicule 
and  scorn  to  the  person  and  manners 
of  the  Duke  of  Bordeaux,  but  the 
hatred  and  contempt  of  all  ^Urue 
patriots*'  to  his  supposed  opinions. 
It  was  to  refute  these  calumnies,  then, 
and  to  deny  these  perversions  of 
truth,  that  M.  Didier  at  last  found 
himself  reluctantly  compelled  to 
publish  a  simple  account  of  his 
"  Visite  au  Due  de  Bordeaux,'''*  He 
complains,  with  much  naivete^  in  a 
species  of  preface,  that  he  has  been 
forced  to  this  step,  which  he  himself 
looks  upon  as  an  indiscretion,  by  his 
own  party,  since,  although  the  whole 
affair  appears  in  his  eyes  little  more 
than  *^  much  ado  about  nothing,"  by 
such  means  alone,  in  declaring  the 
whole  truth,  he  can  establish  simple 
facts.  The  very  same  sentiment,  he 
says— that,  probably,  of  delicacy— 
which  enjoined  his  silence  at  first,  now, 
combined  with  a  love  of  truth,  enjoins 
his  giving  publicity  to  an  account  in 
which  he  affirms  that  all  is  truth,  simple 
truth,  and  no  more  nor  less  than  the 
truth.  It  was  as  a  republican  that 
he  presented  himself,  he  goes  on  to 
say,  and  as  a  republican  that  he  was 
received.  In  support  of  his  words, 
although  refuting  all  pretensions  to 
discuss  politics,  he  gives  his  republican 
^''profession  de  foi.'''*  "  I  have  been 
thus  driven,"  he  continues,  "  to  paint, 
from  nature,  an  interior  of  an  exiled 
famUy,  which  struck  me  by  its  polite- 
ness and  dignity.  Such  was  the  task 
before  me ;  and  I  have  accomplished  it 
conscientiously,  without  any  regard  for 
persons,  and  without  any  sacrifice  of 
opinion.  The  prestige  of  rank  has 
exercised  no  influence  on  me.  I  have 
been  simply  true."  And  what  has 
been  the  result  ?  The  supposed  friends 
of  M.  Didier,  the  arch-republicans, 
have  forced  him,  an  ardent  republi- 
can himself— a  republican  de  Vavant- 
veiUe^  as  he  calls  himself,  but  genuine 
and  sincere— to  forward  the  cause 
of  legitimacy,  to  ][^ublishing  an  eulo- 


gium,  of  the  most  striking  descrip- 
tion, of  the  young  prince  who  repre- 
sents legitimacy  in  France.  Dreamers 
might  almost  see  the  hand  of  Provi- 
dence in  this  result  of  factious  calumny. 

It  is  needless,  here,  to  follow  M. 
Didier  into  the  details  of  the  mission 
given  him  by  Lamartine,  when  minis- 
ter of  foreign  affairs,  of  which  he  ex- 
plains neither  the  cause  nor  the  pur- 
poses,  although  he  dwells  at  some 
length  upon  the  cause  of  his  journey 
through  Austria,  Hungary,  Croatia, 
and  a  part  of  Germany,  and  more 
especially  upon  the  dates  of  his  pro- 
gi^s,  probably  with  the  intention  of 
refuting  the  calumny  which  asserted 
that  he  was  officially  sent  as  a  spy 
upon  the  ex-royal  family  of  the  elder 
branch.  It  may  be  remarked,  how- 
ever, en  passant^  that  he  speaks  not 
over- well  of  the  Austrian  revolution- 
ists, with  whom  he  mixed,  and  that 
he  readUy  acknowledges  the  veritable 
anti-revolutionary  spirit  of  the  army 
and  the  masses.  On  the, conclusion 
of  his  mission,  and  his  return  to 
France  by  the  north  of  Italy,  he 
heard  by  chance,  on  his  passage  to 
Trieste,  for  the  first  time,  he  declares, 
that  not  far  from  his  road  lay  the 
chateau  of  Frohsdorf,  and  that  this 
same  chateau  of  Frohsdorf  was  in- 
habited by  the  exiled  family  of  France. 
It  was  only  many  months  afterwards, 
however,  when  he  returned  to  Ger- 
many, for  his  own  pleasure  and  in- 
formation, and  as  "  simple  voyageur^^ 
that  having  received,  by  chance,  a 
letter  from  a  friend  in  Paris  for  the 
Dae  de  L^vis,  one  of  the  faithful 
adherents  attached  to  the  little  court 
of  the  exiled  Bourbons,  he  deter- 
mined to  profit  by  it,  in  order  to  visit 
Frohsdorf  on  his  way  once  more  from 
Vienna  to  the  north  of  Italy.  Before 
commencing  the  recital  of  this  passage 
of  his  journey,  M.  Didier  again  depre- 
cates any  purpose  but  that  of  interest 
and  curiosity,  and  enters  into  very 
minute  detaUs,  to  prove  that  he  made 
no  mystery  or  concealment  of  his 
intention. 

It  would  lead  to  too  great  diffuse- 
ness  also  to  enter  into  M.  Didier's 
description  (however  prettily  written) 
of  his  journey  through  Baden,  (near 
Vienna,)  Wiener  Neustadt;  of  the 
deserted  and  abandoned  railroad  from 
thence  to  Oldenburg  in  Hungary,  on 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


594  Legitimaeif  in  Fr<mce. 

which  "thestation-hoiises  were  closed, 


[May, 


the  signals  motionless,  and  the  grass 
grew  between  the  rails  "—all  commn- 
nication  having  been  cnt  off  on  ac- 
coont  of  the  war.  The  description, 
however,  of  the  habitation  of  the 
exiled  family  of  French  princes  offers 
a  more  lively  interest  in  an  historical 

Sdnt  of  view.    We  shall  quote  M. 
idler: — 

'^Frohsdorf  is  an  old  feudal  estate, 
which,  from  the  hands  of  some  Austrian 
family,  the  name  of  which  I  do  not  know, 
passed,  under  the  Restoration,  into  those 
of  Madame  Caroline  Murat,  the  ex-queen 
of  Naples.  By  her  it  was  sold  to  the 
Duchess  d'AngouUme,  under  the  name 
of  the  Duke  of  Blacas.  The  domain, 
administered  by  a  steward,  is  not  vast  as 
a  princely  domain  ;  but  the  habitation  is 
spacious,  although  scarcely  sufiSoing  for 
the  number  of  the  inhabitants.  It  is  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  a  dry  moat,  which 
is,  more  properly  speaking,  only  a  long 
area  for  the  kitchen  and  household  offices, 
crossed  by  a  stone  bridge  in  fkce  of  the 
prinoipal  entrance.  1  do  not  know  whe- 
ther any  other  exists  :  I  belioTe  not. 
The  chateau  has  nothing  feudal,  much 
less  royal,  in  appearance.  It  is  a  great 
white  German  house,  the  pointed  roof  of 
which  is  crowned  with  chimneys  and 
garret-windows,  and  ornamented  in  the 
middle  with  a  triangular  gable.  The 
ground-floor  is  on  a  lerel  wi£  the  bridge, 
and  is  surmounted  by  two  stories,  ^e 
facade  presents  nine  windows,  those  of 
the  second  floor  being  small  and  square, 
the  others  of  reasonable  dimensions  :  one 
alone,  immediately  abore  the  doorway, 
which  is  large  and  arohed,  is  ornamented 
by  a  balcony,  and  flanked  by  flattened 
pillars.  These  pillars,  and  the  gable 
above,  are  the  only  portions  of  the  fii^^ade 
which  have  the  appearance  of  any  archi- 
tectural design.  A  great  round  tower 
flanks  the  western  side  :  it  descends  into 
the  moat;  but, unfortunately, is  truncated, 
and  cut  off  at  the  level  of  the  roof.  In 
this  tower  is  the  ehapel :  behind  is  the 
park,  terminated  by  a  jardim  Anglai$, 
both  of  which  are  of  no  considerable  sixe. 
A  little  farther  is  a  broken  hill,  pUnted 
with  green  trees,  upon  which  is  built  the 
Maimm  ds  Oturdt,  a  pretty  little  house, 
which  any  Parisian  family  would  occupy 
with  pleasure.  A  little  further,  and  as 
if  to  terminate  the  view,  is  a  ruin,  which 
marks,  I  believe,  the  limits  of  the  estate. 
The  site  is  stem,  and  impressed  with  a  oer- 
tain  melancholy.  To  the  west  lies  a  vast 
plain,  at  the  extremity  of  which  rises,  in 
all  its  magnificenee,  the  chain  of  moun- 
tains which  separates  Styria  from  the 


Archduchy  of  Austria.  The  horiaon 
dentellated  by  the  mountain  points  ;  and 
the  snow,  with  which  the  highest  wa« 
covered,  sparkled  in  the  sun  with  ihm 
frozen  Are  of  its  thousand  diamonds.  On 
the  east  the  aspect  was  different :  on  this 
side,  and  at  musket-shot  distance,  mna 
a  long  hill  of  no  prepossessing  appear- 
ance, although  wooded,  upon  the  summit 
of  which  runs  the  limit  of  the  Hungarian 
fit>ntiers,  guarded,  when  I  was  there,  by 
armed  peasants.  The  town  of  Olden- 
burg may  be  seen  from  it 

Frohsdorf  is  thus  very  near  the  Hun- 
garian frontier — so  near,  that  snch  an 
abode  is  not  without  its  dangers  in  the 
present  war.  In  case  of  an  attack,  the 
few  troops  in  the  village — the  last  in 
Austria  on  this  side — would  prove  a  very 
insufficient  defence.  But,  accustomed  to 
the  vicissitudes  of  exile,  hardened  by  ad- 
versity, and  with  confidence  in  God,  or 
their  destinies,  the  inhabitants  of  Frohs- 
dorf appeared  to  me  to  pay  no  heed  to  a 
perif,  the  possibility  of  which  they  conld 

not  deny The  eatranca 

of  the  chateaa  is  cold  and  sad  as  that  of 
a  convent ;  and  in  the  oourt,  narrow  and 
deep,  is  an  air  of  dampness.  Such,  at 
least,  was  my  impression.  On  the  rights 
in  the  entrance-hall,  is  the  porter's  lodga, 
and  near  the  door  is  suspended  a  great 
bill  indicating  the  hours  of  departure  and 
arrival  of  the  trains — the  only  sign  of 
communication  between  this  solitude  and 
the  world  beyond.  I  asked,  in  French^ 
for  the  Duke  of  Levis ;  and  it  was  in 
French  I  was  answered ;  for,  firom  the 
oellars  to  the  garrets,  even  to  the  veriest 
drudge,  all  is  French.  I  was  oonducted, 
with  much  politeness,  to  a  large  bedroom 
looking  on  the  counti^,  where  lay  on  tha 
table  some  French  newspapers.  M.  da 
Levis  joined  me  immediately." 

After  some  conversation,  which 
naturally  tnmed  npon  the  position  of 
Eranoe,  in  which  M.  Didier  was  sor- 
prised  to  find  the  Doc  de  Levis  ^*  ti 
Men  aufait  des  chotes  et  des  kammes^^^ — 
the  Dnke  quitted  him  to  ask  when  it 
would  please  the  Dae  de  Bordeanx 
to  receive  the  stranger,  and  returned 
shortly  to  say  that  it  would  imme- 
diately. The  following  is  curious  in 
^e  mouth  of  the  republican : — 

^  I  was  ignorant  what  title  to  give  to 
the  prince  ;  and,  having  come  to  seek 
him  under  his  own  roof,  I  was  naturally 
desirous  to  do  what  was  cnstomary, 
neither  more  nor  less.  I  asked  M.  de 
Levis.  *  There  is  no  etiquette  here,*  he 
reified  ;  *  we  are  exiles.  We  address 
the  prince,  however,  as  Monmigmeur.*    I 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Legitimaeif  in  France* 


595 


took  the  hint ;  and,  although  little  aeons- 
tomed  to  the  laognage  of  courts,  I  hope  I 
did  what  was  con^enable  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. I  ought  to  confess,  at  the 
same  time,  that  I  was  afterwards  less 
happy  with  the  Duchess  of  Bordeaux, 
and  tiie  Duchess  of  Augoullme,  to  whom 
I  sometimes  gare  the  title  of  *  Highness.' 
Now,  it  struck  me  afterwards,  that  this 
title,  which  was  a  deference  on  m j  part, 
must  haTe  appeared  to  them  hoth  a  want 
of  respect,  and  a  direct  denial  of  their 
supposed  rights ;  to  the  one,  because  she 
considers  herself  queen  since  her  marriage 
with  the  descendant  of  Henri  IV.,  who, 
in  her  eyes,  is  necessarily  Henri  Y. ;  to 
the  other,  because  she  considers  herself  to 
have  been  queen  also  in  rirtue  of  the 
abdication  of  Charles  X. ;  and  the  fbot  is, 
that,  oTen  in  her  presence,  the  inhabitants 
of  F>ohsdorf  call  her,  among  themseWes, 
the  (^ueen." 

The  most  remarkable  part  of  the 
book,  in  a  political  point  of  view — 
that,  in  fact,  which  has  prodnced  in 
France  the  sensation  already  alluded 
to  among  all  parties — ^now  follows. 
We  mnst  qnote  M.  Didier  verbaUy : — 

"ifonft^r  U  Due  ds  Bordeaux  occupies 
the  ground-floor  of  the  chateau.  He  re- 
ceiyed  me  in  a  study  simply  fiimished, 
which  looks  out  upon  the  distant  hills  of 
Hungary.  I  remarked  a  collection  of 
guns,  and  an  arm-chair  entirely  made  of 
deer-skin,  the  horns  forming  the  arms 
and  back.  The  prince  was  standing  by  a 
writing-table,  plaoed  in  the  middle  of  the 
Toom,  with  one  hand  resting  np<m  his 
«nn-chair.  He  neither  sat  down,  nor  bade 
mt  be  seated,  at  first ;  and  his  reception 
of  me  was  not  exempt  from  a  sort  of 
solemnity.  In  a  word,  he  receiyed  me 
4n  roL  Habituated  to  the  visits  of  his 
partisans,  and  of  his  partisans  alone,  I 
was  a  novelty  to  him.  He  knew  no  more 
of  me  than  my  opinions,  and  some  works, 
the  matter  of  which  could  evidently  not 
be  to  his  taste.  Perhaps  he  expected  to 
iind  in  me  one  of  those  fbrioos  democrats, 
who,  to  use  a  oonumm  phrase,  fmetUtU  Us 
pUds  dans  Us  plats,  and  supposed  that  I 
might  attack  him  coarsely.  Hence  his 
reserve  at  first  It  was  very  evident  that 
he  stood  on  the  defensive,  and  waited  to 
see  me  advance.  His  inquiring  and  some- 
what strained  look  expressed,  at  least  so 
I  read  it,  what  I  have  here  said.  After 
A  few  trivial  remarks,  the  necessary 
preamble  of  every  visit,  and  especially  of 
such  a  one,  he  begged  me  to  be  seated, 
and  the  conversation  commenced.  As 
fkr  as  I  can  recollect,  the  following  was 
the  first  serious  remariL  I  addressed  to 
him, — *M<mm§n€urj  I  am  ignorant,  and 


God  al<me  can  know,  what  destinies  aro 
reserved  for  yon  in  the  future  ;  but  if  yoa 
have  a  chance  of  reigning  one  day  in 
France,  which,  for  my  own  part,  I  do  not 
desire,  the  chance  is  this :  If,  by  any  im- 
possibility, France,  exhausted  by  her  ex- 
periments, at  the  end  of  her  resources,  no 
longer  finds  in  the  elective  power  the  sta^ 
bility  she  seeks— if  discouragement  and 
misreckoning  cause  her  to  turn  her  eyes 
towards  the  hereditary  principle  as  the 
most  stable  basis  of  authority  —  it  is 
vou  who  represent  this  principle;  and 
in  that  case  France  herself  will  seek  yoa 
out.  Till  then  you  have  but  one  thing  to 
do— ^to  await  events.'  The  Duke  of  Bor- 
deaux listened  to  me  with  attention;  as  I 
spoke,  his  rigidity  visibly  relaxed ;  the 
ioe  was  broken.  He  answered  me  with- 
out hesitation,  that  I  had  interpreted  his 
own  thoughts;  that  he  never  would  under^ 
take  anything  against  the  established 
powers;  that  he  never  would  put  himself 
forward,  and  that  he  had  no  personal  am- 
bition; but  that  he  considered  himself,  in 
&ct,  the  principle  of  order  and  stability; 
and  that  he  would  leave  this  principle  un- 
touched, were  it  only  for  the  fhture  peace 
of  France;  that  this  principle  constituted 
his  whole  power;  that  he  had  no  other; 
that  he  would  always  find  sufiicient  force 
in  himself  to  ftilfil  his  duty,  whatever  it 
might  be,  and  that  CU>d  would  then  stand 
by  him.  *If  ever  I  return  to  France,' 
he  added, '  it  would  be  to  promote  con- 
ciliation; and  I  believe  that  I  alone  am 
able  to  efi^t  that  object  fully.' '' 

*'There  was  a  sincerity  in  the  words 
of  the  yonng  prince,"  pursues  M. 
Didier,  *'  which  brought  ccmviction  to 
the  heart." 

Although  frank  and  open  in  speaking 
of  his  personal  opinions,  the  Duke  of 
Bordeaux  seems  to  have  been  yery 
reserved  when  speakins  of  mm,  and 
he  evidenUy  appears  to  have  made  M. 
Didier  talk  more  than  he  talked  him- 
self. Upon  this  expression  of  opinions 
M.  Didier  makes  the  followmg  re- 
marks :— 

'^The  Duke  of  Bordeaux  is  far 
from  entertaining  the  principles  of 
Charles  X.,  and,  to  cite  one  example, 
the  grandson  repudiates  all  those 
forms — that  etiquette,and  that  extreme 
respect  paid  to  the  royal  person — which 
played  so  great  a  part  in  the  House  of 
bourbon,  and  on  which  the  grand- 
father laid  so  much  stress.  He  disre- 
gards all  these  pompous  inanities,  and 
Soes  so  far  in  this  respect  that  he  is 
etermined,   should   he  ever  mount 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


096 


Legitimacy  in  Fnmce, 


Ofay, 


upon  the  throne  of  France,  to  have  no 
court."  And  further,  "  The  Duke  of 
Bordeaux  directs  his  attention  to  all 
the  questions  of  the  day :  he  studies 
them  all  thoroughly ;  he  is  acquainted 
with  all  the  theories  respecting  labour. 
During  his  stay  in  England,  he  care- 
fully visited  its  chief  manufactories." 
And  again  —  ''  Two  questions  prin- 
cipally occupy  his  mind— the  adminis- 
trative  organisation  of  France,  by 
the  commune,  and  the  social  problem 
of  the  working  classes.  On  tlus  latter 
point  he  appeared  to  be  imbued  with 
social  errors,  and  labouring  under 
illusions.  He  attributes  religious  sen- 
timents to  the  working  classes  of 
Paris,  which  they  are  far  from  enter- 
taining, at  least  in  the  sense  he 
attached  to  the  words,  and  is  not  fully 
aware  of  the  extent  of  theu*  repug- 
nance for  the  drapeau  blanch  It  must 
not  be  forgotten,  that  M.  Didier  does 
not  take  into  account  the  progress  of 
reactionary  ideas  in  the  few  last 
months.  M.  Didier  states,  that  he 
told  the  Prince  this  bitter  truth,*  and 
was  listened  to  with  calmness  and 
placidity.  ^*  He  would  have  made,  I 
am  convinced,"  continues  the  republi- 
can visitor,  in  a  sort  of  resume,  ^*  an 
excellent  constitutional  monarch. 
The  very  disposition  of  his  mind,  with 
his  natural  qualities,  seem  all  adapt- 
ed to  such  'ovemment ;  and  his  edu- 
cation has  Deen  directed  with  such 
ideas.  Party-spirit  represents  him  as 
an  absolutist;  and  such  he  appears  to 
the  crowd  in  the  distance  of  his 
exile.  The  truth  is,  that  there  is  not 
perhaps  in  Europe  a  more  sincere  con- 
stitutionalist than  he — I  should  cidl 
him  also  a  religious  liberal,  without 
his  devotion  degeneratmg,  as  has 
been  said,  into  bigotry."  He  then 
proceeds  with  a  statement  of  his  con- 
viction in  the  moderate  liberal  ideas 
of  the  young  prince,  *'  which  his  fore- 
fathers might  have  condemned  as 
those  of  a  political  heretic."  "  Many 
intrigues,"  continues  the  honest  repub- 
lican, *^  have  been  set  on  foot  in  his 
name,  but  I  would  wager  boldly  that 
he  is  mixed  up  in  none,  that  he  is 
iffnorant  of  all,  would  disavow  all. 
As  much  as  his  mother  (the  Duchess 
of  Berri)  was  fond  of  adventure,  is 
he  averse  to  anything  of  the  kind. 
He  would  not  have  a  drop  of  blood 
shed  for  him.  I  do  not  blame  him,  in 


this  appreciation  of  his  character — 
quite  the  contraij;  I  only  mean  ta 
say  that  this  merit  is  not  great,  per- 
haps, inasmuch  as  it  is  in  him  a 
matter  of  temperament."  "  He  pos- 
sesses," pursues  M.  Didier,  ''good 
sense,  candour,  an  excessive  kindliness 
of  heart,  and  an  uncontn^able,  I  may 
say,  uncontested  natural  generouty. 
He  is  an  honest  man,  in  the  full  force 
of  the  expression."  What  greats 
euloginm  could  the  republican  pass  on 
his  political  adversary?  The  only- 
words  of  blame  which  he  let  fall  may- 
be comprised  in  the  following  remark. 
*'  He  seems  to  want  a  directing  spirit ; 
and  perhaps  wants  resolution.  His  is 
a  cultivated  rather  than  an  inventive 
mind:  he  probably  conceives  more 
than  he  creates,  and  receives  more 
than  he  gives." 

In  justice  to  Monsieur  Didier,  who 
might  appear  to  arrogate  to  himself  a 
degree  of  discernment  which  went 
beyond  all  probable  limits,  we  must 
not  omit  to  note  his  own  remarks, 
when,  in  another  passage,  he  speaks 
of  his  own  impressions,  "  It  would 
be  a  ridiculous  presumption,  or  very- 
idle  to  imagine,  that  I  could  have  cap- 
tivated the  confidence  of  the  prince, 
or  penetrated  his  secret  character.  I 
am  far  frDmJ  putting  forward  so  ridi- 
culous a  pretension.  What  was  I  ta 
him  ?  A  stranger ;  at  most  a  curious 
visitor.  Heevidently  only  said  tome 
just  what  he  wished  to  say,  went  only 
as  far  as  he  intended  to  go,  and  made 
me  speak  more  than  he  spoke  himself. 
I  should  have  wished  that  it  had  been 
the  contrary ;  but  I  was,  of  course, 
not  the  master  of  the  conversation." 
And  again  he  savs,  "God  alone  reads 
the  heart  1  To  him  alone  belongs  the 
secret  of  men's  consciences.  But  still 
I  think  I  can  take  upon  myself  to- 
affirm,  that  all  the  words  of  the  prince 
were  sincere." 

On  the  person  of  the  young  prince^ 
M.  Didier  has  the  following — and  al- 
though there  may  be,  in  truth,  some- 
thing of  the  Ixn^  Burleigh  shake  of 
the  head  in  the  extreme  complication 
of  discernment  contained  in  the  first 
phrase,  yet  the  impression  evidently 
made  upon  the  mind  of  the  republican, 
by  the  appearahce  of  the  exiled  heir 
of  the  throne  of  France,  bears  none 
the  less  the  stamp  of  tmthfiilness  :— 
*'  His  physiognomy  reveals  an  extreme- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


J849.] 


Legiiimaey  in  France, 


097 


uprightness  of  heart  and  mind,  and  a 
lively  sentiment  of  duty  and  justice, 
united  to  alove  of  all  that  is  good.  In 
person  he  is  of  middle  stature,  and 
mdined  to  be  stont ;  bat  he  is  far  from 
baying  that  obesi^  with  which  he  is 
generadly  supposed,  and  I  myself  be- 
lieved him,  to  be  aMcted.  The  fall  he 
had  from  his  horse  at  Kirchberg,  some 
years  ago,  has  left  traces  of  the  acci- 
dent. He  walks  heavily,  and,  when 
once  seated,  has  difBcnlty  in  rising ; 
but  they  say  that  he  looks  well  on 
horseback.  He  has  silky  fair  hair, 
and  although  rather  full,  and  marked 
with  the  Bourbon  type,  his  face  is 
agreeable,  frank,  open,  sympathetic, 
with  an  air  of  youth  and  health — the 
air,  in  fact,  ofbls  28  years.  He  wears  a 
tolUer  de  barbe  and  a  slight  mustache. 
His  eyes  are  of  a  limpid  blue,  lively  and 
soft  at  the  same  time ;  he  listens  well, 
and  inquires  constantly :  he  looks  at 
you  so  straight  and  fixedly  in  the  face, 
that  I  should  consider  it  impossible  for 
any  one  to  look  him  in  the  face  and 
lie.  As  to  himself,  one  look  suffices 
to  assure  you  of  his  veracity." 

The  following  remarks  about  the 
habits  of  the  young  prince  are  not 
without  their  historical  interest,  and 
complete  the  eulogium  forced  irom 
the  mouth  of  the  republican.  ^*  His 
Hfe  is  far  from  being  an  idle  one; 
before  and  after  breakfast  he  reads 
several  letters,  several  newspapers, 
and  reports,  often  of  a  very  voluminous 
description,  relative  to  the  different 
questions  which  are  the  order  of  the 
day  in  France ;  then  he  gives  a  few 
hours  of  the  afternoon  to  exercise. 
He  scrupulously  observes  his  rdigious 
duties,  attending  divine  service  two  or 
three  times  a-week  in  the  chapel  of 
the  chateau,  and  every  Sundapr  at  the 
parish  church.  He  writes  with  con- 
siderable grace,  and  his  letters  are  re- 
markable for  their  correctness  and 
elegance." 

Perhaps  the  most  striking,  and  cer- 
tainly the  most  touching,  part  of  the 
book  of  M«  Charles  DicUer,  is  that  in 
which  he  speaks  of  the  Duchess 
d'AngoulSme.  It  belongs  not  exactly 
to  the  subject  of  legitimacy  or  its 
prospects  in  France ;  but  the  interest 
attached  to  it  b  so  full  of  pathos, 
and,  in  an  historical  point  of  view,  so 
considerable,  that  we  cannot  refrain 
from  quoting  a  few  words  of  the 


author's  account  of  his  interview  with 
this  remariLable  princess. 

M.  Didier  seems  to  have  hesitated 
about  being  introduced  to  the  aged 
duchess.  He  was  naturally  scrupulous 
as  to  the  effect  which  might  be  pro* 
duced  upon  the  mind  of  this  victim  of 
revolutions,  by  the  presentation  of 
one  of  those  republicans,  to  the  very 
name  of  whom,  the  disastrous  cala- 
mities of  her  early  life  must  have 
inspired  her  with  an  unconquerable 
horror.  But  he  was  led  on  by  the 
Due  de  Levis,  **  not  without  a  degree 
of  uneasiness,"  and  his  reception  bv 
the  austere  princess,  in  her  plain  dark 
attire,  and  in  her  severely  simple  room, 
was  as  amiable  as  could  be  expected 
from  one  naturally  stem,  reserved, 
and  cold  almost  to  harshness  in  manner. 
M.  Didier  appears  to  have  been 
inexpressibly  touched  by  her  appear- 
ance, as  well  as  by  her  kindly  recep- 
tion of  him.  It  is  thus  that  he  speaks 
of  the  poor  ^^orpheUne  du  Tempie:^^ 
— *'  All  party  hatred  must  be  extin- 
guished m  the  presence  of  the  reverses 
of  fortune  she  has  undergone.  I  had 
before  me  the  woman  who  has  suf- 
fered what  woman  never  suffered  here 
below,  can  never  suffer  again.  What 
matter  that  she  be  princess  ?  She  is 
no  less  the  daughter  and  the  sister, 
thrice  proscribed!  She  bdongs  no 
less  to  a  human  family.  This  is  cer- 
tainly the  most  striking  historical 
figure  in  Europe.  She  produced  the 
most  profound  impression  upon  me, 
and  I  could  not  conceal  the  emotion 
that  thrilled  through  me.  My  heart 
was  divided  betwixt  respect  and  pity. 
I  seemed  to  see  before  me  one  of  uiose 
victims  of  fatality,  immortalised  by 
antique  art.  Only  Christian  resigna- 
tion has  impressed  upon  the  dau^ter 
of  Louis  XVl.  a  more  touching  stamp, 
and  raised  her  on  this  Christian  eleva- 
tion far  above  the  types  of  antiquity." 
What  a  homage  is  this,  complete  as  it 
is  pathetic,  fh>m  the  mouth  of  the 
descendant  of  the  enemies  of  her  race ! 
Hie  duchess  seems  to  have  questioned 
M.  Didier  much  about  that  country 
which  he  would  have  imagined  she 
must  have  abhorred,  but  which,  he 
tells  us,  she  cherishes  with  love  resem- 
bling that  of  a  spaniel  to  the  master 
whose  hand  has  beaten  him.  He 
speaks  more  than  once  of  her  extreme 
devotion,  andindeed  of  thatofthewhole 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Legitimacy  in  FroMee, 


[MMr^ 


group  of  exiles,  to  their  fatherland. 
Another  trait,  which  calls  for  respect 
and  admiration  in  the  aged  princess, 
lies  in  the  moderation  and  tolerance 
which  M.  Didier  records  of  her. 
"  She  spoke  of  France  with  tact  and 
reserve,  made  inquiries  as  to  the 
religions  sentiments  of  the  people  of 
Paris,  and  mentioned,  with  feelings  of 
admiration,  the  death  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Paris  on  the  barricades  of 
Jnne.  His  was  the  only  name  of 
which  she  proffered  mention."  And 
when  the  conversation  was  made  to 
turn  npon  the  Orieans  branch,  now 
exiled  in  its  tnm,  she  was  silent  about 
Louis  Philippe,  but  spoke  in  kind  and 
affectionate  terms  of  his  family,  and  of 
the  Duchess  of  Orieans;  and  when 
M.  Didier  addressed  her  with  the 
words,  "It  is  impossible,  Madame, 
but  that  you  must  have  seen,  in  the 
fall  of  Louis  Philippe,  the  finger  of 
God,"  she  replied  in  words  char- 
acteristic of  that  type  of  Christian 
resignation,  "  It  is  in  all  I"  "  The 
answer,"  pursues  the  narrator,  "was 
given  with  the  utmost  simplicity^  and 
without  my  being  able  to  discover  in 
it  the  least  leaven  of  bitterness." 
^'It  may  be  boldly  asserted  that 
there  was  no  gall  in  this  heart,  which 
has  offered,  as  holocaust  to  God,  all 
ito  griefis  and  all  its  passions.  ReH- 
gioB  is  now  the  principal  occupation, 
the  only  consolation,  of  a  life  tried 
by  unparalleled  adversity."  When 
still  fiirther  M.  Didier— indiscreetly, 
it  appears  to  us — pressed  the  pouit 
by  saying,  "But  you  must  own, 
Madame,  that  in  spite  of  your  Chris- 
tian magnanimity,  the  day  you  heard 
the  news  was  not  one  of  the  most 
unhappy  of  your  life."  "She  held 
her  peace,  but  with  an  air  which 
seemed  to  say,  *  You  ask  too  much.'" 
After  giving  his  testimony  as  to 
the  extreme  politeness  of  the  Duchess 
d'Angoul^me,  and  recording  instances 
of  her  boundless  charity,  "  immense," 
he  says,  "  for  her  present  revenue,'  M. 
Didier  has  the  following  touching  de- 
scription of  the  apartments  of  the  aged 
princess.  "  The  Duchess  of  Angou- 
Idme  lives  in  the  midst  of  the  sauvemrg 
of  her  youth-— and  yet  what  souvenin! 
Far  from  flying  from  them,  she  seems 
to  cherish  them ;  as  if  she  found  a 
strange  funereal  pleasure  in  filling 
each  day  the  cup  <^  bitterness,  hi 


order  each  day  to  drain  it  to  ihm 
dregs.  In  her  bedroom,  which  is  of 
an  austerity  almost  cloistral,  she  has 
around  her  only  objects  which  most 
recall  to  her  the  tragic  scenes  of  her 
childhood, — the  portndts  of  her  father, 
her  mother,  and  her  mother's  friend, 
the  Princess  of  Lamballe ;  near  her 
bed,  which  is  without  curtains,  a  jme- 
dieu  filled  with  relics  sacred  to  her, 
such  as  the  black  waistcoat  which  her 
fkther  wore  in  going  to  the  scaflMd, 
and  the  lace  kerchief  which  her  mother 
was  forced  to  m^d  with  her  own 
hands  before  appearing  at  the  Revolu* 
tionary  TribunaL  She  alone  has  the 
key  of  these  sad  memorial ;  and  once 
a-year,  on  the  21st  of  January,  die 
takes  them  out  from  the  shrine  which 
encloses  them,  and  lays  them  before 
her,  as  if  in  order  to  live  more  neariy 
with  the  beloved  dead  who  wore  them. 
On  that  day  she  sheds  htr  tears  in 
the  most  complete  retirement:  she 
sanctifies  the  bloody  anniversary  by 
solitude  and  prayer." 

On  this  subject  there  is  yet  more 
touching  matter,  which  would  lead  us, 
however,  too  frur.  For  the  same 
reason  we  cannot  fbllow  the  details 
into  which  M.  Didier  enters  respect* 
ing  the  Duke  of  L^vis,  the  younr 
Duke  of  Blacas,  M.  de  Montbel,  and 
other  adherents  of  the  exiled  familj: 
they  must  be  passed  over,  as  not  d 
immediate  interest.  The  fdlowing 
words,  however,  are  suffictently  re- 
markable in  the  mouth  of  the  repub- 
lican : — "  I  found  them  all  not  onlj 
pdite  and  wdl-informed,  •  but  most 
reasonable  upon  ptditical  topics. 
They  are  no  democrats,  aasmredly, 
but  they  are  men  of  sense,  who  have 
advanced  with  the  progress  of  the 
age,  and  are  fully  aware  of  the  new 
needs  and  new  interests  of  Europe  ia 
general,  and  Gf  France  in  partiOTlan 
They  are  no  conspirators;  that  I  will 
answer  for." 

M.  Didier  is  pressed  to  stop  the 
night;  but,  hurried  in  his  journey 
only  remains  to  dinner ;  and  it  is  m 
the  drawing-room,  before  dinner,  that 
he  is  presented  to  the  young  Dnchese 
of  Bordeaux.  This  figmfe  in  tlM 
group  of  royal  exiles,  although  of  leas 
impcHTtanoe  as  regards  the  prosperi^ 
of  legitimacy  in  France,  and  of  the 
attachment  which  the  family  may 
hereafter  command^  is  worth  reooni- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.]  Legitimacy  in  France. 

ing  also,  as  tn  interestliig  historical 
portrait. 


599 


^Thifl  princeaa/'  pursaea  M.  Didier, 
**  is  daughter  of  the  late  Duke  of  Modena. 
She  speaks  French  with  a  mixed  accent, 
half  Italian,  half  German,  which  rereals 
her  double  origin,  as  Qerman  princess 
bom  in  Italj.  She  is,  I  believe,  two 
years  older  than  her  fanaband.  She  is 
slim,  and  rather  thin,  bnt  of  an  elegant 
figure,  witii  beantiM  black  wavy  hair, 
dark  eyes,  fhU  of  life  and  spirit.  A 
natural  defect  slightly  impairs  the  effSBct 
of  her  mouth  when  she  speaks,  which  is 
a  pity,  for«  with  this  exception,  she  is  a 
very  pretty  woman.  She  wore  a  white 
«Tening  dress,  with  naked  arms,  and  a 
yelTct  scarf  upon  her  shoulders.  Her 
toilet  was,perhap8,  too  simple — a  reproach 
rarely  to  be  made — that  is  to  say,  with 
too  little  of  personal  eoqiutUrie  in  it :  it 
was  easT  to  see  that  no  Parisian  femfM 
de  eKanire  had  superintended  the  arrange- 
ment. Hers  is  CTidently  a  naiure  diitit^ 
guU,  I  was  told  she  was  of  a  kindly,  easy 
di8poBition,and  well  educated ;  she  was  eW- 
4ently  desirous  of  pleasing.  Although  a  prin- 
cess of  ancient  race,  she  appeared  to  me  to 
be  timid ;  but  her  embarrassment  was  not 
without  its  charm  of  grace.  Proud  of  her 
alliance  with  the  descendant  of  Louis 
XIY.,  she  has  the  highest  opinion  of  her 
husbaind  ;  and  her  love  for  him  amounts, 
I  was  told,  to  adoration.  She  thinks 
him  irresistible;  and, 'more  impatient 
than  he,  bnt  impatient  hr  more  for  him 
than  for  herself,  she  is  firmly  couTinced 
that  he  has  but  to  show  himself,  in  order 
to  subjugate  all  the  world  as  he  has  sub- 
jugated her.  In  this  lie  all  her  political 
opinions ;  that  is  to  say,  her  polilics  are 
those  of  the  heart.** 

It  is  to  be  regretted,  perhaps,  that 
we  have  not  space  for  the  anecdotes 
of  the  moderation  and  good  sense  of  the 
Dnke  of  Bordeanx,  which  M.  Didier 
records,  as  collected  from  the  months 
of  his  adherents,  and  which  mnst 
necessarily  complete,  npon  the  minds 
of  the  gTMkt  portion  of  the  French  na- 
tion, the  impression  made  by  the  rest 
oftiiebook.  Bat  we  mnst  now  harry 
on. 

The  dinner  of  the  exiled  princely 
family  is  described  by  the  repablican 
Tisitor  as  simple,  althongh  served 
with  a  certain  state.  He  sits  by  the 
side  of  the  Duchess  of  AngonlSme, 
whose  every  word  is  one  of  "  polite- 
ness, courtesy,  or  forbearance."  "  The 
Duchess  of  Bordeaux,"  he  says, "  con- 
tinually fixed  her  eyes  upon  me,  as 


with  a  look  of  wonder.  In  truth,  the 
position  was  a  strange  one — a  French 
republican  sitting  at  the  taUe  of  a 
prescribed  French  prince,  and  eating 
out  of  plate  engraved  with  the  royal 
arms  ofFrance  r  The  evening  passes^ 
in  this  Uttle  court,  almost  as  in  a  pri- 
vate family  in  some  French  chateaa* 
Billiards,  tapestry-woric,  conversa- 
tion, occupy  the  various  personages. 
The  republican  again  converses  witii 
the  prince,  who  listens  to  contradiction 
with  the  utmost  good-humoor.  When 
he  departs,  the  whole  family  express, 
in  their  last  words,  their  longing  for 
that  country  which  he  is  about  to 
revisit  so  soon,  but  from  which  they 
are  exiled. 

We  have  dwelt  upon  the  book  of 
M.  Didier  at  considerable  length,  not 
only  on  account  of  its  historic  inte- 
rest, but  on  account  of  the  strange 
circumstances  which  induced  its  pub- 
lication, its  startling  result,  the  sensa- 
tion it  has  created,  and  the  ultnnate 
effect  it  may  produce  in  France  in 
paving  the  way  for  legitimacy,  by  at- 
taching interest  and  admiration  to  the 
person  of  its  representative— perhM)8, 
also,  because  it  does  honour  to  the  enn- 
cerity  of  the  author,  and  to  the  more 
honest  republican  party  to  which  he 
belongs.  But  we  have  thus  excluded 
ourselves  from  the  possibility  of  giving 
more  than  a  brief  notice  of  the  other 
book  alluded  to  above,  that  of  the 
Yicomte  d'Arlincourt,  althongh,  in 
truth,  it  merits,  in  all  respects,  a  far 
more  extended  observation,  as  a  frank 
and  straightforward  expression  of  the 
sentiments  <rf  the  legitimists.  We 
must  confine  ourselves,  then,  princi-* 
pally  to  the  circnmstances  which,  in- 
dependently of  its  merits,  have  given 
the  little  book  so  great  a  notoriety  in 
France,  and  earned  it  on  to  the  almost 
unexampled  honours  of  a  forty-ei^th 
edition.  They  are  curions  enon^  in 
themselves,  and  bear  some  analogy  to 
those  which  have  determined  the 
publication  and  the  success  of  the 
book  of  M.  Didier,  inasmuch  as  ifi 
was  the  ardency  of  republicanism 
which  forced  upon  the  public  notice  a 
book,  likely  to  forward  the  cause  of 
legitimacy  in  France.  The  little  work 
of  M.  d'Arlincourt  is  written,  however, 
avowedly  upon  legitimist  principles, 
and  for  the  purpose  of  awakening  the 
attention  of  the  nation  to  the  cause  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


600 


Legitimacy  in  France. 


[May, 


the  man  whom  the  author  looks 
upon  as  the  ultimate  saTioor  of  the 
troubled  oonntry.  This  legitimist 
book,  under  the  title  of  "  Dieu  k  veut^^^ 
written  after  the  bloody  days  of  June, 
might,  in  spite  of  the  vigour  of  its 
language,  and  the  justice  and  good 
sense  of  most  of  its  reasonings  and 
remarks,  never  have  emerged  so  pro- 
minently from  the  inundation  of  poli- 
tical pamphlets  which  floods  republi- 
can France,'  had  it  not  pleased  the 
government,  pushed  on  by  the  cla- 
mours of  a  more  violent  party,  to  seize 
the  work,  and  bring  the  author  to  trial. 
The  affair  made  a  considerable  sensa- 
tion in  August  last ;  the  court  of  justice 
was  crowded :  the  interest  excited  was 
great.  The  passages  more  particularly 
incriminated  were,  that  which  likened 
the  republic  to  the  plague ;  that  which 
said  the  sovereignty  of  the  people, 
when  not  a  bloody  tnith,  was  a  ridi- 
culous mystification ;  and  that  which 
contained  the  words,  "the  Bepublic 
will  have  proved  to  be  the  necessary 
transition  from  a  revolutionary  tem- 
pest to  a  social  regeneration.  In  the 
general  movement  of  men's  minds  is 
written  the  happy  advent  of  the 
chosen  of  Providence.  He  draws 
nearer!  he  will  comel"  After  the 
defence  of  his  own  counsel,  M.  d'Ar- 
lincourt  himself  rose  and  supported, 
in  a  striking  speech,  the  honesty  of 
his  intentions  and  his  designs  as  a 
ban  dtoyen^  without  bating  one  iota 
of  his  legitimist  principles.  The  re- 
sult was  a  unanimous  verdict  of  "  not 
guilty"  from  the  jury.  A  burst  of 
applause,  which  no  authority  could 
check,  resounded  through  the  court. 
It  was  from  the  common  classes,  also, 
that  came  the  approbation :  workmen 
shouted  in  the  court,  "  Dieu  le  veut  I 
Dieu  U  veut  I  ^^  to  the  rythm  of  the 
famous  ''^  des  lampions  I  *^  and,  on  the 
morrow,  delegates  of  the  dames  de  la 
Halle^  and  of  the  artisans  of  Paris  came, 
with  bouquets^  to  felicitate  the  author 
on  his  acquittal.  We  will  not  lay  an 
unnecessary  weight  upon  this  move- 


ment of  a  portion  of  the  lower  classes, 
which  may  arise  from  the  sentiments 
of  a  small  minority,  although  perhaps 
more  considerable  than  seems  to  be 
generally  supposed.  The  result,  how- 
ever, of  the  trial  has  been  to  spread 
the  book  through  the  country  m  its 
almost  interminable  editions,  and  thus 
to  spread  more  and  more  abroad  those 
legitimist  feeUngs,  which,  we  con- 
fidently assert  are  daily  more  and 
more  gaining  ground  throughout 
Fiance,  and  which  may  one  day,  in 
case  of  another  revolution,  that  may 
be  brought  upon  the  country  by  the 
excesses  of  the  ultra  party,  bear  their 
fruits.  At  all  events  the  destiny  of 
these  two  books,  in  furthering  the 
cause  of  legitimacy,  in  the  one  case 
contrary  to  the  opinions  of  the  author, 
in  the  other  by  the  very  means  in- 
tended to  check  and  even  crush  it,  is 
singular  enough. 

Whatever  may  be  written  upon  the 
dark  pages  of  a  nation's  future,  it  is 
very  evident  that  "  Legitimacy  in 
France  "  has  made  considerable  ground 
among  the  masses.  It  cannot,  cer- 
tainly, be  said  to  have  been  from  the 
influence  of  convictions,  or,  in  the 
general  hei-d,  from  any  reliance  upon 
theories  of  legitimacy,  properly  speak- 
ing. It  has  arisen  from  disgust  and 
distrust  of  other  governments  ;  from 
the  sad  experience  of  the  miseries 
occasioned  to  the  country  by  the  pre- 
sent revolution ;  from  despair  in  the 
stability  of  a  republican  rule,  with 
insurrection  always  growling  beneath 
the  surface ;  from  hope  in  a  greater 
stability  and  confidence  under  a  legi- 
timate monarchy.  Legitimacy,  then, 
can  but  grow  and  flourish  in  France 
in  the  chances  of  revolutions ;  and  if 
it  triumphs,  it  will  be  by  the  excesses 
of  its  enemies,  and  the  restless  sub- 
versive attempts  of  the  ultra-republi- 
can party.  But  again:  who  can 
say  confidently  that  it  will  triumph  ? 
Still  more:  who  shidl  dare,  in  the 
present  state  of  France,  to  say  that  it 
shall  not? 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  The  C6aege.'--A  Sketch  in  Verse,  601 

THE  COLLEGE. — K  SKETCH  IN  VERSE. 
**  Scinditar  incertam  stadia  in  contraria  valgus.** 
Oft  has  some  fair  inqoirer  bid  me  say, 
What  tasks,  what  sports  beguile  the  gownsman's  day ; 
What  cares  are  ours— by  what  light  arts  we  try 
To  teach  our  sober-footed  hours  to  fly. 
List,  then,  ye  belles,  who,  nursed  in  golden  ease, 
No  arts  need  study,  but  the  arts  to  please ; 
Who  need  no  science,  while  with  skill  ye  know 
To  wield  the  weapons  which  your  charms  bestow — 
With  grace  to  thread  the  dance's  mazy  throng — 
To  str&e  the  tuneful  chords,  and  swell  the  song — 
To  rouse  man*s  sterner  spirit  to  his  toil. 
And  cheer  its  harshness  with  a  grateful  smile. 
Thus  my  weak  muse  a  bolder  flight  shall  raise. 
Lured  by  the  glorious  hope  of  Beauty's  praise. 

Soon  as  the  clouds  divide,  and  dawning  day 
Tints  the  quadrangle  with  its  earliest  ray. 
The  porter,  wearied  with  his  watchings  late. 
Half  opes  his  eyelids  and  the  wicket  gate ; 
And  many  a  yawning  gyp  comes  slipshod  in, 
To  wake  his  master  ere  the  bells  begin. 

Round  yon  gray  walls,  enchamed  by  slumber's  spell, 
Each  son  of  learning  snores  within  his  cell. 
For  though  long  vi^  the  pale  student  keep. 
E'en  learning's  self,  we  know,  must  sometimes  sleep — 
So  mom  shafi  see  him,  with  a  brightened  face. 
Fresh  as  a  giant,  to  resume  his  race. 
But  hark !  the  chimes  of  yonder  chapel-tower 
Sound  the  arrival  of  the  unwelcome  hour. 
Now  drowsy  Lentulus  his  head  half  rears, 
To  mumble  curses  on  the  Dean  he  fears. 
What  though  his  gyp  exhort  him,  ere  too  late, 
To  seek  the  chapel  and  avert  his  fate  ? 
Who,  when  secure  his  downy  sheets  between. 
Becks  of  the  threatenings  of  an  angry  Dean ! 
Slow  rolling  round  he  bids  his  mentor  go 
And  bear  his  warnings  to  the  shades  below. 
Soon  shall  he,  summoned  to  the  well-known  room,* 
Repent  his  recklessness  and  learn  his  doom. 
Within  the  walls  a  dull  constraint  to  know. 
And  many  a  midnight  jollity  forego. 
Far  happier  he,  to  whom  the  harsh-tongued  bell 
Sounds,  as  it  should,  his  murdered  slumber's  knell. 
Cold  he  contemns,  and,  shuffling  on  his  clothes. 
Boldly  stiJks  forth,  nor  heeds  his  redd'nins  nose. 
Straight  o'er  the  grass-plot  cuts  his  dewy  line 
In  mad  defiance  of  the  College  fine ; 
Breathless  with  hurry  gains  the  closing  grate, 
And  thanks  his  stars  he  was  not  just  too  late. 
His  name  prick'd  off  upon  the  marker's  roll, 
No  twinge  of  conscience  racks  his  easy  soul. 
While  tutor's  wines  and  Dean's  soft  smiles  repay 
His  prompt  submission  to  the  College  sway. 

"  Viddket^ihb  Dean's  apartmeDt ;  a  risit  to  which  f^qaently  oondades  by  the 
visitor's  finding  himself  **  gated,"  %, «.,  obliged  to  be  within  the  college  walls  by  10 
o'clock  at  night;  by  this  he  is  prevented  from  partaking  in  sappers,  or  other  noctomal 
festivities,  in  any  other  college  or  in  lodgings. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


602  The  ColUge.-'A  Sketch  m  Verse.  [MMfy 

The  service  o*er,  by  Cam's  doll  bank  of  sedge 
He  strides,  while  hanger  gains  a  keener  edge ; 
(Hiongh  fasting  walks  I  cannot  loathe  too  much, 
Since  such  my  cnstom,  my  advice  be  snch.) 
For  him,  who  straight  retoms,  what  horrors  wait  I 
How  chill  and  comfortless  his  chamber's  state. 
The  crackling  fuel  only  serves  too  well 
To  show  the  cold  it  vainly  strives  to  quell ; 
While  the  grim  bedmaker  provokes  the  dost, 
And  soot-t^m  atoms,  which  his  tomes  encnist : 
Awhile  snspended  high  in  air  they  soar, 
Then,  sinking,  seek  t£e  shelves  on  which  they  slept  before. 
Down  bolt  Imi  commons  and  his  scalding  tea, 
Then  off  to  lectm^s  in  pedantic  glee. 
He  notes  each  artifice  and  master-stroke — 
Each  musty  parallel  and  mustier  joke ; 
8naps  up  the  driblets  to  his  share  consigned, 
And  as  he  cram'd  his  body  crams  his  mind ; 
Then  seeks  at  home  digestion  for  his  lore. 
And  slams  in  Folly's  face  the  twice-barred  door. 

This  hour,  prchance,  sees  Lentulus  descend 
To  seek  the  chamber  of  some  jovial  firiend — 
Yawn  o'er  the  topics  of  the  passing  day, 
Or  damn  the  losses  of  his  last  night's  play ; 
While  well  he  augurs  from  the  clattering  plates, 
The  glad  intelligence  that  breakfast  waits. 

From  Memory's  store  the  sportive  muse  may  ^ean 
The  charms  that  gild  awhile  tiie  careless  scene^ 
The  song,  the  anecdote,  the  bet,  the  joke, 
The  steaming  viands,  and  the  circling  smoke — 
The  racy  cider-cup,  or  brisk  champagne, 
Longprompt  the  merriment  and  rouse  the  strain ; 
Till  Pleasure,  sated  of  the  loaded  board, 
Seeks  what  amusement  fresher  scenes  afford. 
Some  prove  their  skill  in  fence — some  love  to  box — 
Some  thirst  for  vengeance  on  the  dastard  fox ; 
Each  by  his  fav'rite  sport's  enchanting  power. 
Cheats  of  its  tediousness  the  flying  hour. 

Now  the  dull  court  a  short  siesta  takes. 
For  scarce  a  footstep  her  still  echo  wakes, 
Save  where  the  prowling  duns  their  victim  scout. 
And  seize  the  spendthrift  wretch  that  dares  steal  out. 

Come,  let  us  wander  to  the  river's  bank, 
And  learn  what  charm  collects  yon  breathless  rank ; 
The  hope  or  horror  pictured  in  each  face 
Marks  the  excitement  of  the  coming  race. 
Hark  I  o'er  the  waters  booms  the  sound  of  strife ; 
Now  the  hush'd  voices  leap  at  once  to  life ; 
Now  to  their  toil  the  striving  oarsmen  bend ; 
Now  their  ffay  hues  the  flaunting  banners  blend ; 
Now  leap  the  wavedrops  from  the  flashing  oar ; 
Now  the  woods  echo  to  the  madd'ning  roar ; 
Now  hot  th'  enthusiastic  crowd  pursue, 
And  scream  hoarse  praises  on  the  nnflinrMng  crew ; 
Now  in  one  last  wild  chance  each  arm  is  strained ; 
One  panting  struggle  more— the  goal  is  gained. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  The  C6aege.--A  Sketch  m  Vene.  60S 

A  scene  like  this,  what  streMn  can  boast  beside  ? 

Scarce  rlTal  Isis  on  her  fairer  tide.* 

Bat  think  not  thus  conld  live  the  rower^s  power, 

Save  long  privation  steeled  him  for  the  hour. 

The  conch  relinqnished  at  the  voice  of  mora, 

The  toUsome  exercise,  the  cop  forsworn, 

The  fimgal  dinner,  and  scarce-tasted  wine — 

Are  these  no  sacrifice  at  glory^s  shrine  ? 

Thns  with  new  trophies  shall  his  walls  be  graced — 

Each  limb  new  strengthened,  and  each  nerve  new  braced. 

Some  idlers  to  the  pavements  keep  their  feet, 
And  strut  and  ogle  all  the  passing  street. 
And  if  tis  Sonday's  noon,  on  King's  Parade,t 
See  the  smog  tradesman  too  and  leering  maid ; 
See  the  trim  shop-boy  cast  his  envious  eye 
On  Topling's  waistcoat  and  on  Sprightlv's  tie, 
Bravdy  resolved  to  hoard  his  labour's  fruit. 
And  ape  their  fancies  in  his  next  new  suit 

But  now  the  sounding  clocks  in  haste  recall 
Each  hungry  straggler  to  his  College  hall ; 
For  Alma  Mater  well  her  nursling  rears, 
Nor  cheats  his  gullet,  while  she  ^  his  ears. 
Heavens  1  what  a  datter  rends  the  steam-frau^t  air — 
How  waiters  iosUe,  and  how  Freshmen  stare  t 
One  thought  here  strikes  me — and  the  thought  is  sad — 
The  carving  for  the  most  part  is  but  bad. 
See  the  tom  turkey  and  the  mangled  goose  I 
See  the  hack'd  sirloin  and  the  spattered  juice  I 
Ah  I  can  the  College  well  her  charge  fulfil. 
Who  thus  neglects  the  petit-mattre's  skill? 
The  tutor  proves  each  pupil  on  the  books — 
Why  not  give  equal  li<^nse'to  the  cooks  ? 
As  the  grave  lecturer,  with  scrupulous  care, 
Tries  how  his  dass  picks  up  its  learned  fare — 
From  Wisdom's  banquet  makes  the  dullard  fast — 
Denied  admittance  till  his  trial's  past — 
So  the  slow  Freshman  on  a  crust  should  starve. 
Till  practice  taught  him  nobler  food  to  carve : 
Then  Granta's  sons  a  useful  fame  should  know. 
And  shame  with  skill  each  dinner-table  beau. 

Hiffh  on  the  dais,  and  more  richly  stored. 
Well  has  old  custom  placed  the  Fellow's  board : 
Thus  shall  the  student  feel  his  fire  increased 
Bv  brave  ambition  for  the  well-eraced  feast — 
Mark  the  sleek  merriment  of  reverend  Dons, 
And  learn  how  science  well  rewards  her  sons. 
But  spare,  my  muse,  to  perce  the  sacred  gloom 
That  veils  the  mystaies  of  the  Fellows'  room ; 
Nor  hint  how  Dons,  their  untasked  hours  to  pass, 
Like  Cato,  warm  Uieir  virtues  with  the  glass,  t 

*  Be  not  indignant,  ye  broader  wavts  of  Thames  and  las  1  In  the  number  of  con- 
tending barks,  and  the  excitement  of  the  spectators  of  the  strife.  Cam  may,  with 
all  dne  modesty,  boast  herself  unequalled.  To  the  swiftaess  of  her  cha^ion  galleys 
ye  hare  yoarselres  often  borne  witness. 

t  The  most  fashionable  promenade  fbr  the  ^speetantes"  and  'speotandi"  of 
Cambridge. 

X  ^  Narratur  et  pried  Catonis 

Scepe  mere  oaloiiie  virtus."— Hobacb,  Od€$. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


604  The  CoOege.-^  Sketch  in  Verse,  [Ma^, 

Once  more,  at  sound  of  chapel  chime,  repfdrs 
The  snrpliced  scholar  to  his  yesper  prayers ; 
For  discipline  this  tribate  at  his  hands. 
First  and  last  daty  of  the  day,  demands. 
Then  each,  as  diligence  or  mirth  inyite, 
Carefol  improves  or  thriftless  wastes  the  night. 

Stand  in  the  midst,  and  with  observant  eye 
Each  chamber's  tenant  at  his  task  descry. 
Here  the  harsh  mandate  of  the  Dean  enthrals 
Some  praverless  prisoner  to  the  College  walls. 
Who  in  the  novePs  pages  seeks  to  find 
A  brief  oblivion  for  his  angry  mind. 
Haply  the  smoke- wreathed  meerschaum  shall  snpply 
An  evenness  of  soul  which  they  deny. 
Charm  I  that  alike  can  soothing  pleasure  bring 
To  sage  or  savage,  mendicant  or  king ; 
Sovereign  to  blunt  the  pangs  of  torturing  pain, 
Or  clear  the  mazes  of  the  stndent^s  brain  I 
Swift  at  thy  word,  amidst  the  soul^s  misrule, 
Content  resumes  her  sway,  and  rage  grows  cooL 

Here  pores  the  student,  till  his  aching  sight 
No  more  can  brook  the  glimmering  taper's  light ; 
Then  Slumber's  links  their  nervel^  captive  bind, 
While  Fancy's  magic  mocks  his  fevered  mind ; 
Then  a  dim  train  of  years  unborn  sweeps  by    • 
In  glorious  vision  on  his  raptured  eye : 
See  Fortune's  stateliest  sons  in  homage  bow, 
And  fling  vain  lustre  o'er  his  toUwom  brow ! 
Away,  ye  drivellers!  dare  ye  speak  to  him 
Of  cheek  grown  bloodless,  or  of  eye  grown  dim  ? 
Who  heeds  the  sunken  cheek,  or  wasted  firame. 
While  Hope  shouts  "  Onward  I  to  undying  fame." 

Glance  further,  if  thine  eye  can  pierce  the  mist 
Raised  round  the  votaries  of  Loo  and  Whist; 
Scarce  such  kind  Venus  round  her  offspring  flung 
To  bear  him  viewless  through  the  Punic  throng  ;* 
Scarce  such  floats  round  old  Skiddaw's  crown  of  snow. 
And  veils  its  grimness  from  the  plains  below. 
Here,  too,  gay  Lentulus  conspicuous  sits, 
Chief  light  and  oracle  of  circUng  wits. 
Who  with  such  careless  grace  the  trick  can  take, 
Or  fling  with  such  nntrembling  hand  his  stake? 
But  though  with  well-feigned  ease  his  glass  he  sips. 
And  puffs  the  balmy  cloud  from  smiling  lips, 
Care  broods  within — his  soul  alone  regardiB 
His  ebbing  pocket  and  the  varying  cimls ; 
While  one  resolve  his  saddened  spirit  fills— 
The  diminution  of  his  next  term's  bills. 

Lamp  after  lamp  expires  as  night  grows  late, 
And  feet  less  frequent  rattle  at  the  gate. 
The  wearied  student  now  rakes  out  his  fire — 
The  host  grows  dull,  and  yawning  guests  retire — 
Till,  all  its  labours  and  its  follies  o'er, 
The  silent  College  sinks  to  sleep  once  more. 

Thus  roll  the  hours,  thus  roll  the  weeks  away. 
Till  terms  expiring  bring  the  long-feared  day, 


•  \iwit,  jEneid,i.  415, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1649.]  Tlie  ColUgc^A  Sketch  in  Verse.  605 

When  rake  and  student  eqnal  terror  know- 
That  lest  he's  plncked,  this  lest  he  pass  too  low. 
Though  different  epochs  mark  their  wide  careers, 
And  serve  for  reckoning  points  through  fleeting  years — 
To  this  a  tripos  or  a  Senate's  grace, 
To  that  a  fox-hnnt,  ball,  or  steeple-chase, — 
When  three  short  years  of  toil  or  sloth  are  past, 
This  common  bngbear  scares  them  all  at  last. 

The  doors  flung  wide,  the  boards  and  benches  set, 
The  nervous  canmdates  for  fame  are  met. 
See  yon  poor  wretch,  just  shivering  from  his  bed. 
Gnaw  at  his  nails  and  scratch  his  empty  head ; 
With  lengthened  visage  o'er  each  question  pore^ 
And  ransack  all  his  memory  for  its  store. 
This  Euclid  argued,  or  this  f^ewton  taught — 
Thus  Butler  reasoned,  or  thus  Paley  thought; 
With  many  a  weapon  of  the  learned  strife, 
Prized  for  an  hour,  then  flung  aside  for  life. 
Ah !  what  avails  him  now  his  vaunted  art, 
To  stride  the  steed,  or  guide  the  tandem-cart? 
His  loved  ecart4,  or  his  gainful  whist  ? 
What  snobs  he  pommelled,  or  what  maidens  kissed? 
His  ball-room  elegance,  his  modish  air. 
And  easy  impudence,  that  charmed  the  fair? 
Ah  I  what  avails  him  that  to  Fashion's  fame 
Admiring  boudoirs  echoed  forth  his  name? 
All  would  he  yield,  if  idl  could  buy  one  look. 
Though  but  a  moment's,  o'er  the  once-scorned  book. 
— ^Enough,  enough,  once  let  the  scene  suffice ; 
Bid  me  not,  Fancy,  brave  its  horrors  twice. 
The  wrangler's  glory  in  his  well- earned  fame. 
The  prizeman's  triumph,  and  the  pluck'd  man's  shame. 
With  all  fair  Learning's  well-bestowed  rewards,      •; 
Are  they  not  fitting  themes  for  nobler  bards  ? 
Poor  Lentulus,  twice  plucked,  some  happy  day 
Just  shuffles  through,  and  dubs  himself  b.  a.  ; 
Thanks  heaven,  flings  by  his  cap  and  gown,  and  shuns 
A  place  made  odious  by  remorseless  duns. 
Not  so  the  wrangler, — him  the  Fellows'  room 
Shall  boast  its  ornament  for  years  to  come  ; 
Till  some  snug  rectory  to  his  lot  may  fall, 
Or  e'en  (his  fondest  wish)  a  prebend's  stall : 
Then  burst  triumphant  on  th'  admiring  town 
The  full-fledged  honours  of  his  Doctor's  gown. 

Yes,  Granta,  thus  thy  sacred  shades  among 
Join  grave  and  thoughtless  in  one  motley  throng. 
Forgive  my  muse,  if  aught  her  trifling  air 
Seems  to  throw  scorn  upon  thy  kindly  care. 
Long  may  thy  sons,  with  heaven-directed  hand. 
Spread  wide  the  glories  of  a  grateful  land — 
Uphold  their  country's  and  their  sovereign's  cause — 
Adorn  her  church,  or  wield  her  rev'rend  laws ; 
By  virtue's  mi^t  her  senate's  counsel  sway, 
And  scare  red  Faction  powerless  from  his  prey. 

And  ye,  who,  thriftless  of  your  life's  best  days, 
Have  sought  but  Pleasure  in  fair  Learning's  ways. 
Though  nice  reformers  of  the  sophists'  school 
Mock  the  old  maxims  of  Collegiate  rule. 
Deem  them  not  worthless,  because  oft  abused. 
Nor  sneer  at  blessings,  which  yourselves  refused. — U.  T. 
VOL.  LXT.— NO.  ooccm.  2  Q 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


006 


Arm  imwkhgmm 


Pi«rt 


ZtkJCK  ■OONUQHT. 


Some  time  ago,  on  the  wayfttm 
Glasgow  to  Liverpool,  amoiigBt  tbe 
confosion  and  bnstle  in  the  ndlwafy 
terminus  at  Greenock,  I  was  interested 
by  seeing  what  atrook  me  more  bj 
contrast  with  the  rest  of  the  scene, 
but,  from  old  associati(»8,  woidd  have 
drawn  my  attention  at  any  time. 
Passengers,  porters,  and  trades  were 
meeting  from  both  directions ;  ladies 
and  gentlemen  anxions  abont  their 
bandboxes  and  portmanteaas ;  one 
engine  puffing  off  its  steam,  and  an- 
other screaming  as  it  departed. 
Throngh  the  midst  of  all,  a  gronp  of 
six  seamen,  from  a  third-class  car- 
riage, were  lugging  along  their  bags 
and  hammocks,  dingy  and  odorous 
with  genuine  tar  in  all  its  modifica- 
tions. Five  of  the  party,  of  different 
heights,  ages,  and  sizes,  were  as  dark- 
brown  mahogany-colour,  in  £M$e, 
throat,  and  hands,  as  some  long  se»- 
Toyage  had  made  them,  eyjdently 
through  latitudes  where  the  wind 
blows  the  sun,  if  the  sun  doesn^t  bun 
the  wind.  One  was  a  fine,  stout, 
middle-aged  man,  with  immense  whis- 
kers and  a  ca^^  of  ManiUa  grass,  a 
large  bluejacket,  with  a  gorgeous  India 
handkerchief  stuffed  in  its  capacious 
outside  pocket,  and  brown  trousers, 
with  boots,  whom  I  at  once  set  down 
for  the  boatswain  of  some  good 
East-Indiaman.  The  sixth  was  a 
woolly -pated  negro  lad,  about  nine- 
teen or  twenty,  dressed  in  sailor's 
clothes  with  the  rest,  but  with  his  cha- 
racteristically shapeless  feet  -cramped 
up  in  a  pair  of  Wellingtons,  in  which 
he  stumped  along,  while  his  com- 
panions had  the  usual  easy  roll  of  their 
calling.  The  fellow  was  black  as  a 
coal,  thick-llpp^  and  flat-nosed ;  but 
if,  like  most  negroes,  he  had  only  kept 
grinning,  it  would  not  have  seemed  so 
ridiculous  as  the  gravity  of  his  whole 
air.  Some  youns  ladies  standing 
near,  with  parasols  spread  to  save 
their  fair  complexions  from  the  sun, 
said  to  each  other,  *'  Oh,  do  look  at 
the  foreign  sailors  1"  I  knew,  how- 
ever, without  requirinff  to  hear  a 
single  word  from  them,  that  they  were 
nothing  else  but  the  regular  tme-blae 
English  tars;  such.  Indeed,  as  yon 
seldom  find  belon^^  to  even  the 


sister  Idngdotts.  A  SoDtchman  or  an 
Irishman  may  nake  a  good  sailor, 
and,  for  the  theory  of  the  thing,  why, 
lliey  are  probably  ''six  and  half-a- 
dooen ; "  bat,  somehow,  there  appears 
to  be  in  the  English  sea-dog  a  pecn- 
liar  capacity  of  &veloj>ing  the  appro- 
pdate  ideal  character— that  frank, 
bluff,  hearty  abandon^  and  mixture  of 
practical  skill  with  worldl[y  simplicity, 
which  mark  the  oceanic  man.  All 
dogs  can  swim,  but  only  water-dogs 
have  the  foot  webbed  and  the  hair 
shaggy.  The  Englishman  is  the  only 
one  you  can  thoroughly  salt,  and  make 
all  his  bread  biscuit,  so  that  he  can 
both  be  a  boy  at  fifi^,  and  yet  chew 
all  the  hardsl4ps  of  e3q>enence  with- 
out getting  consdous  of  his  vnsdom. 

So  I  r^ected,  at  ai^y  rate,  half 
joke,  half  earnest,  whUe  hastening  to 
the  Liverpool  steamer,  which  lay 
broadside  to  the  quay,  and,  betwixt 
letting  off  steam  and  getting  it  up, 
was  blowing  like  a  mighty  whaJe 
come  up  to  breathe.  The  passengers 
were  streaming  up  the  plank,  across 
hj  her  paddle-boxes,  as  it  were  so 
many  Jonahs  gomg  into  its  belly; 
amongst  whom  I  was  glad  to  see  my 
nauti^  friends  taking  a  shorter  cut 
to  the  steerage,  and  establishing  them- 
selves with  a  sort  of  half-at-home 
expression  in  their  sunburnt  weatherly 
faces.  In  a  little  while  the  '^  City  of 
Glasgow''  was  swimming  out  of  the 
firth,  with  short  quick  Uows  of  her 
huge  fins,  that  grew  into  longer  and 
longer  strokes  as  they  revolv^  in  the 
swells  of  the  sea ;  the  jib  was  set  out 
over  her  sharp  nose  to  steady  her, 
and  the  column  of  smoke  from  her 
funnel,  blown  out  by  the  wind,  was 
left,  in  her  speed,  upon  the  larboard 
ouarter,  to  compare  its  dark-brown 
snadow  with  the  white  ftex)w  behind. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  long  summer 
evening  the  round  moon  rose,  white 
and  beautifhl,  opposite  the  blue  peaks 
of  Arran,  shining  with  sunset.  By 
that  time  the  steamer's  crowded  and 
lumbered  decks  had  -got  somewhat 
settled  into  order ;  the  splash  of  the 
paddles,  and  the  dank  <»  the  engine, 
leaping  up  and  down  at  the  window 
of  its  boose,  kept'up  a  Jdnd  of  quiet, 
by  contrast,  in  s*^***  «^  »**»^  different 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18^.]  JM 

BO&sef  gobg  on  around.  AmoiifBt 
toohf  a  ttBiaaBce  mpparentlj  inaepar- 
ableirom  and pecoliar to  ateanboate, 
IB  a  blind  fiddler,  wlioae  eyerlaatiog  m- 
femal  scrape,  squeaking  away  on  tlie 
fn^ededc,  one  eannot  help  bkading 
with  the  ihomp  and  shad(ier  of  those 
emetic  machines  on  a  large  aoale,  aad 
eonsidering  it  not  the  least  element 
in  prodadDg  the  disagreeable  pheno- 
mena so  w^  known  on  board  of  them. 
One  of  these  said  floaMng  mnsidanSt 
who  this  wander  probably  in  imita- 
ti<m  of  Arion,  and  in  revenge  for  his 
fate,  was  now  performing  to  the 
groups  near  the  paddle-boxes.  Be- 
yond them,  however,  by  the  steamer's 
patent  iron  windlass,  there  was  n 
quiet  space  at  the  bow,  where,  in  n 
abort  time,  I  perceived  the  figores  of 
the  sailors  relieved  against  the  brisk 
aea-view  above  ^e  insignificant  bow- 
i^t.  I  went  fiorward  out  of  the  pri- 
vileged regions  to  smoke  a  cigar,  and 
fomid  the  two  elder  ones  sitting  o^ier 
the  windlass  in  conversation  with 
another  seafaring  passenger,  evidently 
less  thoronghbred,  however.  The 
rest  were  walking  backwards  and  for- 
wards to  a  ode,  with  the  qniek  rolling 
walk,  limited  in  extent,  so  eharacter- 
istie  of  the  genns  natda — the  negro 
turning  his  head  now  and  then  to  grin 
as  he  heard  the  music,  but  otherwise 
above  mixing  in  the  rabble  ci  already 
disconsolate-looking  people  behind. 
He  was  plainly  considered  by  his 
shipanates,  and  considered  himsetf,  on 
a  footing  of  perioct  equality:  his  skin 
was  no  odium  to  the  men  of  the  sea, 
whose  lot  he  had  no  doubt  shared, 
whatever  it  might  have  been  in  tiie 
cabin.  Their  bedding  was  already 
spread  under  shelter  of  the  half  top- 
gallant forecastle  at  the  heel  of  the 
bow^Mit,  amoBgBt  spars  and  coils  of 
rope.  Althon^  sailors  are  under- 
stood to  go  half'fu^  in  steamers,  they 
no  4mA}t  preferred  the  accommodation 
thus  chosen.  It  was  amusing  to  no- 
tice how  tiie  regular,  long-sea,  wind- 
snd-canvass  men  seemed  to  look 
down  upon  the  henns^rodites  of  the 
**  finnel-boat,^  and  were  er\4dently 
regarded  by  them  as  superior  beings ; 
nor  did  th^  hold  much  communica- 
tion together. 

While  standinr  near,  I  made  a  re- 
nmrk  or  two  to  me  eldest  of  the  sea- 
men, whom  I  had  mariced  down  for 


607 

the  leader  of  the  little  nautical  band; 
and  it  was  not  diffioilt  to  break  ice 
wkh  the  frank  tar.  He  was  more 
intelligent  and  polished  than  is  nanal 
even  with  the  superior  dase  of  his 
vocation,  iiaviug  seen  more  countries 
of  the  globe,  and  their  pecidiMities, 
than  wcmld  set  up  a  dozen  writers  of 
travels.  They  had  all  sailed  together 
in  the  same  vessels  for  several 
voyages:  had  been  last  to  Calcutta, 
Singapore,  and  Canton,  In  a  large 
liveqMM^  Indiaman,  to  wUda  they 
were  retaining  after  a  trip,  duriug  the 
interval,  on  some  affair  of  the  boat- 
swain's at  Glasgow;  and,  curiously 
enough,  t^y  had  made  a  cruise  up 
Loch  LonKttd,  none  of  them  having 
seen  a  firesh-water  lake  of  any  siee 
before.  In  the  mean  thne,  while  the 
negro  passed  up  and  down  with  his 
eompanions  before  me,  I  had  been 
remarfcfaig  that  his  naked  breast,  seen 
thronf^  the  half-open  check  shirt,  was 
tatto<^  over  with  a  singuiar  device, 
in  oonspicuons  red  and  bine  colours : 
indeed,  withovt  something  or  other  of 
the  sort  he  coidd  scarcely  have  been 
a  sailor,  for  the  barbarians  of  t3ie  sea 
and  those  of  the  American  forest  have 
a  good  deal  in  common.  This  pecu- 
liar ornament  of  the  sable  young 
mariner  I  at  length  observed  upon  to 
the  boatswain.  ''Jack  Moonlight!** 
said  the  seaman,  turning  rounds 
**  come  here,  my  son :  Miow  the  gen- 
tleman your  papers,  wiU  ye?**  The 
black  grinned,  looked  flattered,  as  I 
thought,  and,  opmiing  hfis  irtiirt,  re- 
veaM  to  me  the  n^le  of  his  Insignia. 
In  the  middle  was  what  appeared 
meant  for  a  brt^en  ring-bolt ;  above 
that  a  crown ;  below  an  anchor;  on 
one  side  the  broad  arrow  of  the  dock- 
yard, and  on  the  other  ihe  figures  of 
1836.  «' My  sartiTcates,  sar,  is  datr* 
said  the  negro,  showing  his  white 
teeth.  '^  That*s  his  figure-head,  sir,** 
said  one  of  the  younger  sapors,  ^bixt 
he*s  got  a  different  marie  abaft,  ye 
know,  Mr  Wilson  f  »*  Never  mind, 
Dick,**  said  the  boatswabi :  '*  the  one 
scores  out  the  other,  my  lad."  The 
yMk  looked  grave  again,  and  ^ey 
resumed  th^  walk.  "Whafs  his 
name,  iM  you  say?*  I  Inquired, — 
"MoonBght?**  "Yes,  sir;  Jack 
MoonBght  It  is."  Ut  hums  a  mm 
lucendo^  thou^  I:  rather  a  pre- 
ternatural mo^ght— a  sort  of  dark" 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


608 


JackMoanHghL 


[May. 


lantern !  ^'  Why,  who  christened 
him  that  ?"  I  said.  "  Well,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  boatswain,  **the  whole 
ship*8  company,  I  think :  the  second 
mate  threw  a  ship*s-bncket  of  golf- 
stream  water  over  his  head,  too,  for 
a  blessing ;  and  the  black  cook,  being 
skilled  that  way,  gave  him  the  marics. 
Jack  is  his  chnsten  name,  sir— 
Moonlight  is  what  we  call  his  on- 
christen  one.**  ^'There*s  a  entire 
yam  abont  it,  sir,**  remarked  the 
other  sailor.  '^  I  wish  yon  wonld  tell 
it  me  t  **  Sfud  I  to  the  boatswain, 
seating  myself  on  the  ¥rindlass,  while 
his  two  companions  looked  to  him 
with  an  expression  of  the  same  desire. 
"  Why,  sir,**  said  the  bluff  foremast 
officer,  hitching  np  his  tronsers,  and 
looking  first  at  one  boot  and  then  at 
the  other,  '^Pm  not  the  best  hand 
myself  at  laying  np  the  strands  of  a 
matter ;  bnt  however,  as  I  was  first 
whistle  in  the  concern,  why,  yon  shall 
have  the  rights  of  it.  Ton  see,  sir,** 
continaed  he,  '^  we  were  lying  at  that 
time  inside  the  Havannah,  opposight 
the  Mole — ^the  Mary  Jane  of  Bristol, 
Captain  Drew,  a  ship  o*  seven  hun- 
dred tons.  *Twas  m  the  year  \S8, 1 
think,  Tom?**  "  Ay,  ay,  Mr  Wilson,** 
replied  the  other  sailor,  '^  'tis  logged 
correct  enough  on  Jack  Moonlight's 
breast.'*  *'  She  was  round  from  Ja- 
maica for  some  little  matter  to  fill  up,*' 
continued  the  boatswain,  "so  we 
didn't  leave  the  cable  long  betwixt 
wind  and  water ;  but,  two  nights  be- 
fore the  Mary  Jane  sdled,  a  large  Por- 
tugee  schooner  came  in,  and  brought 
up  within  thirty  fathoms  of  our  star- 
board quarter,  slam  on  to  us,  so  as 
we  looked  into  her  cabin  windows, 
but  nothing  else.  She'd  got  the  Ame- 
rican flag  flying,  and  a  Yankee  mate 
that  answered  sometimes,  'twas  said, 
for  the  skipper ;  but  by  the  looks  of 
her,  and  a  large  barracoon  being 
a'most  right  in  a  line  with  her  bow- 
sprit, we  hadn't  no  doubt  what  she 
was  after.  The  flrst  night,  by  the 
lights  and  the  noise,  we  considered 
they  landed  a  pretty  few  score  of 
blacks,  fresh  frt>m  the  Guinea  coast 
and  a  stew  in  the  middle  passage. 
And  all  the  time  there  was  the  Spanuh 
guard-boats,  and  the  court  sitting 
every  few  days  to  look  after  such 
tricks,  and  saying  they  kept  a  watch 
the    devil    himself   couldn't    shirk. 


There  was  a  British  cruiser  off  the 
Floridas,  too,  but  we  reckoned  she'd 
been  blown  up  the  Gulf  by  a  hurri- 
cane ^e  momhig  before.  Next  nigfat 
was  bright  moonlight,  so  they  were 
all  quiet  till  two  bells  of  the  third 
watch ;  then  they  began  to  ship  oflT 
thdr  bales  again,  as  they  call  *em — 
the  moon  bSng  on  the  set,  and  the 
schooner  in  a  shadow  from  the  ware- 
houses. 'Twas  all  of  a  sort  o'  smo- 
thered bustle  aboard  of  her,  for  the 
saihnaker  and  I  was  keeping  our  hour 
of  the  anchor-watch.  I  was  only 
rated  able  seaman  at  that  time  in  the 
Mary  Jane.  Well,  the  shadow  of  the 
schooner  came  almost  as  far  as  tiie 
currents  about  our  rudder,  and  I  was 
looking  over  the  quarter,  when  I 
thought  I  saw  a  trail  shining  in  it,  as 
if  something  was  swimming  towards 
us.  '  Ssdlmaker,*  says  I, '  is  that  the 
shark,  d'ye  think,  that  they  say  is  fed 
alongside  of  one  o'  them  slavers  here 
for  a  Bentrjr  'Where?'  said  the 
Sfulmaker,  and  '  Look,'  says  I.  Just 
that  moment  what  did  I  see  but  the 
woolly  black  head  of  a  nigger  come  out 
into  the  stroak  of  white  water,  'twixt 
our  counter  and  the  schooner's  sha- 
dow, swimming  as  quiet  as  possible 
to  get  round  into  ours  I  '  Keep  quiet, 
mate,'  I  said;  *  don't  frighten  the  poor 
fellow  I  He's  contrived  to  slink  off, 
m  bet  you,  in  the  row  !'  Next  we 
heard  him  scrambling  up  into  the  mizen 
chains,  then  his  head  peeps  over  the 
bulwarks,  but  neither  of  us  turned 
about,  so  he  crept  along  to  the  fore- 
castle, where  the  scuttle  was  off,  and 
the  men  all  fast  in  their  hammocks. 
Down  he  dives  in  a  moment.  The 
sailmaker  and  I  slipped  along  to  see 
what  he'd  do.  Right  under  the  fok'sle 
ladder  was  the  trap  of  the  cook's  coal- 
hole, with  a  ring-bolt  in  it  for  lifting; 
and  just  when  we  looked  over,  there 
was  the  nigger,  as  naked  as  ye  please, 
a  heaving  of  it  up  to  stow  himself 
away,  without  asking  where.  As  soon 
as  he  was  gone,  and  the  trap  closed, 
*'  Why,'  said  the  sailmaker,  '  he's  but 
a  boy.'  '  He's  a  smart  chap,  though, 
sure  enouffh,  sailmaker  1'  says  I.  *•  But 
what  pau&  me,  is  how  quick  he  picked , 
out  the  fittest  berth  in  the  ship.  Why, 
old  Dido  won't  know  bnt  what  it's  his 
wife  Nancy's  son,  all  blacked  over  with 
the  coals!'  '  Well,  bo',*  says  the  sail- 
maker, laughing,  '  we  mustn't  let  the  ' 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Jadk  MMmUffki. 


60$ 


black  doctor  get  down  amoDgst  his 
gear,  on  no  accoont,  till  the  shlp^s 
dear  away  to  sea!*  Doctor^  you 
know,  sir—that's  what  we  call  the 
cook  at  sea.  ^Neyer  fear,  mate,' 
says  I,  *  ni  manase  old  Dido  myself, 
else  he'd  blow  Uie  whole  concern 
amongst  them  confonnded  planters  in 
the  cabin.*  This  Dido,  yon  mnst  un- 
derstand, sir,  was  the  black  cook  of 
the  Mary  Jane :  his  name,  by  riehts, 
was  Di'doms  Thomson ;  bnt  he'd  been 
cook's  mate  of  the  Dido  frigate  for 
two  or  three  years  before,  and  always 
called  himself  Dido— though  Fyeheard 
'twas  a  woman's  name  instead  of  a 
man's.  He  was  a  Yankee  nigger,  as 
black  as  his  own  coals,  and  had  mar- 
ried a  Bristol  woman.  She  had  one 
son,  bnt  he  was  as  white  as  herself; 
so  'twas  a  joke  in  the  ship  against 
old  Dido,  how  he'd  contriyed  to  wash 
his  youngster  so  clean,  and  take  all 
the  dirt  on  himself.  We  run  the  rig 
on  him  about  his  horns,  too,  and  the 
white  skin  under  his  paint,  till  the 
poor  fellow  was  afinUd  to  look  in  a 
glass  for  fear  of  seeing  the  deyU. 

*^  Next  morning,  before  we  began  to 
get  up  anchor,  the  cook  turns  out  of 
his  hammock  at  six  o'clock  to  light  the 
galley  fire,  and  down  he  comes  andn 
to  the  forecastle  to  get  coals  out  of  his 
hold.  'Twas  lust  alongside  of  my  ham* 
mock,  so  I  looked  oyer,  and  says  I, 
^  Hullo,  doctor  I  hold'on  a  minute  till  I 
giye  ye  a  bit  of  adyice.'  '  Mine  yar 
own  bus'ness.  Jack  Wilson,*  says  the 
cross-grained  old  beggar,  as  he  was. 

*  Dido,'  says  I,  *  who  d'ye  think  I 
see  goin'  down  your  trap  last  night  ?' 

*  Golly !'  says  he,  •  don^t  know ;  who 
was  dat,  Jack— eh?'  and  he  lets  go 
of  the  trap-Ud.  'Why,  Dido,*  I 
toldhhn,  ^ 'twas  the  deyil  himself!* 

*  O  Lard !'  says  the  nigger,  giying  a 
jump,  'what  dat  gen'leman  want 
dere?  Steal  coal  for  bad  place  I  O 
Lard! — Hish!'  sajrs  he,  whispering 
into  my  hammock,  *tell  me.  Jack 
Wilson,  he  black  or  white— eh?' 
' Oh,  black  1'  I  said ;  'as  black  as 
the  slayer  astam.'  'O  Lardl  O 
Lard !  bUck  man's  own  dibble  !*  says 
old  Dido ;  *  what's  I  to  do  for  cap'en's 
breakfast.  Jack !'  'Why,  see  if  you 
hayen't  a  few  chips  o'  wood,  doctor,' 
says  I, '  till  we  get  out  o'  this  infer- 
nal  port.  Don't  they  know  how  to 
lay  the  old  un  among  your  folks  in  the 


States,  Dido?'  I  said,  for  Pd  seen  the 
thing  tried.  '  Golly  I  yis  I'  says  the 
nigger;  'leaye  some  bake  yam  on 
stone,  with  little  mm  in  de  pumpkin 
— .'at's  how  to  do  !*  '  Very  good  1" 
says  I ;  *  well,  whateyer  you'ye  j[ot 
handy,  Dido,  lower  it  down  to  turn, 
and  I  daresayhe'U  dear  out  by  to- 
morrow.' 'Why,  what  the  dibble, 
Jade !'  says  he  again,  scratching  his 
woolly  head,  'foed  him  in  'e  ship, 
won't  he  sUy— eh  ?'  '  Oh,  for  that 
matter.  Dido,*  says  I,  'just  you  send 
down  a  sample  of  the  ship's  biscuit, 
with  a  fid  of  hard  junk,  and  d — me  if 
he  stay  long  1'  A  good  laugh  I  had, 
too,  in  my  hammock,  to  see  the  cook 
follow  my  adyice:  he  daren't  open 
his  hatch  more  than  enough  to  shove 
down  a  line  with  some  grub  at  the 
end  of  it,  as  much  as  woold  haye  pro- 
yisioned  half  a  dozen;  so  1  knew 
there  was  a  stopper  dapped  on  the 
spot  for  that  day. 

"  When  we  began  to  get  up  anchor, 
a  boat  bdonginff  to  the  schooner  pulled 
round  us,  and  Uiey  seemed  to  want  to 
look  through  and  through  us,  for  them 
slayers  has  a  nat'ral  ayarsion  to  an 
Englidi  ship.  They  gaye  a  squint  or 
two  at  old  black  Dido,  and  he  swore 
at  'em  in  exchange  for  it  like  a  trooper : 
'tis  hard  to  say,  for  a  good  slack  jaw, 
and  all  the  dirty  abuse  afloat,  whether 
a  Yankee  nigger,  or  a  Billingsgate 
fishwoman,  or  a  Plymouth  Point  lady, 
is  the  worst  to  stand.  I  do  belieye, 
if  we'cf  been  an  hour  later  of  sailing, 
they'd  haye  had  a  search-warrant 
aboard  of  us,  with  a  couple  of  Spanish 
guardoe,  and  dther  pretended  they'd 
lost  a  fair-bought  slave,  or  got  us  per- 
haps condemned  for  the  very  thing 
they  were  themsdves.  However,  on 
we  went,  and  by  the  first  dog-watch 
we'd  dropped  the  land  to  sou'-westy 
with  stunsaOs  on  the  larboard  side, 
and  the  breese  on  our  quarter. 

"Next  morning a^[ain the  blackcock 
gives  me  a  shake  m  my  hammock, 
and  says  he,  '  Mus'  have  some  coal 
now.  Jack ;  he  gone  now,  surdy— eb, 
lad?'  '  Go  to  the  devil,  you  bhick 
fool,*  says  I,  'can*t  ye  let  a  fellow 
sleep  out  his  watch  without  doinff 
your  work  for  you?*  'O  Golly/ 
says  the  cook  in  a  rage,  '  I  sarve  yon 
out  for  dis,  yon  damn  tarry  black* 
ffuard!  Don't  blieb  no  dibble  ever 
dere!     I  water  you  tea  dis  blessed 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


610 


JmikMoaidi^ 


[Mir. 


momin'  for  dis!'  *  Look  out  tor 
squalls,  then,  doctor,'  says  I ;  and  ho 
lifts  the  trap,  and  began  ta  go  down 
the  lackier,  shaking  his  btack  fist  at 
me.  'Good  b'ye,  DidoT  says  I, 
*  make  my  respects  to  the  old  on  V 
^  Oyov  darty  wiUain  !^  he  slags  out  from 
the  hole ;  and  then  I  heard  him  knock- 
ing about  amongst  his  Inmber,  till  all  of 
a  sadden  he  gave  a  roar.  Up  springs 
the  young  nigger  from  undor  hatches, 
up  the  ladder  and  through  the  trap, 
then  up  the  fbk*sle  steps  again,  and 
out  on  deck,  and  I  heard  him  running 
aft  to  the  quarter-deck,  where  the 
mate  was  singing  out  to  set  another 
stnnsail.  Down  fell  the  trap-lid  o^er 
the  coal-hole,  and  old  Dido  was 
caught  like  a  mouse.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  oar  breakfast,  I  daresay  we'd  have 
left  him  there  for  a  spdl ;  but  when 
the  doctor  got  out  he  was  as  cowed  as 
you  please.  '  Jack  Wilson,'  says  he 
to  me,  *  you  say  quite  right — ^him 
black  dibble  dere  sure  'naff,  Jack  I  see 
him  go  np  in  flash  'o  fire  out  of  de 

coal,  den  all  as  daik  as Hnllo, 

'mates,'  says  he,  'yon  laog1^  eh? 
Bery  fmmy  thoogh,  loo~ho-lM>-ho  1' 
so  be  turned  to  grinnbig  at  it  tiQ  the 
tears  ran  out  of  the  big  whites  of  his 
eyes.  ^  What  does  the  parson  say ,  doc- 
tor? '  asks  an  old  salt  omt  of  his  ham- 
mock— '  stick  close  to  the  devil,  and 
fae'U  flee  from  ye!'  'Ho-ho>ho!' 
roars  old  Dido  j  '  bery  eood— bo-ho- 
bo I'  says  he;  ^  M.  dibble  not  so 
bery  firightenfnl  after  all,  sew  I  see  be 
right  black!'  ^  say,  though,  dd 
boy,'  pots  in  the  foremastman  again, 
^  I  doesn't  like  to  hear  ye  laogb  at 
the  devil  that  way— ye  don't  know 
what  may  tnm  iqK-'tn  good  seaman- 
ship^ as  I  reckon^  never  to  •make  an 
enemy  of  a  p(^  on  a  lee-shore,  cook  1' 
'Ay,  ay,  old  ship,*  said  another; 
'bnt  who  looks  for  seaaan's  ways 
from  a  eook? — ^ye  can't  expect  it  I' 
*I  Ur'Me  fhdd  of  white  Abble, 
though,  lads,'  said  old  Dido,  giving 
an  impodent  grin.  ^  Wdl,  if  so  be,' 
says  the  old  salt, '  take  my  word  for 
it,  ye'd  better  keep  a  look-out  for  him 
—that's  all.  White  orblack,allcolonr8 
has  their  good  words  to  keep,  an'  bad 
ones  brings  their  bad  Inck,  mate !' 

"  Well,  sir,  as  for  the  yoong  run- 
away, 'twas  all  of  a  kick-np  on  the 
quarterdeck  abont  him;  be  couldn't 
speak  a  word  of  Englirt,  but  he  bong 


on  the  mate's  feet  like  one  for  bare 
life.  Just  tiken  the  captain  came  on 
deck  with  two  lady  passengers,  to 
take  a  look  of  the  moniing;  the  poor 
fellow  was  spar-naked,  and  the  la^yet 
made  a  dive  beiow  again.  The  cap- 
taia  saw  the  slave-brand  on  Ins 
shoulder,  and  he  twigged  the  wMs 
matter  at  once ;  00  he  told  the  nsta 
to  get  him  %  pntr  of  tronsers,  and  a 
shirt,  and  pat  Urn  to  help  the  cook. 
Dido  langM  loader  than  ever  when 
he  fonnd  ont  the  devil  wasn't  so  bUdi 
as  he  was  painted;  and  he  was  for 
indopttng  the  youngster,  by  way  of 
a  sort  0'  jury  son.  However,  the 
whole  of  the  fok'sle  took  a  faac7  to 
him,  considering  him  a  kind  of  rigkt 
to  all  hands.  He  was  christened 
Jack,  as  I  said  before,  and  instead  of 
banging  on,  cook's  mate,  he  was  pui 
up  to  something  more  seaman^e. 
By  the  time  tbe  Mary  Jane  got  home, 
blade  Jack  could  set  a  stnnsifl,  or 
furl  %  royal.  We  got  DMo  te  give 
him  a  regnlar-bnflt  sartificale  on  his 
breast,  of  his  btiag  free  to  Mae  water, 
footing  paid,  and  nnder  the  BritiA 
nnion-jadc,  wludi  twas  the  none  as 
3roa  saw  jwt  now,  sir." 

"We^^said  I,  "but  yon  havent 
explained  why  he  was  called  by  snck 
acurions  appelfaition  as  MoonMigfati 
though?" 

"Holdon  a  bit,  sir,"  aaid  the  boat- 
swain, '^that's  not  the  whole  affiur 
from  end  to  end*  yet.  Tbe  next 
voyage  I  sailed  again  la  tiie  Msry 
Jane  to  Jamaica,  for  I  aiwsys  had  a 
way  of  sticking  to  Ae  same  ship, 
wben  I  could.  I  remember  Dido,  th^ 
cook,  bad  a  qnarrd  with  his  w^ 
Nancy;  and  one  of  the  first  n%hts  wb 
were  at  sea,  he  told  black  Jack,  before 
an  the  fo'kslcy  how  be  meant  to  leav« 
him  all  his  savings,  which  evetybody 
knew  was  no  small  thing,  for  Dide 
never  spmit  any  of  his  wages,  aad 
many  a  good  cask  of  slosh  the  old 
^gger  hi^  pocketed  the  worth  oC 
We  made  a  fine  ran  of  it  that  time 
down  the  Trades,  till  we  got  hito  the 
latitude  of  the  Bahamas,  and  there 
the  ship  stock  like  a  log,  with  Mm 
water  rovnd  her,  as  hot  as  blazes,  and 
as  smooth  as  glass,  or  a  bowl  of  oiL 
Once  or  twice  we  bad  a  black  sqnafl 
that  sent  her  on  a  bit,  or  anotberthat 
drove  her  bock,  with  a  heavy  sweQ, 
and  now  and  then  a  light  air,  wfakk 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


J^fikUomUghL 


611 


we  made  the  Biost  of— setting  stun- 
sails,  and  haaling  'em  dowu  again  ia 
a  plash  of  rain.  Bat,  altogether,  wo 
thought  we'd  never  get  oat  of  them 
korse  latitudes  at  all,  h&ying  run  over 
much  to  westward,  till  we  saw  the  line 
of  the  Gulf  Stream  treading  away  on 
the  sea  line  to  ncurVest,  as  plain  as 
on  a  chart*  There  was  a  confounded 
devil  of  a  shark  alongside,  that  stuck 
hy  as  all  through^  one  of  the  largest 
X  ever  clapped  e^es  on.  Every  night 
we  saw  hffli  cruising  away  astam,  as 
green  as  ^as8>  down  throu^  the  blue 
water ;  and  in  the  mornings  there  he 
was  wider  the  counter,  wij£  his  back 
fin  above,  and  two  little  pilot-fish 
awimoMDg  off  and  on  round  about 
He  wouldn't  take  the  bait  either;  and 
every  man  fomd  said  there  was  some 
one  to  lose  his  mess  before  long;  how- 
ever^ the  cxxik  made  a  dead  set  to 
hook  the  infernal  old  monster,  and  at 
last  he  did  contrive  to  get  him  fast, 
with  a  piece  of  pork  large  enough  fOr 
flopper  to  the  lurboard  watch.  All 
hajxifl  tailed  on  to  the  line,  and  with 
much  ado  we  got  his  snout  over  the 
tafig-ail,  till  one  could  look  down  his 
throaty  and  his  tail  was  like  to  smadi 
in  the  stam  windows ;  when  of  a  sud- 
den, SB^  goes  the  rope  where  it 
noticed  to  Ue  chain,  down  went  the 
ehark  into  the  water  with  a  tremen- 
dous splash,  and  got  dear  off,  Ikook, 
diain,  bait  an'  alL  We  saw  no  nore 
of  hiBL,  though;  and  by  sunset  we  had 
ft  bit  of  a  light  breese,  that  began  to 
lake  IS  off  pleasantly. 

"  We  had  had  Mi  moon  nearly  the 
sight  before,  and  this  night,  I  re- 
member, 'twas  the  very  peari  of 
moonlight — the  water  all  of  a  ripple 
sparkling  in  it,  almost  as  blue  as  by 
day;  the  sky  full  o'  white  light;  and 
the  moon  as  large  as  the  capstan-head, 
but  brighter  than  silver.  You  mi^ht 
ha'  said  you  saw  the  very  rays  of  it 
come  down  to  the  bellies  of  the  sails, 
and  sticking  on  the  same  plank  in  the 
deck  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  as  the 
ship  surged  ahead.  Old  Dido,  the 
cook,  had  a  fashion  of  coming  upon 
deck  of  a  moonlight  night,  in  warm 
latitudes,  to  sleep  on  top  o'  the  spars; 
he  would  lie  with  his  black  face  full 
under  it,  like  a  lizard  basking  in  the 
sun.  Many  a  time  the  men  advised 
him  against  it,  at  any  rate  to  cover 
Ills  face ;  for,  if  it  wonld'nt  spoil,  they 


said,  he  might  wake  up  blind,  or  with 
his  mouth  palled  down  to  hissboulder^ 
and  out  of  his  mind  to  boot  It 
wasn't  the  first  time  neither,  sir,  I'^i^e 
known  a  fellow  moonstruck  in  the 
tropics,  for  'tis  another  guess  matter 
altogether  firom  your  hazy  bit  o'  white 
paper  yonder :  why,  if  you  hanff  a  fish 
in  it  for  an  hour  or  two,  'twiU  stink 
like  a  lucifer  matdu  and  be  poison  to 
eat  WeU,  sir,  that  night,  sure 
enough,  up  comes  Dido  with  a  rug  to 
lie  upon,  and  turns  in  upon  the  spars 
under  the  bulwarks,  and  in  five  minutes 
he  was  fast  asleep,  snoring  with  hia 
face  to  the  moon.  So  me  watch, 
being  tricky  inclined  ways  on  account 
of  the  breeze,  took  into  their  heads  to 
give  him  a  fright  One  got  hold  of  a 
paint-pot  out  of  the  hsdf-deck,  uid 
lent  hmi  a  wipe  of  white  punt  with 
the  brush  all  over  his  face ;  Dido  only 
gave  a  grunt,  and  was  as  fast  as  ever. 
The  next  thing  was  to  grease  his 
wool,  and  plaster  it  up  in  shape  of  a 
couple  o'  horns.  Then  they  dr^r  a 
bucket  of  water,  and  set  it  on  the 
deck  alongside,  for  him  to  see  himr 
sel£  When  our  watdi  came  on  deck, 
at  eight  bells,  the  moon  was  as  bri^ 
as  ever  ia  the  west,  and  the  cool; 
stretched  out  Uke  Happgr  Tom  on  the 
iqMirs,  with  his  faee  slued  »)und  to 
meet  it  In  a  little  the  breeze  becan 
to  fall,  and  the  light  canvass  to  n» 
aloft,  till  she  was  all  of  a  shiver,  ana 
the  topsails  sticking  in  to  the  masts, 
and  shaking  out  again,  with  a  dap 
that  made  the  boom^irons  rattle.  At 
last  she  wonldn't  answer  her  wheel, 
and  the  mate  had  the  courses  hauled 
up  in  the  trails ;  'twas  a  dead  caloi 
once  moffe,  and  the  blue  water  only 
swelled  in  the  moonlight,  like  one 
sheet  of  rear-admiral's  flags  a-wash- 
ing  in  a  silver  steep, — that's  the  likest 
thing  I  can  fancy.  When  the  ship 
lay  still,  up  gets  the  black  doctor, 
half  asleep,  and  I  daresay  he  had 
been  laying  in  a  cargo  of  Jamaica 
mm  overnight :  the  bucket  was  just 
under  his  nose  as  he  looked  down  to 
see  where  he  was,  and  the  moon 
shining  into  it.  I  heard  him  roar  out, 
'O  de  dibble!'  and  out  he  sprang 
to  larboard,  over  the  bulwarks,  into 
the  water.  *Man  overboard,  ahoy  I' 
I  sang  out,  and  the  whole  watch 
came  running  from  aft  and  fomd  to 
look  over.     *0h  Christ!'  says  one 


Digitized  by 


Google 


612  Jack  Moonlight. 

6*  the  men,  pointiDg  with  bis  finger — 
*  Look.'  Dido's  head  was  just  rising 
along^de ;  bat  just  under  the  ship's 
cotinter  what  did  we  see  bat  the  black 
back-fin  of  the  shark,  coming  slowly 
Toand,  as  them  creatares  ao  when 
they're  not  qoite  sare  of  anything 
that  gives  'em  the  start.  *The 
shark!  the  shark!'  said  every  one; 

'*  he's  gone,  by '    *  Down  with 

the  qoarter-boat,  men!'  sings  oat 
the  mate,  and  he  ran  to  one  of  the 
falls  to  let  it  go.  The  yoang  nigger. 
Jack,  was  amongst  the  rest  of  as ; 
in  a  moment  he  off  with  his  hat  and 
shoes,  took  the  cook's  big  carving- 
knife  oat  of  the  galley  at  his  back, 
and  was  overboard  in  a  moment.  He 
was  the  best  swinuner  I  ever  chanced 
to  see,  and  the  most  fearless:  the 
moonlight  showed  everything  as  plain 
as  day,  and  he  watched  his  time  to 
jomp  right  in  where  the  shark's  back- 
£n  coold  be  seen  coming  qaicker  along, 
with  a  wake  shining  down  in  the 
water  at  both  fins  and  tail.  Old  Dido 
was  striking  oat  like  a  good  an,  and 
hailing  for  a  rope,  bat  he  knew  nothing 
at  all  of  the  shark.  As  for  yoang 
Jack,  he  said  afterwards  he  fdt  his 
feet  come  fall  slap  on  the  fish's  back, 
and  then  he  laid  oat  to  swim  nnder 
him  and  give  him  the  length  of  his 
knife  close  by  the  jaw,  when  he'd 
tarn  np  to  bite — for  'twas  what  the 
yoangsters  alone  the  Gninea  coast 
were  trained  to  do  every  day  on  the 
edge  of  the  snrf.  However,  cnrioas 
enongh,  there  wasn't  another  sign  of 
this  confoonded  old  sea-tiger  felt  or 
seen  again ;  no  donbt  he  got  a  fright 
and  went  straight  off  nnder  the  keel ; 
at  any  rate  the  boat  was  alongside  of 


[May, 

the  cook  and  Jack  next  minote,  and 

gicked  'em  both  np  safe.  Jack  swore 
e  heard  the  chain  at  the  shark's 
snont  rattle,  as  he  was  slaeing  roimd 
his  head  within  half  a  fathom  of  old 
Dido,  and  jnst  as  he  poanced  npon 
the  bloody  devil's  back-bone;  the 
next  moment  it  was  dear  water  bdow 
his  feet,  and  he  saw  the  white  bells 
rise  from  a  lump  of  green  going  down 
nnder  the  ship's  bends,  as  large  as 
the  gig,  with  its  belly  glancing  like 
silver.  If  so,  I  daresay  the  cook's 
legs  wonld  have  stack  on  his  own  hook 
bdbre  they  were  swallowed;  but, 
anyhow,  the  old  nigger  was  ready  to 
believe  in  the  devil  as  long  as  he 
lived.  The  whole  matter  gave  poor 
Dido  a  shake  he  never  got  the  better 
of;  at  the  end  of  the  voyage  he  vowed 
he'd  live  ashore  the  rest  of  his  days, 
to  be  clear  of  all  sorts  o'  devilry. 
Whether  it  didn't  agree  with  him  or 
not,  I  can't  say,  bat  he  knocked  off 
the  hooks  in  a  short  time  altogether, 
and  left  yoang  Jack  the  most  of  his 
amings,  on  the  bargain  of  haUing  by 
his  name  ever  after.  TVas  a  joke 
the  men  both  in  the  Mary  Jane  and 
the  old  Bajah  got  np,  when  the  story 
was  told,  to  call  the  cook  Dido  Moon- 
light, because,  after  all,  'twas  the  death 
of  him :  and  when  Jack  shipped  with 
the  rest  of  as  here  aboard  of  the 
Rajah,  having  seen  Dido  to  the 
ground,  why,  all  hands  christened  him 
over  agfun  Jack  Moonlight ;  though 
to  look  at  hun  now,  I  daresay,  sir,  yon 
wouldn't  well  fancy  how  sudi  things 
as  black  Jack's  face  and  moonlight 
was  logged  together,  unless  the  world 
went  by  contrairies !" 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Moonhght  Memories. 


613 


M0029UQHT  MEMORIES. 


BY  B.  8IMMON8. 


Thbt  say  Deceit  and  Giange  diiide 

The  empire  of  this  world  below; 
That,  whelm'd  by  Time's  reaietleee  tide. 

Lore*!  fountain  ebbs,  no  more  to  flow. 
Dawn-brow'd  MiDOififA,  deem  not  so, 

While  to  my  truth  yon  Moon  in  heaven 
I  loved  thee  by,  so  long  ago. 

Is  stiU  a  fidthfhl  **  witness"  given ! 


Too  short  and  shining  were  those  hoars 

I  loved,  enchanted,  by  thy  side  ! 
Hoarding  the  wealth  of  myiile-flowers 

That  in  thy  dazxling  bosom  died. 
Sweet  Loiterer  by  Glenarra's  tide. 

Dost  thou  not  sometimes  breathe  i 
prayer 
For  Him  who  never  fkiled  to  glide 

At  eve  to  watch  and  worship  there  I 


All  brightly  round,  that  mellow  Moon 

Rose  o'er  thy  bright,  serene  abode. 
When  first  to  win  Uiy  smiles'  sweet  boon 

My  tears  of  stormy  passion  flowed. 
Where  Woodbum'slarches  veil'd  onr  road, 

I  sued  thy  cheek's  averted  grace, 
And,  whUe  its  lustre  paled  and  glowed. 

Drank  the  blest  sunshine  of  thy  face. 


Fate's  storms  again  have  swept  thescene» 

And,for  that  fair  Moon's  summer  gleam. 
Through  winter's  snow  clouds  drifting  keen 

I  hail  at  midnight  now  her  beam. 
Soft  may  its  light  this  moment  stream. 

My  folded  Flower  I  upon  thy  rest. 
And,  melting  through  thy  placid  dream. 

This  heart's  unshaken  faith  attest. 


And  when  the  darkening  Fate,  that  threw 

Its  waste  of  seas  between  us.  Sweet, 
With  refluent  wave  restored  me  to 

The  Boundless  music  of  thy  feet. 
How  wild  my  heart's  delighted  beat. 

Once  more  beneath  the  mulberry  bough, 
To  see  the  branching  shadows  fleet 

Before  thy  bright  approaching  brow ! 


Yes — Rainbow  of  my  ruined  youth. 

Now  shining  o'er  the  wreck  in  vain ! 
Thy  rosy  tints  of  grace  and  truth 

Life's  evening  clouds  shall  long  retain. 
My  very  doom  has  less  of  pain 

To  feel  that,  ere  from  Time's  dark  river 
Thy  form  or  soul  could  take  one  staiuj^ 

Despair  between  us  came  for  ever. 


Then  rose  again  the  Moon's  sweet  charm, 

Not  in  her  tail  and  orb^d  glow. 
But  young  and  sparkling  as  thy  form 

That  moved  a  sister-moon  below. 
The  rose-breese  round  thee  loved  to  blow — 

BlueEvening  o'er  thee  bent  and  smiled — 
Rejoicing  Nature  seemed  to  know. 

And  own,  her  wildly-gracious  child. 


And  if,  as  sages  still  avow. 

The  rites  once  paid  on  hill  and  grove 
To  Beings  beantiftil  as  thou. 

To  Dian,  Hebe,  and  to  Love, 
Were  so  imperishably  wove 

Of  £uicies  lovely  and  elysian, 
Their  spirit  to  this  hour  must  rove 

The  earth  a  blest  abiding  vision;  * 


Forth  came  the  Stars,  as  if  to  keep 

Fond  watch  along  thy  sinless  way; 
While  thy  pure  eyes,  through  Ether  deep. 

Sought  out  lone  Hesper's  diamond  ray. 
Half  i£y,  half  sad,  to  hear  me  say. 

That  haply,  mid  the  tearless  bliss 
Of  that  far  world  we  yet  should  stray, 

When  we  have  burst  the  bonds  of  this. 


Then  sorely  round  that  monntain  mde. 

And  Bridgeton's  rill  and  pathway  lone. 
In  years  to  come,  when  then,  the  Wooed, 

And  thy  fond  Worshipper  are  gone. 
Each  suppliant  prayer,  each  ardent  ton*, 

Each  vow  the  heart  could  once  supply. 
Whose  every  pulse  was  there  thine  own, 

In  many  an  evening  breexe  will  sigh. 


*  It  mm  the  fiuieiful  opinion  of  Hume  that  the  purer  Divinities  of  pagan  wonhip,  and  the 
system  of  the  Homeric  Olympui,  were  so  lastingly  beaatifo),  that  somewhere  or  other  they 
must,  to  this  hour,  continue  to  exist. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


614 


AM&tria  and  JStmffory. 


[MayV 


AUSTRIA  AND  HUNOART. 


We  have  been  so  much  accnstomed 
to  regard  the  Austrian  empire  as  one 
German  nation,  that  we  sometimes 
forget  of  how  many  separate  king- 
doms and  principalities  it  consists, 
and  of  bow  many  different  and  dis- 
united races  its  population  is  com- 
posed. It  may  not,  therefore,  be  un- 
necessary to  recall  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  Austrian  dommions  of 
the  last  three  hundred  years— the 
Austrian  empire  of  our  times— con- 
sists of  three  kingdoms  and  many 
minor  principalities,  inhabited  by 
five  distinct  races,  whose  native 
tongues  are  uninteliigible  to  each 
other,  and  who  have  no  common  lan- 
guage in  which  they  can  communicate ; 
who  are  divided  by  reilgioos  dififer- 
ences ;  who  preserve  their  distinctive 
characteristics,  customs,  and  feelings; 
whose  s^feiments  are  mutually  un- 
friendly, and  wha  are,  to  this  day, 
unmixed  in  blood.  The  Grermans, 
the  Italians,  the  Majjars  or  Hunga- 
rians, the  Sclaves,  and  the  WallackS) 
are  distinct  and  alien  races — ^without 
community  of  origin,  of  language,  of 
religion,  or  of  sentuneiUs.  Except 
the  memory  of  trium|^  and  disasters 
common  to  them  all,  their  allegiance 
to  one  sovereign  is  now,  as  it  was 
three  centuries  ago,  the  only  bond 
that  unites  them.  Tet,  in  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  fortune— some  of  them 
disastrous — ^whicb  this  empire  has 
survived,  these  nations  and  races 
have  held  together.  The  inferoMe  Is 
inevitable — ^whatever  may  have  been 
its  defects,  that  form  of  govemaeat 
could  not  have  been  altogeibep  unfit 
for  its  purposes,  which  somainr  differ- 
ent kmgdome  and  races  united  to  sup- 
port and  maintain. 

It  would  be  a  mistake,  however,  to 
■e  that  tbeee  varioits  states  were 


under  one  form  of  government.  There 
were  almost  as  many  forms  of  govern- 
ment as  there  were  principalities ;  but 
they  were  all  monarchical,  and  one 
sovereign  happened  to  become  the 
monarch  of  the  whole.  The  bouse  of 
Hapsburg,  in  which  the  imperial 
crown  of  Crcrmany,  the  regal  crowns 
of  Hungary,  Bohemia,  and  Lom- 
bardy,  and  the  ^cal  crowns  of  Aus- 
tria, Styria,  the  Tyrol,  and  nearly  a 
dozen  other  prindpa^tieB,  became 
hereditary,  acquired  their  posses- 
sions, not  by  conquest,  but  by  elec- 
tion, succession,  or  other  legitimate 
titles*  reeognsed  by  the  people.  Hie 
descendants  of  Rodolph  tinis  became 
the  sovereigns  of  many  separate 
states,  each  of  which  retiuned,  as  a 
matter  of  right,  its  own  constitution. 
The  sovereign,  his  chief  advisees,  and 
the  princip^  officers  of  state  at  his 
court,  were  usually  Germans  by  birth, 
or  by  education  and  predilection ;  bat 
the  constitution  of  each  state — the 
internal  administration,  and  those 
parts  of  the  machinery  of  goremment 
with  wlilch  the  people  came  more  im- 
mediately into  contact— were  their 
own*  In  some  we  find  the  monarchy 
elective,  as  in  Hungary,  Bohemia^ 
and  Styria;  in  aU  we  find  diets  of 
representatives  or  delegates,  chosen 
by  certain  classes  of  the  people,  with- 
out whose  concurrence  taxes  could 
not  be  imposed,  troops  levied,  <nr  le- 
gislative measures  enacted;  and  we 
find  munidpid  institutiotts  founded  Ofa 
a  broad  basis  of  representation.  In 
none  of  them  was  the  form  of  govern- 
ment originally  despotic. 

To  the  unquesUonable  fitles  l>y 
which  they  acquired  their  crowns — 
titles  by  which  the  pride  of  nation  or 
of  race  .was  not  wounded — and  to  the 
more  or  lees  pecfecfc  praseivatiQe,  ift 


*  Chiaiy  by  msraiage  with  prinMSBes  who  ware  hein  tothaaa  kingdems  sad  prin- 
ci^itiaa.  It  wia  thaa  that  Haagary^  Bohemia^  and  tha  TjFxol  ware  aofttiia4>  H— sy 
tha  linea — 

^  Bella  geraat  alii;  tv,  felix  Anatria^  nnba: 
Nam  qoffi  Man  aliis,  dat  tibi  lagna  Vaana.*' 

You,  AnstriAy  wed  aa  others  wage  their  wars; 
And  crowns  to  Yenoa  owe,  aa  they  to  Mara. 

It  waa  by  marriage  that  tha  Saxoa  amparoz^  Otho  tha  Qraat»  aoqalred  LuabaK^y 
for  the  German  empire. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.]  Amiria  ami 

each  state,  of  its  natioiial  InstitatioM 
omI  prtviieges — to  the  enjoyBieDt  by 
each  people  of  their  laws,  their  lao- 
goage,  cnstoms,  and  prefndices — the 
princes  of  the  home  of  Hapsbarg 
owed  the  alie^ance  of  suljects  who 
had  little  dse  in  common.  There,  as 
elsewhem  in  continental  Eorope,  the 
soTerdgn  long  continned  to  encroach 
npon  the  rights  of  his  sn^ects,  and  at 
length  nsarped  an  authority  not  recog- 
nised by  the  laws  of  Us  diffcFcnt  pos- 
sessions, er  consistent  with  the  condi- 
tions on  which  he  had  receired  theb 
crowns.  These  nsnrpations  were  fre- 
quently resisted,  and  not  nnfreqnently 
by  force  of  arms.  Belg^om  asserted 
her  independence,  and  was  perm*- 
nently  separated  from  Austria.  Bat, 
in  such  contests,  the  soTcreign  of  many 
separate  states  had  obvioas  advaB- 
tages.  His  snblects,dtYided  by  differ- 
ences of  race,  iangaage,  reHgion,  uid 
sentiment,  were  incapable  of  combiir- 
ing  against  him ;  and  however  solici- 
tons  each  people  might  be  to  preserre 
^efarown  liberties  and  pririleges^  they 
were  not  preptfed  te  resist  encranch- 
ments  oa  those  of  a  neighboaring 
people,  for  whom  they  had  no  friendly 
feeUng.  The  Aastriaais  and  Italians 
were  ready  to  assert  the  emperor's 
anthority  in  Hmffary  or  Bohemia, 
the  Hnngariaas  and  Bohemians  to  pat 
down  resistanoe  in  Lombardy.  Even 
in  the  same  Uagdom  the  races  were 
not  united.  In  Hungary,  the  Sclave 
was  sometimes  ready  to  aid  the  em- 
peror against  the  Majjar,  the  German 
against  the  Sclave.  The  disunion 
which  was  a  sonrce  of  weakness  to  the 
empire  was  a  sonrce  of  strength  to  the 


Hwtffwf. 


615 


enmror. 
tartly 


Partly  h^  compolsory  changes, 
efSected  according  to  eenstitutionai 
forms,  partly  by  nndisguised  usurpa- 
tions, in  which  these  f^rms  were  dis- 
regarded, the  emperors  were  thus  en- 
abled to  extend  the  prerogative  of  the 
crown,  to  abridge  the  liberties  of  their 
subjects  in  each  of  their  possessions^ 
and,  in  some  of  them,  to  subvert  the 
national  institations. 

In  the  Hereditary  States  of  Anatria, 
the  power  of  the  emperor  has  kmg 
beea  absolute.  The  strength  of  Bohe- 
mia was  broken,  and  her  spirit  snb- 
dned,  by  the  confiscations  and  pro- 
scriptions that  fc^owed  upon  the 
^efMtof  the  PMtestaats,  near  Prague, 


la  the  rdigious  wars  of  Frederick  n. ; 
aad  i^r  many  years  her  diet  has  been 
subservient.  Lombardy,  the  prize  of 
contending  armies — German,  Spanish, 
and  French— passing  from  hand  to 
hand,  has  been  regarded  as  a  con- 
quered country  \  and,  with  the  forms 
ii  a  popular  representation,  has  been 
governed  as  an  Austrian  province. 
Hungary  alone  has  preserved  her  in- 
dependence and  her  constitution.  But 
these  usurpations  were  not  always 
injurious  to  the  great  body  of  the 
people;  on  the  contrary,  they  were 
often  beneficiaL  In  most  of  these  states, 
a  great  part  of  the  population  was 
subject  to  a  dominant  class,  or  nobles, 
who  alone  had  a  share  in  the  govern- 
ment, or  possessed  constitutional 
rights,  and  who  exercised  aa  arbitrary 
jimsdiction  over  the  peasants.  The 
crown,  jealous  of  the  power  of  the 
aristocracy,  afforded  the  peasants 
some  protection  against  the  oppres* 
sions  of  their  immediate  superiors.  A 
large  body  of  the  people  io  each  state, 
thmfore,  saw  with  sadsfaction,  or 
without  resentment,  the  iaereasinf 
power  of  tiie  crown,  the  abridgment 
of  rights  and  privileges  which  armed 
their  masters  with  the  pewer  to  ofK 
presB  them,  aad  the  subversion  of  a 
eonstitntioo  from  which  they  derived 
no  advantage.  If  the  usurpations  of 
the  crown  threatened  to  alienate  the 
nobles,  they  pronmed  to  conciliate 
the  humbler  classes. 

On  the  other  hand,  every  noble  was 
a  soldier.  The  wan  ia  which  the 
emperor  was  engaged,  while  they 
forced  him  occasionally  to  caltivate 
the  good-will  of  the  aristocracy,  on 
which  he  was  chiefly  dependent  for 
his  military  resources,  fostered  mili- 
tary habits  of  submission,  and  feeUngs 
of  feudal  allegiance  to  the  sovereign. 
Military  service  was  the  road  to  £s- 
tinctiott — military  glory  the  ruling 
passioa.  The  crown  was  the  fountain 
of  honour,  to  which  all  who  sought  it 
repahed.  A  splendid  court  ha^  its 
usual  attractions;  and  the  nobles  of 
the  different  races  and  nations,  rivals 
for  the  favour  of  the  prince,  songfat  to 
outdo  each  other  in  prooft  of  devotioa 
to  his  person  and  service.  Thus  it 
was,  that,  notwithstanding  the  nssr* 
pations  of  the  emperor,  and  the  resist- 
ance they  excited,  his  foreign  enemies 
generally  foam 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


616 


Austria  and  Hungary, 


[Mmr, 


iects  united  to  defend  the  dignity  of 
lis  crown,  and  the  integrity  of  his 
dominions. 

Stiii  there  was  nothing  to  bind  to- 
gether the  various  parts  of  this  cnrions 
^bric,  except  the  accident  of  allegiance 
to  one  sovereign.  This  was  but  a 
precarious  bond  of  union;  and  the 
imperial  government  has,  therefore, 
been  unremitting  in  its  efforts  to  amal- 
gamate the  different  parts  into  one 
whole.  The  Germans  were  but  a 
small  minority  of  the  emperor*s  sub- 
jects, but  the  imperial  government, 
the  growth  of  their  soil,  reflected  their 
mind ;  and  it  does  not  appear  to  have 
entered  the  Austrian  mind  to  conceive 
that  a  more  intimate  union  could  be 
accomplished  in  any  other  way  than 
by  extending  the  institutions  of  the 
Hereditary  States  to  all  parts  of  the 
empire,  and  thus  ultimately  convert- 
ing the  Italians,  the  Mi^jars,  and  the 
Sdaves,  into  Austrian  Germans. 

This  policy  has  been  eminently  un- 
successful in  Hungary,  where  it  has 
frequently  been  resisted  by  force  of 
arms ;  but  its  failure  is  not  to  be  at- 
tributed solely  to  the  freedom  of  the 
institutions  of  that  country,  or  to  the 
love  of  independence,  and  the  feelings 
of  nationality  which  have  been  con« 
spicuous  in  her  histoiy.  The  imperial 
government,  while  it  resisted  the 
usurpations  of  the  see  of  Rome  in 
secular  matters,  asserted  its  spiritual 
supremacy  with  unscrupulous  zeal. 
Every  one  is  acquainted  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  Reformation  in  Bohemia — 
its  early  manifestations,  its  progress, 
its  unsuccessful  contests,  and  its  sup- 
pression by  military  force,  by  confis- 
cations and  proscriptions,  extending 
to  half  the  property  and  the  proprie- 
tors in  that  kingdom ;  but  perhaps  it 
is  not  so  generally  known,  or  remem- 
bered, that  the  Manars  early  em- 
braced the  Reformed  doctrines  of  the 
school  of  Calvin,  which,  even  now, 
when  more  than  half  their  numbers 
have  become  Roman  Catholics,  is 
known  in  Hungary  as  **the  Majjar 
faith."  The  history  of  religious  per- 
secution, eveiprwhere  a  chronicle  of 
misery  and  cnme,  has  few  pages  so 
revolting  as  that  which  tells  of  the 
persecuuons  of  the  Protestants  of 
Hungary,  under  her  Roman  Catholic 
kings  of  the  house  of  Austria.  It  was 
in  the  name  of  persecuted  Protestant- 


ism that  resistance  to  AoBtrian  rnnto- 
cracv  was  organised ;  it  was  not  Ian 
in  defence  of  their  religion  than  of 
thebr  liberties  that  the  nation  took  up 
arms.    Yet  there  was  a  time  irbeo 
the  Majjars,  at  least  as  tenactons  of 
their  nationality  as  any  other  peof^ 
in  the  empire,  might  perhaps  have 
been  Germanised— had  certainly  made 
considerable  advances  towards  a  more 
intimate  union  with  Austria.    Maria 
Theresa,  assailed  without  provocation 
by  Prussia— in  violation  of  justice 
and  of  the  faith  of  treaties,  by  F^oe, 
Bavaria,  Saxony,  Sardinia,  and  Spain, 
and  aided  only  by  England  and  the 
United  Provinces— was  in  imminent 
danger  of  losing  the  greater  part  of 
her  donunions.     Guided  by  the  in- 
stinct of  a  woman^s  heart,  and  yield- 
ing to  its  impulse,  she  set  at  naught 
the  remonstrances  of  her  Austrian 
counsellors,  and  relied  on  the  loyalty 
of  the  Hungarians.     Proceeding  to 
Presbur^,  she  appeared  at  the  meeting 
of  the  diet,  told  the  assembled  nobles 
the  difficulties  and  dangers  by  which 
she  was  surrounded,  and  threw  her- 
self, her  child,  and  her  cause,  upon 
their   generosity.     At  that   appeal 
every  sabre  leapt  from  its  scabbard, 
and  the  shout,  ^'  Moriamur  pro  rego 
nostro,  Maria  Theresft  I''  called   all 
Hungary  to  arms.    The  tide  of  m- 
vasion  was  tolled  back  beyond  the 
Alps  and  the  Rhine,  and  the  empire 
was  saved. 

*  On  avait  va,"  says  Montesquieo,  *'la 
maison  d'Aatriche  trarailler  sans  reliobe 
k  opprimer  la  noblesse  HoDgroise;  elle 
ignorait  de  qnel  prix  elle  lai  serait  nn 
joar.  EUe  cherchait  ohei  oes  peoples  de 
Taif  ent,  qui  n'y  ^tait  pas ;  elle  ne  voyait 
pas  les  hommesy  qni  y  ^talent.  Lorsqae 
tant  de  princes  partagaient  entre  enx  ces 
^tats,  toutes  les  pieces  de  la  monarohie, 
immobiles  et  sans  action,  tombaient,  pour 
ainsi  dire,  les  unes  sur  les  antres.  II 
n'y  aTait  de  Tie  que  dans  oette  noblesse^ 
qni  sMndigna^oablia  tout  poor  oombattrei 
et  era  qn*  il  ^tait  de  sa  gloire  de  ptfrir  et 
de  pardonner/' 

The  nobles  of  Hungary  had  fallen 
by  thousands;  many  families  had 
been  rumed;  all  had  been  impover- 
ished by  a  war  of  seven  years,  which 
they  had.  prosecuted  at  their  private 
charge ;  but  their  queen  had  not  for- 
gotten how  much  she  owed  them. 
She  treated  them  with  a  kindness 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Austria  emd  Hungary/, 


617 


more  gratifying  than  the  highest  dis- 
tinction ;  acqmred  their  confidence  by 
confiding  in  them;  taught  them  to 
speak  the  lan^age  of  her  court; 
made  their  residence  in  her  capital 
agreeable  to  them ;  promoted  alliances 
between  the  noble  families  of  Hungary 
and  Austria ;  obtained  from  their  de- 
TOtion  concessions  which  her  prede- 
cessors had  failed  to  extort  by  force ; 
and  prepared  the  way  for  a  more  inti- 
mate union  between  two  nations 
which  had  hitherto  regarded  each 
other  with  aversion. 

M.  A.  de  Grcrando  has  discovered, 
in  the  portrait-galleries  of  the  Hun- 
garian magnates,  amusing  traces  of 
some  of  the  means  by  which  the  clever 
empress-queen  extended  Austrian  in- 
finence  and  authority  into  Hungary. 

"  II  est  onrienx,*'  (he  says,^  **  de  voir, 
dans  lea  oh&teaux  de  Hongrie^les  galeries 
de  portraits  de  famiUe.  Aussi  haat  que 
I'on  remonte,  ee  ne  sent  d'abord  que  de 
grares  figures  orientales.  Les  hommes 
ont  la  mine  heroiqne,  comme  on  se  repr^- 
sente  ces  hardis  caTpJiers,  qui  invariable- 
ment  finissaient  par  se  faire  tuer  dans 
qnelque  action  centre  les  Turcs  ;  les  fern- 
mes  Bont  aust^res  et  tristes  ainsi  qu'elles 
devaient  T^tre  en  effet.  A  partir  de 
Marie-Therise,  tout  change  et  la  physi- 
onomie  et  Pexpression  des  personnages. 
On  Yoit  bien  que  ceux-U  ont  para  k  la 
cour  de  Vienne,  et  7  ont  appris  les  belles 
maniires.  Le  oontraste  est  frappant  dans 
le  portrait  du  magnat  qui  le  premier 
^pousa  une  Allemande.  Le  Hongrois, 
seul,  occupe  un  coin  de  la  toile.  II  est 
debout,  digne,  la  main  gauche  sur  la 
poign^  de  son  sabre  reoourb^e  ;  la  droite 
tient  une  masse  d'armes.  De  fonnidables 
^perons  sent  clouds  k  ses  bottines  jaunes. 
II  porte  un  long  dolman  galonn^,  et  une 
Gulotte  de  hussard  brod^  d'or.  Sur  son 
tfpaule  est  attach^  une  riche  pelisse,  on 
one  peau  de  tigre.  Sa  moustache  noire 
pend  k  la  turque,  et  de  grands  cheveux 
iombent  en  boucles  sur  son  cou.  II  y  a 
du  barbare  dans  cet  homme-l&.  Sa  femme, 
assise,  en  robe  de  cour,  est  au  milieu 
du  tableau.  Elle  thgae  et  elle  domine. 
Pr^B  de  son  fauteuil  se  tiennent  les  en- 
fants,  qui  ont  d^k  les  yeux  bleus  et  les 
Urres  Autrichiennes.  Les  enfants  sent  k 
elle,  k  elle  seule.  lis  sont  poudr^  comme 
elle,  lui  ressemblent,  Tentourent,  et  lui 
parlent.  lis  parlent  I'Allemand,  bien 
entendu."— (Pp.  17-18.) 

The  son  and  successor  of  Maria 
Theresa,  Joseph  U.,  attempted,  in  his 
summary  way,  by  arbitrary  edicts  pro- 
mising liberty  and  equality,  to  subvert 


the  constitution  of  every  country  he 
governed,  and  to  extend  to  them  all 
one  uniform  despotic  system,  founded 
on  that  of  Austria.  To  him  Hungary  is 
indebted  for  the  first  gleam  of  religious 
toleration ;  but  his  hasty  and  despotic 
attempts  to  suppress  national  distinc- 
tions, national  institutions  and  lan- 
guages, provoked  a  fierce  and  armed 
resistance  in  Hungary,  and  in  other 
portions  of  his  dominions,  and  more 
than  revived  all  the  old  aversion  to 
Austria.  His  more  prudent  successor 
made  concessions  to  the  spirit  of  inde- 
pendence, and  the  love  of  national 
institutions,  which  Joseph  had  so 
deeply  wounded.  Leopold  regained  the 
Hungarians;  but  Belgium,  already 
alienated  in  spirit,  never  again  gave  her 
heart  to  the  emperor ;  and  he  never  lost 
sight  of  the  uniformity  of  system  that 
Maria  Theresa  had  done  so  much  to 
promote,  and  which  Joseph,  in  his 
haste  to  accomplish  it,  had  for  the 
moment  made  unattainable.  From 
the  days  of  Ferdinand  I.  until  now, 
the  attempt  to  assimilate  the  forms 
and  system  of  government,  in  every 
part  of  their  possessions,  to  the  more 
arbitrary  Austrian  model,  has  been 
steadUy  pursued  throughout  the  reigns 
of  all  the  princes  of  the  house  of 
Hapsburg.  These  persevering  efforts 
to  extend  the  power  of  the  crown  by 
subverting  national  institutions,  and 
thus  to  obliterate  so  many  separate 
nationalities,  have  aroused  for  their 
defence  a  spirit  that  promises  to  per- 
petuate them. 

Feelings  of  community  of  race  and 
language,  which  had  slumbered  for 
many  generations,  have  been  revived 
with  singular  intensity.  Italy  for  the 
Italians — Grermany  for  the  Grermons 
—  a  new  Sclavonic  empire  for  the 
western  Sdaves— 4he  union  of  all  the 
Sclave  nations  under  the  empire  of  the 
Czar — are  cries  which  have  had  power 
to  shake  thrones,  and  may  hereafter 
dismember  empires. 

The  separation  between  the  different 
members  of  the  Austrian  empire,  which 
the  havoc  of  war  could  not  efiect  in 
three  centuries,  a  few  years  of  peace 
and  prosperity  have  threatened  to  ac- 
complish. The  energies  that  were  so 
long  concentrated  on  war,  have  now, 
for  more  than  thirty  years,  been 
directed  to  the  development  of  intel- 
lectual and  material  resources.    The 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


618 


jtMMnM  MM?  iE&M^HIfy. 


[Mmt. 


amlHti(m  that  (Mvgfat  Um  gratificatigft 
in  tbe  field,  bow  seeks  to  M^fiim 
infltienee  in  the  adnikuttrfttion,  and 
power  to  Bw&j  the  opinioiBS  of  men. 
Tiie  lofwe  of  nsti<»aJ  independence, 
tiiai  repelled  foreign  aggression,  has 
become  a  longmg  for  penonal  libert7, 
that  refoses  to  sabmit  to  arbitrary 
power.  The  road  to  distinction  so 
longer  leads  to  the  court,  bat  to  the 
popidar  assemblj;  for  the  rewards 
conferred  by  tibe  voice  of  the  people 
haye  became  more  precious  than  any 
honours  the  sovereign  can  bestow. 
The  dnty  of  allegiance  to  the  crown 
has  become  a  question  of  redprocal 
obligations,  and  has  oeaaed  to  rest  apon 
divine  ri^.  The  only  bond  that  held 
tiie  Austrian  empire  together  has  thna 
been  loosened,  and  the  parts  are  in 
danger  of  falling  asunder. 

I^mbardy,  which  was  nnited  to  Uia 
German  empire  mne  hnndred  years 
ago,  renounced  its  aUegianoe,  and  re- 
fused to  be  Austrian.  Bohemia,  a 
part  of  the  old  German  empire,  inha- 
bited chiefly  by  a  Sclavonic  race,  has 
beendreamingof  Panselavism.  Carried 
away  by  poetical  rhapsodies,  poured 
forth  in  profusion  by  a  LrOdieniii 
preacher  at  PeetJi,  and  calcnhited,  if 
not  designed,  to  promote  foreign  in- 
fluence and  ascendency,  she  has  awoke 
irom  her  dreams  to  find  herself  en- 
gaged in  a  sanguinary  conflict,  which 
was  terminated  by  the  bombardment 
and  submission  of  her  capitaL  Vienna, 
after  having  twice  forced  her  emperor 
to  fly  from  his  capital,  has  been  taken 
by  storm,  and  is  held  in  subjection  by 
a  garrison,  whose  stragglers  are  nighfiy 
thinned  by  assassins.  Hungary,  (to 
which  we  propose  chiefly  to  direct 
our  attention,)  whose  blood  has  been 
shed  like  water  in  defence  of  the  house 
of  Hapi^urg  —  whose  cUvalry  has 
more  than  once  saved  the  empire— 
whom  Napoleon,  at  the  head  of  a  vic- 
torious army  in  Vienna,  was  unable  to 
scare,  or  to  seduce  from  her  allegiance 
to  her  fugitive  king— whose  popdation 
is  more  smoerely  attadied  tomonardiy 
than  perhaps  any  other  pec^e  in 
Europe,  oxcept  ourselves,  is  in  arms 
against  the  omperor  of  Austria.  All 
the  fierce  tribes  by  which  the  Miyjan 
are  encbrded  have  been  let  loose  upon 
them,  and,  in  the  name  of  the  em- 
peror, tbe  atrocities  of  Gallida,  ^Huch 
chilled  Burope  with  horror,  have  been 


MMwed  in  FatmenfaL  Tha  amy  of 
the  Emperor  of  Anatria  has  inyadad 
the  ftenftorifas  «f  the  King  of  Hnagary^ 
oocnpies  ihe  ci^ital,  ravages  the  town» 
and  idllages,  ezpds  ai^  denonBoes 
the  coMtifeated  anthorities  of  the  kiiy * 
dom,  abrogates  ^le  Imts,  and  btumtm 
of  its  victories  «ver  his  Mthfhl  sn^ 
jects,  as  if  tiiey  had  been  anardirta 
who  soug^  to  OKrerturn  his  throne. 

The  people  of  this  oonntry  have 
lo^g  entertamed  towards  Anatria  tel- 
ings  of  kindness  and  respect  We 
may  smile  at  her  proverbial  downess; 
we  may  marvel  at  the  desperate 
efibrts  she  has  made  to  aland  still, 
while  every  one  else  was  pieaahiff 
forward;  the  cnrionsly  gndnatod 
system  of  education,  by  whioh  Am 
metes  out  to  each  olaos  the  modiean 
of  kno^edge  which  aU  must  aoeept, 
and  none  may  exceed — her  iHOiec- 
ttve  cnstom-houses,  wMdi  desUoy  her 
commerce — her  quarantuMS  ag^unst 
political  contagion,  which  1^^  cannot 
exdude  —  her  system  of  passports, 
with  an  its  complications  and  vexa- 
tions, and  the  tedious  formalities  of 
her  tardy  functionaries, — may  some- 
times be  subjects  of  ridicule.  But, 
though  the  young  may  have  looked 
with  B0013I,  the  more  thonglit£iil 
amongst  ns  have  lookod  with  oom- 
plaeem^  on  the  sodal  repose  asd 
general  «omfbrt-^on  the  absence  af 
continual  jostliag  and  struggling  m 
all  &e  roads  of  lif<&— prodtraed  by  a 
system,  nnsnited  to  our  national 
tastes  and  tempers,  no  doubt,  bat 
which,  till  a  few  mouths  ago,  ai)peared 
to  be  in  perfect  harmony  with  the 
character  of  the  Austrian  German. 
We  respect  her  courage,  her  can- 
stancy  in  adversity.  We  admire  the 
sturdy  obstinacy  with  whidh  siie  baa 
so  often  stood  up  to  fight  .anolber 
round,  and  has  Ihiallv  triumphed  after 
she  appeared  to  be  beaten.  We  can 
to  mmd  the  services  she  rendered  to 
Christian  civilisation  in  times  past. 
We  remember  that  her  interests  have 
g^eraUy  concurred  mth  our  own — 
have  ru:ely  been  opposed  to  tbena. 
We  cannot  forget  the  long  and 
arduous  stcugglea,  in  which  Knginnd 
and  Austria  have  stood  side  by  aide, 
in  ddbnce  of  the  liberties  of  nalbna, 
or  the  glorious  achievements  by  whidi 
those  liberties  were  preserved.  It  is 
because  we  wodd  retain  unimpaired 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1M».3 


AMttnti  fMo  SmtfftKf^ 


619 


Ibe  fediDfliiMch  ihew  TeeoHectioiit 
iiis]^i«,  becsoee  we  eoiiBicler  the 
p^mer  «nd  the  character  of  Austria 
essential  to  the  welfare  of  Earope, 
tiiat  we  look  with  alarm  on  the  course 
she  hae  pnrsued  towards  Hnogaiy. 

The  time  has  not  yet  come  when 
the  whole  com^  of  the  events  con- 
nected  with  this  mnnatarai  contest 
can  be  aooB-stelj  known.  ThesUenoe 
maintained  and  imposed  l^  Aastria 
may  have  withheld,  or  siqppressed, 
ezj^anations  that  wonld  jnstify  or 
palliate  nnich  of  what  wears  %  worse 
than  donbtM  aspect  Bc^  the 
antiientic  information  now  aooessible 
to  the  public  cannot  fail  to  cause  deep 
snxiety  to  all  who  care  for  the  rep«- 
tation  of  the  imperial  goyenimeat — 
to  all  who  desire  to  see  monardiy 
come  pure  ovt  of  the  furnace  in  which 
it  is  now  being  tried.  Hie  desire  to 
enforce  its  hereditary  policy  of  a 
nnlform  patriarchal  system  wonld  ntt 
justify,  in  the  eyes  of  EngMshmen,  an 
alliance  with  anardiy  to  put  down 
constitutional  monarchy  in  Hmigary, 
or  an  attempt  to  cover,  with  the  Mood 
and  dust  of  civil  war,  the  departure 
of  the  imperial  government  from 
solemn  engagements  entered  into  l^ 
the  emperor. 

The  nature  of  t^e  relstionB  by  which 
Hungary  is  connected  with  Austria — 
the  origin  and  progress  of  their  pre- 
sent quarrel,  and  the  objects  for  whicfa 
the  Hungarians  are  contending— ap- 
pear to  have  been  veiy  gener^dly 
misunderstood,  not  in  this  country 
only,  but  in  a  great  part  of  Europe. 
Men  whom  we  might  expect  to  find 
better  informed,  seem  to  imagine  that 
Hungary  is  an  Austzion  province  in 
rebellion  against  the  emperor,  and 
that  the  origin  and  tendency  of  the 
movement  was  republican.  The  re- 
▼eree  of  all  this  is  true.  Hungary  is 
not,  and  never  was,  a  provinoe  of 
Austria;  but  has  been  and  is,  both 
dejvrt  and  de  facto^  an  independent 
Idngdom.  The  Empercur  of  Austria 
is  also  King  of  Hungary,  but,  as 
Emperor  of  Austria,  has  neither 
^.sovereign  right  nor  jurisdiction  in 
Hungary.  The  Hungarians  assert, 
and  apparently  with  truth,  that 
they  took  up  arms  to  repel  un- 
provoked aggression,  and  to  defend 
their  constitutional  monardiy  as  by 
law  established;  that  theur  objects 
are  therefore  purely  conservative,  and 


tiidr  principles  monKiileal;  and  tiiat 
it  is  ^Edse  and  calunmious  to  accuse 
them  of  having  contemplated  or  de- 
sired to  found  a  repubUo — a  form  of 
government  foreign  to  ^eir  senti- 
meots,  and  incompatible  with  thor 
sodal  condition. 

Hie  kingdom  of  Hungary  (Hun- 
garey)  founded  by  the  M^yars  in  the 
tenth  centray,  had  for  several  gene- 
rations been  distinguished  amongst  tiie 
nations  of  Eivope,  when  anotherpagan 
tribe  from  the  same  stock — tissuing 
like  them  from  the  Mongolian  plains, 
and  tvning  the  Kack  Sea  by  thesouth, 
as  they  had  done  by  the  nmrth  — 
crossed  the  Bosphoms,  overtmned  the 
throne  of  the  Oiesars,  and  estaUished 
on  its  ruins  an  Asiatic  empire,  which 
became  the  terror  of  €ln*istendom. 
The  Mi^ars,  converted  to  Christian- 
ity, encountered  on  the  bai^LS  of  the 
Danube  this  cognate  race,  converted 
to  Islamism,  and  became  the  first  bul- 
wark of  Christian  Europe  against  the 
Turks.  The  deserts  of  Central  Asia, 
which  had  sent  forth  the  wariike  tribe 
that  threatened  Eastern  Europe  with 
subjugation,  had  also  furnished  the 
prowess  tiiat  was  destined  to  arrest, 
thehr  progress.  The  court  of  Hungary 
had  long  been  the  resort  of  men  of 
learning  and  science ;  the  chivalry  of 
Europe  had  flocked  to  her  camps, 
where  military  ardour  was  never  <Hs- 
appointed  of  a  combat,  or  religious 
zeal  of  an  opportunity  to  slaughter 
infidels.  In  1526,  Ludovic,  King  of 
Hungaiy  and  Bohemia^  with  the 
flower  cf  the  Hungarian  chivalry,  fell 
flghting  with  the  Turks  at  the  disas- 
trous iMttie  of  Mohaos — the  Flodden 
field  of  Hungary.  The  monarchy  was 
then  elective,  but  when  the  late  king 
left  heirs  of  his  body  the  election  was 
but  a  matter  of  form.  When  the 
monardi  died  without  leaving  an  heir 
of  his  body,  the  nation  freely  exercised 
its  right  of  election,  and  on  more  tiian 
one  such  occasion  had  chosen  their  king 
from  amongst  the  members  of  princely 
houses  in  other  parts  of  Europe.  In 
this  manner  Charies  Robert,  of  the 
Neapolitan  branch  of  the  house  <^ 
Anjou  and  Ladislas,  King  of  Bohemia, 
son  of  Casimir  King  of  Poland,  and 
father  of  Ludovic  who  fell  at  Mohacs, 
had  been  placed  upon  tiie  throne. 
Liuiovic  died  without  issue,  and  he 
was  the  last  male  of  his  line— it  there* 
fore  became  necessaiy  to  dioose  a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


020 


Austria  and  Hyngary, 


[May, 


king  firom  some  other  house.  Ferdi- 
Band,  brother  of  the  Emperor  Charles 
v.,  had  married  his  cousin  Anne, 
daughter  of  Ladislas,  and  sister  of 
Ludovic  the  late  King  of  Hungary 
and  Bohemia.  His  personal  charac- 
ter, his  connexion  with  the  rojal 
family  of  Hungary,  and  the  support 
he  might  expect  from  the  emperor  in 
the  war  against  the  Turks,  prevailed 
over  the  national  antipathy  to  Aus- 
tria, and  he  was  elected  to  the  vacant 
throne,  though  not  without  a  contest. 
He  was  crowned  according  to  the 
ancient  customs  of  Hungaiy,  and  at 
his  coronation  took  the  oath  which 
had  been  administered  on  similar  oc- 
casions to  his  predecessors.  He  there- 
by bound  himself  to  govern  according 
to  the  laws,  and  to  maintain  and  de- 
fend the  constitution  and  the  territory 
of  Hungary.  He  was  likewise  elected 
King  of  Bohemia,  after  subscribing  a 
document,  by  which  he  renounced 
every  other  claim  to  the  crown  than 
that  which  he  derived  from  his  elec- 
tion. The  emperor  surrendered  to 
him  the  crown  of  Austria,  and  these 
three  crowns  were  thus,  for  the  first 
time,  united  in  a  prince  of  the  house  of 
Hapsburg.  These  states  were  alto- 
gether independent  one  of  another, 
had  their  separate  laws,  institutions, 
and  customs,  and  had  no  other  bond 
of  connexion  than  the  accidental  union 
of  the  crowns  in  one  person — a  union 
which  mijfht  at  any  time,  on  the  de- 
mise of  the  crown  ,have  been  dissolved. 
It  resembled,  in  this  respect,  the  union 
of  the  crowns  of  Great  Britain  and  Ha- 
nover in  the  persons  of  our  own  sove- 
reigns, that  it  left  the  kingdoms  both 
dejure  and  ci^yoc/o  independent  of  each 
other.  In  1558,Ferdinand  was  elected 
Emperor  of  Gormany ;  but  as  emperor 
he  could  claim  no  jurisdiction  in  Hun- 
gar}',  which  was  not  then,  and  never 
was,  included  in  the  German  empire. 
The  monarchy  of  Hungary  continue 
to  be  elective,  and  the  nation  conti- 
nued to  give  a  preference  to  the  heirs 
of  the  late  monarch.  The  princes  of 
the  house  of  Hapsburg,  who  succeeded 
to  the  throne  of  Austria,  were  thus 
successively  elected  to  that  of  Hun- 


gary;  were  separately  crowned  in  that 
kingdom,  according  to  its  ancient  cos- 
toms ;  and  at  their  coronation  took  the 
same  oath  that  Ferdinand  had  taken. 

In  1687  the  states  of  Hun^aiy  de- 
creed that  the  throne,  which  had 
hitherto  been  filled  by  election,  shonld 
thenceforward  be  hereditary  in  the 
male  heirs  of  the  house  of  Hapsburg ; 
and  in  1728,  the  diet,  by  asreeing  to 
the  Pragmatic  sanction  of  Chariea 
in.  of  Hungary,  (the  Emperor  Charles 
Yl,  of  Geraiany^  extended  the  right 
of  succession  to  the  female  descendants 
of  that  prince.  These  two  measures 
were  Intended,  and  calculated,  to  per- 
petuate the  union  of  the  two  crowns 
in  the  same  person.  The  order  of 
succession  to  the  crown  of  Hungary 
was  thus  definitivelv  settled  by  sta- 
tute, and  could  not  legally  be  depart* 
ed  from,  unless  with  the  concurrence 
both  of  the  diet  and  of  the  sovereign. 
So  long,  therefore,  as  the  crown  of 
Austria  was  transmitted,  in  the  same 
order  of  succession  as  that  in  which 
the  crown  of  Hungary  had  been 
settled,  the  union  would  be  preserved ; 
but  anv  deviation  in  Austria  from  the 
order  tixed  by  law  in  Hungaiy  would 
lead  to  a  separation  of  the  crowns,  un- 
less the  Hungarian  diet  could  be  in- 
dnced  to  consent  to  a  new  settlement. 
Thus  we  have  seen  the  crowns  of 
Great  Britain  and  Hanover  united  for 
four  generations,  and  separated  in  the 
fifth,  because  one  was  settled  on  heirs 
male  or  female,  the  other  on  heirs 
male  only. 

An  attempt  has  been  made,  with 
reference  to  recent  events,  to  found  on 
the  Pragmatic  Sanction  pretensions 
that  might  derogate  firom  the  absolute 
independence  of  Hungary;  but  the 
artides  of  the  Hungarian  diet^  of 
1790  appear  to  be  fatal  to  any  such 
pretensions.  By  Article  10  of  that 
year  it  is  declared,  that  *^  Hungary  is 
a  country  free  and  independent  in  her 
entire  system  of  legLUation  and  of 
government;  that  she  is  not  subject 
to  any  other  people,  or  any  other 
state,  but  that  she  shall  have  her 
own  separate  existence,  and  her  owi^ 
constitution,  and  shall  consequently^ 


*  The  acts  passed  by  the  diet  are  numbered  by  articles,  as  those  of  our  pariiament 
are  by  chapters.  Each  of  these  articles,  when  it  has  received  the  royal  assent,  be- 
comes a  statute  of  the  kingdom,  in  the  same  manner  as  with  us,  and  of  course  equaUy 
binds  the  soyereign  and  his  subjects. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Austria  and  Hungary, 


be  governed  by  kings  crowned  accor- 
ding to  her  national  laws  and  cos- 
toms.**  By  Article  12  of  the  same 
diet  it  was  declared,  that  the  power 
to  enact,  to  interpret,  and  to  abrogate 
the  laws,  was  Tested  conjointly  in  the 
king,  legitimately  crowned,  and  the 
diet;  and  that  no  attempt  should 
ever  be  made  to  govern  by  edicts  or 
arbitrary  acts.  By  Article  18  it  was 
decreed,  that  the  diet  should  be  called 
together  once  every  three  years  at  the 
least.  By  Article  19  it  was  declared, 
that  imposts  could  not  be  levied  at 
the  king's  pleasure,  but  must  be  freely 
voted  by  the  two  tables  (houses)  from 
one  diet  to  another.  All  these  acts 
received  the  formal  assent  of  Leo- 
pold U.,  and  thus  became  statutes 
of  the  kingdom. 

The  successors  of  Leopold— Fran- 
cis n.,  and  Ferdinand,  who  has  re- 
cently abdicated— received  the  crown 
of  Hungaiy  on  the  conditions  implied 
in  the  coronation  oath,  which  was 
administered  to  them  in  the  usual 
manner,  and  by  which  they  bound 
themselves  to  respect  and  maintain 
the  constitution  as  by  law  established, 
and  to  govern  according  to  the  sta- 
tutes. The  question  whether  the  late 
emperor  should  be  addressed  Ferdi- 
nand I.  or  Ferdinand  V.  was  a  sub- 
ject of  debate  in  the  diet  while  Mr 
Paget  was  at  Presburg,  and  be  gives 
the  following  account  of  the  pro- 
ceedings :— 

"hUM  bill  now  brought  up  from  the 
deputies,  and  to  which  the  degree  of  im- 
portance attached  by  all  parties  appeared 
ridicalons  to  a  stranger,  had  reference  to 
the  appellation  of  the  new  king.  .  .  . 
The  matter,  howerer,  was  not  so  unim- 
portant as  it  may  appear ;  the  fact 
is,  he  is  Emperor  Ferdinand  I .  of  Aus- 
tria, and  King  Ferdinand  Y.  of  Hun- 
gary ;  and  niuess  Hungary  had  ceased 
to  be  an  independent  country,  which  the 
greatest  courtier  would  not  dare  to  in- 
nnuate,  there  could  be  no  question  as  to 
his  proper  title.  The  magnates,  however, 
thought  o&erwise  :  it  was  understood 
that  the  court  desired  that  the  style  of 
Ferdinand  I.  should  be  used,  and  the 
magnates  were  too  anxious  to  please 
not  to  desire  the  same  thing.  The  de- 
puties had  now  for  the  fourth  time  sent 
up  the  same  bill,  insisting  on  the  title  of 
Ferdinand  Y.;  and  for  the  fourth  time 
the  magnates  were  now  about  to  reject 

It. At  the  moment  when 

the  magnates  were  as  firm  as  rocks  on 

VOL.  Lxv.— NO.  ccccni. 


621 

the  wrong  side,  the  court  took  the  wise 
course  of  showing  its  contempt  for  such 
supporters,  by  sending  down  a  proclama- 
tion 'We  Ferdinand  Y.,  by  &e  grace 
of  God,  King  of  Hungary,  &c.  &c.' " 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  these 
articles  of  1790  conferred  upon  the 
diet  any  new  powers,  or  implied  any 
new  concessions  on  the  part  of  the 
king.  They  were  "declaratory  acts, 
framed  for  the  purpose  of  exacting 
from  Leopold  IL  securities  against 
a  renewal  of  the  arbitrary  proceedings 
to  which  Joseph  had  resorted ;  and 
they  merely  reasserted  what  the  Hun- 
garian constitution  had  provided  long 
before  the  election  of  Ferdinand  L — 
what  had  for  several  generations  been 
the  law  of  the  land. 

The  Hungarians  were  not  satisfied 
with  having  obtained  firom  Leopold 
a  formal  renunciation  of  Joseph's  ille- 
gal pretensions.  They  felt,  and  the 
cabinet  admitted,  that  the  ancient 
institutions  of  Hungaiy — ^which  had 
with  dlfSculty  been  preserved,  and 
which  for  some  generations  had  been 
deteriorating  ratiier  than  Improving 
under  the  influence  of  the  Austrian 
government— were  no  longer  suited  to 
the  altered  circumstances  of  the  coun- 
try, to  the  growing  Intelligence  and 
advancing  civilisation  of  its  inhabi- 
tants. But  they  desired  to  efi^  all 
necessanr  ameliorations  cautiously 
and  deliberately.  They  were  neither 
enamoured  of  the  republican  doctrines 
of  France,  nor  disposed  to  engage  in 
destructive  reforms  for  the  purpose  of 
fimming  a  new  constitution.  They 
desired  to  improve,  not  to  destroy,  that 
which  they  possessed.  They  would 
probably  have  preferred  to  effect  the 
necessary  ameliorations  in  each  de- 
partment successively;  but  they 
feared  the  direction  that  might  be 
given  by  the  influence  of  the  crown, 
to  any  gradual  modification  of  the 
existing  institutions  that  miffht  be 
attempted.  By  the  constitution  of 
Hungaiy,  the  diet  is  precluded  from 
discussing  any  measures  that  have 
not  been  brought  before  it  in  the 
royal  propositions,  or  king's  speech — 
uniess  cases  of  particular  grievances 
whidi  may  be  brought  before  the 
diet  by  individual  members.  To 
engage  in  a  course  of  successive 
reforms  would  have  exposed  the 
diet  to  the  danger  of  being  arrested 
2r 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


622 


Amstria  imd  Htmgmy, 


[May, 


ia  its  progress,  as  soon  as  It  had  passed 
such  measures  as  were  acceptable  to 
ti^e  cabinet.  They  therefore  named 
a  commission,  indnding  the  most  en- 
lightened and  the  ablest  men  in  the 
cooniry,  to  i«iport  on  the  whole  legis- 
lation of  Hungary  in  all  its  I)raiiche6. 
This  great  national  eeniMiasiOii  was 
farmed  of  seven  oommittees,  ^or  sub- 
commissions,  «ach  of  whioh  undertook 
to  report  on  jone  depantment.  The 
committees  were — 1st,  That  onthe  Ur- 
barial  code,  or  tiie  oondidon  of  the 
peasants,  and  their  selaHons  to  the 
proprietors :  2d,  On  the  army,  and 
aJl  that  related  to  iti  Sd,  On  public 
policj^  IncAading  the  powei»  and  juris- 
dicti<m  ai  the  diet,  AAd  of  its  different 
component  parts :  4th,  On  matteiB 
ecclesiastical  and  litoruy,  indnding 
education:  5th«  On  oommeDoe:  6t^ 
On  the  dvil  and  crimiaaJ  o«des :  and 
7th,  On  contribotions,  iadnding  the 
whole  system  of  taxation,  and  every- 
thing  omAected  with  the  public  reve- 
nue. The  r€(>QrtB  of  this  national 
commissioo«  which  are  known  as  the 
'^Operata  aysteaiatioa  eomttisaionis 
regnicoilaris,"  recoBuufiaded  «osipre- 
jbensive  ameUarationa  of  the  laws,  and 
were  creditable  to  the  intdligence, 
soienoe,  stateBmanahip,  and  good  sense 
of  the  •commiasioBa.  The  reports  opoa 
thec<Hnmeroial  and  thecriisiaal  codes, 
more  espedaily,  attracted  theatteatioa 
and  the  adnucation  of  some  of  the 
Ablest  men  in  Germany. 

From  this  time  Ibrward,  «ach  sm- 
ceeding  diet  endeavoured  to  get  the 
recommendations  of  the  oommiaaioa 
introduced  into  the  royal  propoaitwnB. 
The  cabinet  never  refused— often  prtH 
mised  to  com{dy  with  this  demand, 
bit  always  deietred  tiM  discusston. 
Probably  it  was  not  averse  to  some  of 
the  measures  proposed,  or  at  least  not 
unwilling  to  adopt  then  in  part  The 
projected  rdbnn  of  the  Urbarial  code 
would  have  tended  to  increase  the 
revenue,  and  to  facilitate  its  ooUecUon ; 
but  it  would  at  the  tame  time  have 
imposed  upon  the  nobles  new  bufdens, 
and  required  of  th^n  considerable 
fiacrifices— ^aad,  before  submiitiag  to 
these,  they  weve  desirous  to  secure  a 
more  efficient  oontrol  over  the 
national  expenditure,  and  ameliora- 
tions of  the  Auatiian  commercial  isys- 
tem,  which,  hj  heavy' duties,  had  de- 
predated liie  valne  of  the  agricuitttrai 


produce  that  fumislied  their  incomes. 
Hie  diet,  tlierefore,  desired  to  set  the 
operuia  9yatematioa  oonsidared  as  a 
whole ;  the  calHnet,  and  the  party  in 
Hungary  which  supported  it,  sought 
to  restrict  the  diet  to  the  dmcassioa 
of  such  chaoses  ^mly  as  were  cakm- 
lated  to  beneit  Austria. 

When  Frauds  IL,  who  had  for  some 
years  been  Palatine  of  Hungary,  as- 
oraded  the  thrones  of  that  kdngidooi 
and  of  Anstria  in  1792,  there  vras  no 
question  as  to  the  independence  of 
Hungary,  which  had  been  so  fnOj 
recognised  by  his  father.  The  nsoal 
oath  was  aditninistered  to  him  at  Ms 
coronation,  ^vhich  was  oonduofced  in 
the  usual  manner ;  and  in  his  re[dy  to 
tibe  address  of  the  Hungarian  diet,  on 
his  accession,  he  showed  no  dispo^ 
tion  to  invade  the  constitutional  nghts 
of  the  Hungarians.  **I  affirm,"  he 
said,  **'  with  dnoerity,  tiiat  I  wiU  not 
allow  myself  to  be  surpassed  in  the 
affection  we  owe  to  each  otiier.  Te& 
your  citaaens  that,  fiaithfnl  to  ny  char- 
actw,  I  ahall  be  the  guar^an  of  the 
constitution :  my  inll  fi£a!l  be  no  ofter 
than  that  of  the  law,  and  my  efforts 
i^all  have  no  other  guides  fiaa  hon- 
ov,  good  futh,  and  imalterable  con- 
fideneein  the  magnanimonsHungariaa 
nataon.*'  To  &ese  sentim^ts  the 
diet  responded  by  voting  all  the  snp* 
plies,  and  the  trocqis,  demanded  of 
them  l^  the  kmg. 

In  1796,  the  diet  was.  again  called 
together,  to  be  informed  that,  ^at- 
tacked \ij  iJie  impions  and  iniqnitoiiB 
French  nation,  the  long  fdt  tiie  neoes- 
«ity  of  consolling  his  faithful  states  of 
Hungary,  remembering  that,  under 
Maria  Theresa,  Hungaiy  had  saved 
the  monarchy.**  The  diet  voted  a 
contingent  of  50,000  men,  and  under- 
took to  provision  the  Austrian  anny, 
amounting  to  340,000  sddiers.  It 
urged  the  government  to  propose  tlie 
consideration  of  the  c^perote  tyaUmi^ 
tica;  but  <he  cabinet  replied  that  ft 
must  consult  and  reflect ;  and,  in  the 
mean  time,  the  diet  was  dissolved  after 
only  nineteen  sittings.  These  pro- 
ceedings produced  a  general  feeling  of 
discontent  in  Hungary,  whidi  threat- 
ened to  become  embarrassing;  but 
the  success  of  the  French  armies 
aroused  the  military  spirit  andloyalty^ 
of  the  Hungarians,  and  the  appoint- 
ment, at  the  same  tone,  of  the  i 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


AMUtria  and  Humgarp. 


623 


oikle  and  enlightened  Arob^ake 
Joseph  to  tiie  dignitj  of  PafaitiBe  of 
fimngu7f  in  which  he  retained  for 
ifty  years  the  respect  and  afectioa  of 
all  parties,  tended  to  preeenre  thdr 
aAtaiohment,  ^on^  it  -did  not  sikaoe 
IlKireoniplaiats. 

¥rh0n  the  diet  net  in  1602,  the 
peaee  of  Anuens  had  heen  condnded. 

^  Until  now/'  (said  the  king  in  hiB 
answer  to  the  address,)  '^  drcnmstances 
hare  not  permitted  my  gOTemment  to 
attend  to  tmyfhing  bat  tiie  war,  wfaiohhas 
aflbrded  yon  «a  iMcanen  io  shew  jFonr 
aokl  and  your  fidelity.  WA  eomaend- 
aMe  fenenoty,  yon  hape  voted  the  eon- 
tiageaAi  aad  the  snbtidiM  whioh  the 
aiknation  ef  the  «aipire  demanded  ;  aad 
the  rememhmnoe  of  year  deyotion  shall 
noTer  be  extinguished  ia  my  heart,  or 
in  the  hearts  of  my  family.  Baft»  now 
that  peace  is  concluded,  I  desire  to  ex- 
tend my  solicitnde  to  the  Idngdom  of 
Hangary — to  the  country  which  has  most 
eBbctnaby  aided  me  in  the  wan  I  hare 
had  to  BOBtaia — wlueh,  by  its  extent,  its 
pepvlati«ii,it8isrtiltty,iheaoUecharaetcr 
and  the  faleor  of  its  inhahitaHti,  is  the 
duef  bolwarfc  of  the  monar^y.  My  de- 
aise  is  Ae  anaage  with  the  states  of  Uan- 
gary  the  means  of  incseasing  her  pros- 
perity, juid  to  meoit  the  ihaoks  of  the 
natiaa." 

Bnt  €he  peace  ef  Aniens  proved  to 
ht  a  hofiow  trace,  sad  this  flattering 
«oninMHiicatkNi  became  the  piehide  to 
lenewed  demands  fi)rmenand  monej. 
To  hasten  the  vtites  on  the  supplies, 
IhedMtwas  infbimed  that  itwoaldbe 
dissobod  in  two  months*  in  the  de- 
iMite  which  ensoed,  one  of  tiiemend)en 
uttered  tiie  sentnaents  of  the  nation, 
irhen  he  said — ^  It  is  plain  tiiat  the 
ling  calls  «is  together  oaly  whesi  he 
wants  soldiers  and  eop^iea.  He 
knows  that,  afto  all,  we  hmre  too 
midi  honoiff  to  aUow  tiie  majesty  of 
Hie  King  of  Hnngary  to  be  insalted  1^ 
lus  enendes."  The  impost  was  in- 
creased,  aad  the  contingent  raised  to 
64^000  meD*;  but  the  consideratioii  of 
the  measures  recorameaded  bj  the 
great  na^oaal  commisaoD,  thongfa 
^tHnised,  was  deHfirred  by  the  king. 
The  diet  of  1805  reeembled  that  of 
1802 — ^tbe  same  promises  ending  in 
dmilar  disiqmointment. 

The  diet  of  1807  was  more  romark- 
«l)lt.  To  the  isaal  demands  was  added 
Hm  royal  proporitioii,  that  the  ^*ni- 
mn^G^ifmy^  or  hv6t  «i  inasti,  ^diovld 


be  organised,  and  readj  to  march  at 
the  first  8igi»l.  The  patience  of  the 
nation  was  exhansted.  The  diet  re- 
presented to  the  king,  in  fixm  bnt  re- 
n>ectfal  addresses,  the  disorder  in  the 
mianees  prodneed  by  tiie  amount  of 
papernnoney  issned  in  disregard  of 
theirittnoBstraoces,  aad  catted  upon 
tiie  go¥emm^t  to  repair  the  eviL 
They  said  that,  durijig  many  years, 
the  ooontiy  had  done  enongh  to  prove 
its  fidelity  to  the  eovereign,  whose 
royal  promises  had  not  been  fulfilled ; 
and  that  henceforth  l^e  Hungarians 
oonld  not  expend  their  lives  and  for- 
tnaee  in  the  defence  of  his  hereditary 
states,  unless  he  sedoBsly  took  in 
hand  the  interests  of  dieir  native 
eonntiT.  They  demmdad  the  revi- 
sion of  the  commercial  system,  and 
liberty  freely  to  tsxport  the  produce  of 
the  coantry,  and  freely  to  import  the 
productions  of  other  eountries.  Thej 
oomi^ained  of  a  new  dqiredataon  of 
the  currency,  demanded  a  redaction 
of  the  duty  on  salt,  (the  produce  of 
then:  own  mines,)  which  had  receatlj 
been  augmented,  and  denounced 
^^  the  injustice  of  paralysing  the  in- 
dnstryeif  a  people,  while  requiring  of 
them  great  saonfioeB." 

The  jostioe  of  these  representations 
was  admitted,  bnt  no  satisfactory 
answer  was  TBtumed;  and  the  mur- 
■mrs  at  Pkntibncg  became  lend  enon^ 
to  oanae  alarm  at  Vienna.  Tbe  ad- 
Tanoe  of  Napoleon  to  the  foontiers  of 
Hungary  tamed  tiM  current  of  Ihe 
national  feeling.  It  was  now  the 
aacredsoilofHxmgaiy  that  was  threat- 
ened with  desecration,  and  tlw  diet 
not  only  TOted  all  ^e  subsidies  and 
20,000  recmita,  but  the  whole  body  of 
the  nobles  or  freemen  epontaneonsly 
offered  <nie-sixth  of  their  incomes,  and 
n  knU  an  vume  was  decreed  for  tfaroo 
years.  Napoleon^  attempts  to  detach 
the  Hm^^anans  from  the  cause  of  ^ehr 
king  were  unavafliag,  and  their  devo- 
tion to  hk  person  was  never  more 
oanspicnons  than  iHien  he  had  kit  the 
power  to  reward  it. 

In  1811  the  royal  proportions,  in 
ad<fition  to  the  usnal  deauends,  re- 
quested the  diet  to  rota  an  extnun^ 
dinary  amdy  of  twelve  miUicma  of 
florins,  and  to  gnarantee  Austrian 
paper  money  to  the  amount  of  one 
Inmiibed  millions,  (idiont  ten  millions 
aterling.)     The  mi  caMad  fstt  tbe 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


624 


Austria  and  Hungary, 


[May-. 


account  of  the  previous  expenditure, 
and  were  told  that  the  details  of  the 
budget  were  secrets  of  state.  This 
answer  excited  the  greatest  indigna- 
tion, and  they  refiised  to  vote  any 
extraordinary  supply  till  the  accounts 
were  produced.  They  complained 
that  the  finances  of  Hungary  were  ad- 
ministered by  Austrians — foreigners, 
who  were  excluded  by  law  from  a 
voice  in  their  affiura — and  that  the 
cabinet  of  the  emperor  had  illegally 
mixed  up  the  finances  of  Hungary 
with  those  of  the  hereditary  states  of 
Austria.  Some  members  of  the  diet 
even  threatened  to  impeach  the  minis- 
ters. In  their  addresses  to  the  throne, 
the  financial  administration  of  the 
imperial  government  was  roughly 
handled ;  and  the  cabinet,  perceiving 
that  the  debates  at  Presburg  had  in- 
<M>nveniently  directed  attention,  even 
in  the  Hereditary  States,  to  financial 
questions,  hastily  withdrew  their  pro- 
positions. 

The  peace  of  1815  restored  to 
Europe  the  repose  she  had  long  desir- 
ed, and  to  Hungary  many  of  her  sons 
who  had  long  been  absent  In  the 
midst  of  war,  her  diet  had  never  ceased 
to  attend  to  the  internal  administra- 
tion of  the  country,  to  the  improve- 
ment of  her  resources,  and  the  ad- 
vancement of  her  "population  in  ma- 
terial prosperity  ana  intelligence.  All 
the  comprehensive  measures  prepared 
with  this  view  had  been  postponed 
or  neglected  by  the  king,  acting  by  the 
advice  of  his  Austrian  cabinet,  and 
supported  by  apowerfhl  party  of  the 
magnates  of  Hungary.  But  though 
her  hopes  had  been  disappointed,  Hun- 
gary had  never  failed,  in  any  mo- 
ment of  difficulty  or  danger,  to  apply 
her  whde  power  and  resources  to  the 
defence  of  the  empure.  She  never 
sought,  in  the  embarrassments,  the 
defeat,  and  misfortunes  of  Austria,  an 
opportunity  to  extort  from  her  king 
the  justice  he  had  denied  to  her 
prayers.  She  never  for  a  moment 
swerved  from  devoted  allegiance  to 
her  constitutional  monarch.  **  After 
all,  she  had  too  much  honour  to  allow 
the  majesty  of  the  King  of  Hungary 
to  be  insulted  by  his  enemies.'*  She 
forgave  the  frequent  delays  and  re- 
fusals, by  which  the  most  salutary 
measures  had  been  frustrated  or  re- 
jected, because  she  knew  that  the 


thoughts   and   the   enerc[ies  of   her 
sovereign  and  his  Austnan  cabinet 
had  been  directed  to  the  defence  of  tiie 
empire,  and  the  preservation  of  its 
independence.    But  now  that  these 
were  no  longer  threatened,  that  the 
good  cause  for  which  she  had  fongfat 
with  so  much  gallantry  and  devotion 
had  triumphed,  she  had  a  right  te 
expect  a  gratefol  return  for  her  ser- 
vices—or at  least  that  the  promises,  on 
the  faith  of  which  she  had  lavished 
her  blood  and  her  treasure  in  defence 
of  her  king  and  of  his  Austrian  domi- 
nions, would  be  ftilfilled.    But  the 
republican  outbreak  in  France  had  led 
to  lon^  years  of  war  and  desolation ; 
the  triumph  of  monarchy  and  ordor 
over  anarchy  had   at   length   been 
achieved,  and  men  had  not  only  ab- 
jured the  doctrines  from  whidi  so 
much  evil  had  sprung,  but  monarchs 
had  learned  to  look  with  distrust  on 
every  form  of  government  that  per- 
mitted the  expression  of  public  opi- 
nion, or  acknowledged  the  riffht  of  Uie 
people  to  be  heard.    Even  the  mixed 
government  of  England,  to  which  or- 
der owed  its  triumph,  was  regarded 
as  a  danger  and  a  snare  to  other  coun- 
tries. The  Holy  Alliance  was  formed, 
and  the  Austrian  cabinet,  which  for 
more  than  twenty  years  had  flattered 
the  hopes  of  Hungary  when  it  wanted 
her  assistance,  now  boldlv  resolved  to 
govern  that  kingdom  without  the  aid 
of  its  diet.    In  vain  did  the  county 
assemblies  call  for  the  convocation  <^ 
the   national  parliament,  ^ich  the 
king  was  bound,  by  the  laws  he  had 
sworn  to  observe,  to  summon  every 
three  years.  Their  addresses  were  not 
even  honoured  with  an  answer.    In 
1822,  an  attempt  was  made  to  levy  im- 
posts and  troops  by  royal  edicts.  The 
comitats  (county  assemblies)  refiised 
to  enforce  them.    In  1823,  bodies  of 
troops  were  sent— first  to  overawe,  and 
then  to  coerce  them.     The  county 
officers  concealed  theur  archives  and 
official  seals,  and  dispersed.     Boyal 
commissioners  were  appointed  to  per- 
form their  functions,  and  were  almost 
evervwhere    resisted.     The    whole 
administration  of  the  country,  civil 
and  judicial,  was  in  confusion ;  and, 
after  an  unseemly  and  damaging  con- 
test, the  cabinet  found  it  necessary,  ia 
1825,  to  give  way,  and  to  summon  the 
diet,  after  an  interval  of  twelve  jeta^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Auiiria  and  Hungary, 


One  personal  anecdote  will  convey  a 
more  correct  impression  of  the  feelings 
with  which  the  Hungarians,  who  were 
most  attached  to  tiie  emperor-king, 
viewed  these  proceeding,  than  any 
detail  we  coold  give.  JohnNemet, 
Director  Causamm  Regalinm  of  Hun- 
gary, at  a  personal  interview  with  the 
king,  denonnced  the  proceedings  of 
the  cabinet.  "  Do  yon  know,"  said 
the  irritated  monarch,  '^  that  I  am 
emperor  and  king;  that  yon  may 
lose  your  head?"  *'I  know,"  re- 
plied Nemet,  ^^  that  my  life  is  in  your 
majesty's  hands;  but  the  liberty  of 
my  country,  and  the  honour  of  my 
sovereign,  are  dearer  to  me  than  my 
life." 

When  the  diet  met  in  1825,  the 
king,  in  his  reply  to  the  address,  ad- 
mitted that  *^  things  had  happened 
which  ought  not  to  have  occurred,  and 
which  should  not  occur  again."  The 
diet  did  not  conceal  its  resentment. 
The  comitat  of  Zala,  through  its  repre- 
sentatives, demanded  the  names  of 
the  traitors  who  had  misled  the  kinff ; 
and  the  representatives  of  all  the 
other  counties  supported  the  proposi- 
tion. One  of  l^e  royid  commissioners 
came  in  tears  to  apologise  to  the  diet; 
another,  who  attempted  to  justify 
himself  on  the  ground  of  obedience  to 
the  king,  was  told  that  a  faithful  sub- 
ject honoured  his  sovereign  when  he 
reminded  him  of  his  duty.  The  ar- 
ticles of  1790  were  declsured  to  have 
been  openly  violated,  and  the  diet 
compliuned  that  the  pubUc  security 
had  been  outraged  by  arrests  and 
prosecutions,  founded  on  anonymous 
denunciations.  The  address  to  the 
king,  in  which  they  set  forth  theur 
grievances,  concluded  with  the  follow- 
ing petition: — 

"  ConTinced  thai  these  acts  do  not 
emulate  fh>m  your  Mtjetij,  !bat  that 
thej  proceed  from  a  sjstem  constantlj 
portned  for  MTeral  centuries,  we  entreat 
yonr  Migest  j  henceforth  not  to  listen  to 
efil  coonsels-— to  despise  anonymons  de- 
nonciations — ^not  to  exact  any  impost  or 
any  lery  of  soldiers  withont  Uie  concar- 
rence  of  the  diet — to  reinstate  the  citixens 
disgraced  for  haying  legally  resisted 
the  royal  commissioners,  and  regularly 
to  convoke  the  states,  with  whom  you 
■hare  the  sovereign  power." 

In  his  answer,  Francis  blamed  the 
diet  for  their  proceedings,  but  wisely 


625 

conceded  their  demands.  By  article 
8d  of  1825,  he  engaged  to  observe 
the  fundamental  laws  of  the  kingdom. 
By  article  4th,  never  to  levy  sub- 
sidies without  tlie  concurrence  of  the 
diet;  by  article  5th,  to  convoke  the 
diet  evcary  three  years. 

The  attempt  of  Francis  n.  to  sub- 
vert the  constitution  of  Hungary  ter- 
minated, as  the  similar  attempt  of 
Joseph  n.  had  terminated  thirty-five 
years  before— in  renewed  acknowledg- 
ments of  the  independence  of  Hun- 
gary, and  the  constitutional  rights  of 
the  Hungarians. 

After  three  centuries  of  contention, 
the  cabinet  of  Vienna  now  appeared 
to  have  abandoned  the  hope  it  had 
so  long  entertained,  of  imposing  upon 
Hungary  the  patriarchal  system  of 
Austria.  Relinquishing  the  attempt 
to  enforce  ille^  edicts,  it  relied  upon 
means  more  m  accordance  with  the 
practice  of  constitutional  governments. 
It  could  command  a  majority  at  the 
table  of  Magnates,  and  it  endeavour- 
ed, by  influencing  the  elections,  to 
strengthen  its  party  in  the  Deputies. 
But  in  this  kind  of  warfiu^  the  cabinet 
of  an  absolute  monarch  were  far  less 
skilful  than  the  popular  leaders  of  a 
representative  assembly.  The  at- 
tempts to  influence  the  elections  by 
corrupt  means  were  generally  unsuc* 
cessfhl,  and,  when  exposed,  exhibited 
the  government  in  a  light  odious  to  a 
people  tenacious  of  their  liberties  and 
distrustful  of  Austria. 

There  had  long  been  two  parties  in 
the  diet,  of  whidi  one,  from  support- 
ins  the  views  of  the  court,  was  oon- 
sidered  Austrian ;  the  other,  from  its 
avowed  desire  to  develop  the  popular 
institutions  and  separate  nationalitj 
of  Hungary,  was  considered  Hunga- 
rian, and  took  the  designatioa  of  the 
patriotic  party.  There  was  thus  a 
government  party  and  an  opposition, 
which,  in  1827,  was  systematically 
organiBed.  But  as  Hungary  had  not 
a  separate  ministry,  responsible  to  the 
diet,  that  could  be  removed  from  office 
by  its  votes,  there  was  little  ground 
for  the  usual  imputation  of  a  struggle 
for  place.  The  patriotic  party  could 
expect  no  favour  from  the  court;  their 
opposition  was,  therefore,  so  far  disin- 
terested, and  was,  in  fact,  founded 
upon  the  instructions  of  the  counties 
they  r^resented. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC^ 


«26 


'iMVO^MI  dflD  xnMj^flP^ 


Xt  nmst  appesT  estrsoirBnsry  that 
the  maiority  of  an  assembly  composed 
of  nobles^  of  which  nine- tenths  of  the 
members  were  elected  by  hereditary 
nobles  or  freeholders^  should  advocate 
opinions  so  liberal  as  to  alarm  even 
the  Austrian  gOTemraent.  A  great 
minority  of  the  electors,  it  is  true, 
though  rejoicing  in  the  designation  of 
nobles,  were  men  who  tilled  the  soil 
with  their  own  hands ;  but  they  are 
truly  described  by  Mr  Paget  as  "  gene^ 
rally  a  proud,  unruly  set  of  feUows, 
with  higher  notions  of  privilege  and 
power  than  of  right  and  justice ;  but 
brave,  patriotic,  and  hospitable  in  the 
highest  degree."  After  describing  the 
national  character  of  the  Majjars,  he 
adds, — 

*  B  is  searcely  iMeeenory  to  m,y  tint, 
with  siioh  dJHpwHtwiigy  tb*  Ma|jw  ii 
strongly  iudmed.  to  conBevratisiB  ;  ht 
batet  new-foagled  notieAS-  and  ibveiga 
fukkmBf  and  coiiaiders  it  aaufficitat  coi»> 
deamatioa  to  say,  '  not  even  my  grand- 
fatbar  eTer  heard  of  sueh  thiaga.' " 

To  suppose  that  these  men  had  re- 

SuMican  tendende»  would,  of  course, 
e  absurd;  and  as  the  patriotic  party 
in  the  diet  reprssented  their  opisions, 
we  may  be  well  assured  that  tiie^ 
were  not  such  as,  to  any  party  in  this 
country,  would  appear  dangerous  from 
excess  of  IRyeraMty. 

To  the  govemmeot  of  Austria,  how- 
ever, nothing  caused  greater  uneasi- 
ness than  attempts  to  eonsoifdate  and 
improve  the  popular  institutions  of 
Hungary,  or  to  foster  feelings  of  sepa- 
rate nationality,  which  it  had  been 
the  eoBstont  aim  of  ifis  poUcy  to  obli- 
terate. Determined  to  maintain,  at 
all  hasrards,  her  own  patriarchal  sys- 
tem, Austria  sow  Hungary  already 
separated  frx>m  the  Hereditary  States 
by  the  form  of  her  institutions  and  by 
national  fcellngs,  and  dreaded  the 
wider  separation  which  the  onward 
mareh  of  the  one,  and  the  stationaiy 
policy  of  the  other,  must  produce.  In 
BuperfteieT  extent,  Huagiuy  is  nearly 
half  the  empirB—in  population,  more 
than  one-^hh-d.  The  separation  of  the 
crowns  would  reduce  Austria  to  the 
rank  of  a  second-ra«e  power;  and 
Hungary  separated  from  AastriR,  and 
surrounded  by  despotic  governments 
jealous  of  her  constitutional  freedom, 
could  not  be  safe.    Not  only  an  Aus- 


trian, but  apatriatkrHoDgifim,  i 
therefbre  resist,  tm  pei^oos  to 
eonntry,  any  coarse  of  leglstetioa 
appeared  to  lead  towards  soeli  arei 
If  Hungary  eontinned  to  advanoe  m 
material  prosperity  and  intelligpeaee, 
and  sueceeded  is  giving  to  her  oonati- 
tution  a  basis  so  broad  aa  to  insnre  m 
just  distribution  of  the  public  bordeno, 
and  to  unite  all  classes  of  ber  popnki- 
tion  in  its  support,  she  mustuitimatdgf 
separate  from  Austria,  or  Austria  i 
abandon  her  stationaiy  poUey, 
advance  in  the  same  direction.  It  i 
impossible  that  two  contiguous 
tries,  of  extent  and  resonrces  so  B^art^ 
equal,  governed  on  principles  so  dif- 
ferent, and  daily  increasing  the  dfii* 
tance  between  them,  should  loaig  con- 
tinue to  have  their  separate  adminia- 
trations  eonducted  by  one  eobioet,  or 
could  long  be  held  together  by  dioir 
idlegiance  to  the  same  sovereign^    T¥ 
give  permanence  to  theur  connexioii, 
it  was  necessary  that  Austria  shorii 
advance,   or  that   Bungaiy  idwiikl 
stand  still.    But  the  conditios  and 
circumstances  of  more  l^on  one-bdf 
of  her  population  made  it  indispensable 
to  her  safety-— to  her  internal  tron- 
quiDity,  her  material  pro^ri^,  and 
social   order— that  Hungary  should 
go   forward.     The   noUes,    bolding 
%eir  lands- by  tenure  of  military  ser- 
vice, bore  no  part  of  the  public  bur- 
dens during  peace.      The  peasants^ 
though  they  were  no  longer  serf^  and 
had  acquired  na  aetoowlodged  and 
valnnble  interest  in  tiM  lamb  tb^ 
heM  from  the  proprietors,  ibr  wUeft 
they  were  indebted  to  Maria  Theres% 
were  yet  svl:ject  to  all  manner  of  ar- 
bitrary oppressions.    They  hod  bein 
promised  amelioratione  of  their  eo» 
dition  as    early   as  1790v  bnt  tfaeit 
pronuses  had  not  yet  been  fulfilled. 
In  the  mean  timey  the  peasants  hod 
been  left  to  endure  their  grievanoeit 
and  did  not  endure   them  without 
murmuring.      The  more  inteiligtit 
and    enlightened    noble?    Mt    the 
danger,  and  sought  to  remedy  the 
evil,  and   hitherto  without  succeas. 
But  it  is  unjust  to  attribute  to  Aus- 
trian influence  all  the  opposition  en- 
countered by  those  who  sought  to 
ameliorate  the  condition  of  the  pea^ 
sants.    Men  who  had  hitherto  been 
exempted  from   lUl   pnbMc  imposts, 
and  who  considered  it  humiliating  to 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


184^.] 


Amiria  mnd  Htm^tm^ 


627 


be  taxedt  fesisted  tiie  eqiulisatiea  of 
the  burdena;  men  wlu>  had  beeft 
taught  to  GOBsider  the  peasant  as  a 
creatnreof  an  mferiorracetShrank  fron 
giving  him  civil  rights  equal  to  their 
own.  Nevertheless,  in  1835,  meaBores 
were  passed  which  greatly  improved 
the  position  of  the  oppressed  classes^ 
We  cannot  stop  to  trace  the  eonrse  of 
legislation,  or  to  point  out  the  wisdom 
and  disinlerested  hnmanitj  that  dis- 
tinguished the  leaders  in  this  move- 
ment. Amongst  them  stands  con- 
spicnons  the  name  of  Szeehenyi,  to 
whom  his  oonntrj  owes  an  everlast- 
ing debt  of  gratitude.  Alas !  that  a 
mind  like  Ms,  whose  leading  cha- 
racteristic was  practical  good  sense, 
that  rejected  every  visionafy  project, 
shoold  now  be  wandering  amidst  its 
own  morbid  creations  in  an  unreal 
world.  Several  of  the  wealthier  no- 
bles put  beyond  all  question  the  sin- 
eerity  of  the  opimons  they  had  main- 
tained, by  voluntarily  insccibing  their 
names  in  the  list  of  persons  subject  to 
be  taxed;  and  thus  shared  the  public 
burdens  with  their  peasants. 

Writing  after  the  acts  of  1835  had 
been  passed^  Mr  Paget  thus  describes 
the  feelincs  <rf  the  peasants,— 

"  I  know  that  the  Hongarian  peasant 
feels  that  be  is  oppressed  ;  and  if  jostice 
be  not  speedily  rendered  him,  I  fear 
inneh  be  will  wrest  it — perhaps  somewhat 
mdely  too— from  the  trembling  grasp  of 
the  factitious  power  which  has  so  long 
withheld  U  from  him.**— (Vol  i.,  p.  SI  3.) 

The  elective  franchise  was  still  with- 
hehl  fren  a  man  bom  a  peasant, 
whatever  might  be  his  stake  in  the 
country.  He  was  not  equal  with  the 
noble  before  the  law;  and,  what  was 
ptf  haps  still  more  grievous  to  him,  he 
continued  to  bear  the  whole  burden 
of  taxation,  local  and  national.  The 
noble  contributed  nothing.  Besides 
the  labour  and  produce  he  gave  to  his 
proprietor  as  rent  for  his  land,  the 
peasant  paid  tithes  to  the  churdi,  and 
a  head-tax  sad  property-tax  to  the 
government.  He  paid  the  whole 
diarges  for  the  administration  of  jus- 
tice, whkfa  he  could  rarely  obtain; 
for  the  municipal  goremment,  in  the 
•lection  (^  which  he  had  no  vote;  for 
the  maintenance  of  pubHc  buildings^ 
from  many  of  which  he  was  excluded; 
snd  by  much  the  greater  part  of  the 


expenses  ef  the  army,  in  which  he 
was  forced  to  serve,  witboot  a  hope  of 
promotion.  He  alene  made  and  re- 
paired the  roads  and  bridges,  and  he 
alone  paid  tolls  on  passiog  them.  On 
him  alone  were  soldiers  quartered,  and 
he  had  to  furnish  them,  not  only  with 
lodgings  in  the  midst  of  his  family, 
but  with  fuel,  cooking,  stable-room, 
and  fodder,  at  about  <me  halfpenny 
a-day,  often  not  paid,  and  to  sell  his 
hay  to  the  government,  for  the  use  of 
the  troops,  at  a  fixed  price,  not  equal 
to  one-fourth  of  its  value  in  the 
market.  At  the  same  time,  a  noble 
who  tilled  the  ground  like  the  peasant 
. — who  was  perhaps  not  more  intelli- 
gent, not  more  industrious — had  a 
hereditary  privilege  of  exemption  from 
all  these  burdens,  and  enjoyed  a 
share  in  the  govemment  of  the  coun- 
try. 

The  revolt  of  the  Rnthene  peasants 
of  Gallicia  in  1846,  who  had  massacred 
whole  families  of  the  Polish  noblesi, 
and  the  belief  that  the  Austrian  gov- 
emment bad  encouraged  the  revolt, 
had  been  slow  to  put  it  down^  and 
had  rewarded  its  leaders,  produced 
agitation  amongst  the  peasants  in  Hun^ 
gary,  and  the  greatest  anxiety  in  the 
minds  of  the  nobles.  They  felt  that 
the  fate  of  Gallicia  might  be  their  own, 
if  the  peasants  should  at  any  time  lose 
hope  and  patience,  or  if  the  Anstiiaa 
government  should  be  brought  to 
adopt,  in  Hungary,  the  pcrficy  attri- 
buted to  it  in  Gallicia.  In  short,  it 
waa  plain  that,  so  long  as  the  grie- 
vances ^  the  peasants  remained  un- 
redressed, there  could  be  no  security 
for  Hungary.  But  these  grievances  , 
could  not  be  redressed  without  im- 
posing new  burdens  on  the  nobles, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  restricting  their 
privileges.  If  they  were  to  tax  tbem^ 
selvea,  they  required  an  efficient  con^ 
trol  over  the  public  expenditure,  and 
a  relaxation  of  the  Austrian  commer- 
dal  system,  whieh  prevented  the  de^ 
velopment  of  the  country's  resources^ 

The  diet  had  been  summoned  for 
November  1847 ;  and  in  June  of  that 
year,  the  patriotic  party  put  forth  an 
exposition  of  its  views  preparatory  to 
the  ekctions,  which,  in  Hungary,  are 
renewed  for  every  triennial  meeting  of 
the  diet.  In  that  document,  a  trans- 
lation of  which  is  now  before  us,  they 
declare,   that   **our   grievances,   so 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Auitna  and  Hungary. 


628 

often  set  forth,  after  a  long  coarse  of 
years,  during  which  we  have  de- 
manded, nrged,  and  endured,  have  to 
this  day  remained  unredressed."  After 
enumerating  some  of  these  grievances, 
they  proceed  to  state  their  demands— 

**  Ist,  The  equal  distribniion  of  the  pub- 
lic bardens  amongst  all  the  oitiieos;  that 
the  diet  ehoald  decide  on  the  employment 
of  the  public  rerenue,  and  that  it  should 
be  accounted  for  by  responsible  adminis- 
trators. 

"  2d,  Participation,  by  the  citizens  not 
noble,  in  the  legislation,  and  in  municipal 
rights. 

"<  3d,  aril  equality. 

**  4ih,  The  abolition,  by  a  compulsory 
law,  of  the  labour  and  dues  exacted  from' 
the  peasants,  with  indemnity  to  the  pro- 
prietors. 

"  5th,  Security  to  property  and  to  credit 
by  the  abolition  of  atUieiU,  (the  right  of 
heirs  to  recoTor  lands  alienated  by  Mle.)*' 

They  go  on  to  declare  that  they  will 
endeavour  to  promote  all  that  tends  to 
the  material  and  Intellectual  develop- 
ment of  the  country,  and  especially 
public  instruction  :  That,  in  carrying 
out  these  views,  they  will  never  forget 
the  relations  which,  in  terms  of  the 
Pragmatic  Sanction,  exist  between 
Hungary  and  the  Hereditary  States  of 
Austria  :  That  they  hold  firmly  to 
article  10,  of  1790,  by  which  the  royal 
word,  sanctified  by  an  oath,  guaran- 
tees the  independence  of  Hungary: 
That  they  do  not  desire  to  place  the 
interests  of  the  country  in  contradic- 
tion with  the  unity  or  security  of  the 
monarchy,  but  they  regard  as  con- 
trary to  the  laws,  and  to  justice,  that 
the  interests  of  Hungary  should  be 
made  subordinate  to  those  of  any  other 
country  :  That  they  are  ready,  in  jus- 
tice and  sincerity,  to  accommodate  all 
questions  on  which  the  interests  of 
Hungary  and  Austria  may  be  opposed, 
but  they  will  never  consent  to  let  the 
interests  and  constitution  of  Hungary 
be  sacrificed  to  nuity  of  the  system  of 
government,  ^^  which  certain  persons 
are  fond  of  citingas  the  leading  maxim, 
instead  of  the  unity  of  the  monarchy." 

"That  unity  in  the  system  of 
government,"  they  assert,  "  was  the 
point  from  which  the  cabinet  set  out 
when,  during  the  last  quarter  of  the 
past  century,  it  attacked  our  nation- 
ality and  our  civil  liberty,  promising 
OS  material  benefits  in  place  of  consti- 
tutional advantages.    It  was  to  this 


[M*X. 


unity  in  the  system  of  govenuDent 
that  the  constitution  of  the  HereditaiT- 
States  of  Austria  was  sacrificed,  and 
it  was  on  the  basis  of  absolute  power 
that  the  unity  of  the  government  was 
developed." 

They  declare  that  they  consider  it 
their  first  and  most  sacred  da^  to 
pi'eserve  their  constitution,  and  to 
strengthen  it  more  and  more  by  gi  vins 
it  a  larger  and  more  secure  basis ;  and 
they  conclude  by  expressing  their  per- 
suasion "that,  if  the  Heredltaiy  States 
had  still  enjoyed  their  ancient  liberties, 
or  if,  in  accordance  with  the  demands 
of  the  age,  they  were  again  to  take 
their  place  amongst  constitutional  na- 
tions, our  interests  and  theirs,  which 
now  are  often  divided,  sometimes  even 
opposed,  would  be  more  easily  recon- 
ciled. The  different  parts  of  the  em- 
phre  would  be  bound  together  by 
greater  unity  of  interests,  and  by 
greater  mutual  confidence,  and  thns 
the  monarchy,  growing  in  material 
and  intellectual  power,  would  encoun- 
ter in  greater  security  the  storms  to 
which  times  and  circumstances  may  • 
expose  it." 

The  diet  which  met  in  November 
1847,  had  scarcely  completed  the  or- 
dinary forms  and  routine  business 
with  which  the  session  commences, 
when  all  Europe  was  thrown  into  a 
revolutionary  ferment,  from  the  Medi- 
terranean to  the  Baltic,  from  the  At- 
lantic to  the  Black  Sea.  The  revo- 
lution of  February  in  Paris,  was  fol- 
lowed by  that  of  March  at  Vienna,  by 
the  expulsion  of  the  Anstrians  ftom 
Milan,  and  by  Sclavonic  insurrections 
in  Prague  and  Cracow.  Constitu- 
tional Hungary  alone  remained  tran« 
quil.  Surrounded  by  revolutions, 
incited  by  daily  reports  of  rq>ublican 
triumphs,  Hungary  preserved  her 
composure,  her  allegiance,  and  her 
internal  peace.  At  a  moment  when 
republican  doctrines  found  fkvour  with 
a  powerful  party  in  every  other  por- 
tion of  the  emperor's  dominions,  the 
diet  of  Hungary,  with  the  fhll  concur- 
rence of  the  Archduke  Palatine,  peace- 
fully and  unanimously  passed  those 
acts  which  the  nationiQ  party  had 

Prepared  and  announced  some  months 
efore  the  storms  had  arisen  that 
shook  the  thrones  of  Europe.  At 
Paris,  Beriin,  Naples,  Rome,  Vienna, 
and  in  almost  eveiy  minor  capital  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


Austria  and  Hungary. 


Gennany  and  Italy,  it  became  a 
question  whether  monarchy  was  to  be 
preserved,  or  whether  social  order  was 
to  be  overthrown.  In  Hungary  no 
snch  questions  ever  arose  or  could 
arise.  True  to  their  conservative 
principles,  and  firm  in  their  allegiance 
to  their  king,  the  nobles  of  Hungary 
sought  by  constitutional  means,  in  the 
mi£t  of  general  anarchy,  the  same 
amdiorations  of  their  constitution 
which,  in  the  midst  of  general  tran- 
quUlity,  they  had  ahready  demanded. 
But  the  emperor  had,  in  the  mean  time, 
conceded  constitutional  government, 
and  a  responsible  ministnr,  to  the 
revolutionary  party  in  the  Hereditary 
States,  and  the  change  which  had  thus 
been  effected  required  a  modification 
of  the  relations  between  Hunrary  and 
the  imperial  government.  By  the 
laws  of  Hungary,  no  foreigner  could 
hold  office  in  her  administration;  and, 
by  the  same  laws,  every  Austrian  was 
a  fiureigner.  These  laws  had  been 
respected ;  Austrians  had  not  been 
appointed  to  offices  in  the  Hungarian 
administration.  No  act  of  the  govern- 
ment of  Hungary,  no  communication 
from  the  king  to  the  diet,'Jiad  ever 
been  countersigned  by  an  Austrian 
minuter.  A  isdnistry  responsible  to 
the  parliament  of  Austria,  and  not  re- 
sponsible to  the  parliament  of  Hun- 
gary, could  not  administer  the  govern- 
ment of  the  latter  country ;  and  the 
same  ministry  could  not  be  responsible 
to  both  parliunents.  If  Hungary  was 
not  to  be  incorporated  with  Austria, 
it  was  necessary  that  she  should  have 
a  separate  miidstry,  responsible  only 
to  her  own  diet.  An  act  providing 
such  a  ministry  was 'passed  unani* 
monsly,  in  both  houses  of  the  diet,  with 
the  full  ooncnrrence  of  the  Archduke 
Palatine. 

To  complete  the  administration  of 
the  kingdom,  and  to  preserve  and 
maintain  the  due  influence  of  the 
crown  in  the  constituti<m,  it  was  de« 
manded,  on  the  part  of  the  crown,  that 
the  powers  of  the  Palatine  or  viceroy 
should  be  extended ;  and  having  found 
a  precedent-Hi  pr^hnlnarr  almost  as 
necessary  in  the  diet  of  Hungary  as 
in  the  parliament  of  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland — an  act  was  passed  without 
opposition,  giving  the  Palatine,  in  the 
absenceof  the  king,  full  powers  to  actin 
the  name  andonbehalfof thcsoverelgn. 


629 

By  unanimous  votes  of  both  houses, 
the  diet  not  only  established  perfect 
equality  of  civil  rights  and  public 
burdens  amongst  all  classes,  denomi- 
nations, and  races  in  Hungary  and  its 
provinces,  and  perfect  toleration  for 
every  form  of  religious  worship,  but, 
with  a  generosity  periiaps  unparalleled 
in  the  history  of  nations,  and  which 
must  extort  the  admiration  even  of 
those  who  may  question  the  wisdom  of 
the  measure,  the  nobles  of  Hungary 
abolished  their  own  right  to  exact  either 
labour  or  produce  in  return  for  the 
lands  held  by  urbarial  tenure,  and 
thus  transferred  to  the  peasants  the 
absolute  ownership,  free  and  for  ever, 
of  neariy  half  the  cultivated  land  in 
the  kingdom,  reservinp^  to  the  original 
proprietors  of  the  soil  such  compen- 
sation as  the  government  might  award 
from  the  public  frmds  of  Hungary. 
More  than  i^re  hundred  thousand 
peasant  families  were  thus  invested 
with  the  absolute  ownership  of  from 
thirty  to  sixty  acres  of  land  each,  or 
about  twenty  millions  of  acres  amongst 
Uiem.  The  elective  franchise  was 
extended  to  every  man  possessed  of 
capital  or  property  of  the  value  of 
thirty  pounds,  or  an  annual  income  of 
ten  pounds— to  every  man  who  has 
received  a  diploma  from  a  university, 
and  to  every  artisan  who  employs  an 
apprentice.  With  the  concurrence  of 
both  countries,  Hungary  and  Tran- 
sylvania were  united,  and  their  diets, 
hitherto  separate,  were  incorporated. 
The  number  of  representatives  which 
Croatia  was  to  send  to  the  diet  was 
increased  from  three  to  eighteen,  while 
the  internal  institutions  of  that  pro- 
vince remained  unchanged;  and  Hun- 
gary undertook  to  compensate  the 
proprietors  for  the  lands  surrendered 
to  the  peasants,  to  an  extent  greatly 
exceedmg  the  proportion  of  that  bur- 
den which  would  fall  on  the  public 
frmds  of  the  province.  The  complaints 
of  the  Croats,  that  the  Majjars  aesired 
to  impose  theur  own  lauguage  upon 
the  Sclavonic  population,  were  con- 
sidered, and  every  reasonable  ground 
of  complaint  removed.  Correspond- 
ing advantages  were  extended  to  the 
other  Sclavonic  tribes,  and  the  funda- 
mental laws  of  the  Ungdom,  except 
in  so  far  as  they  were  modified  by 
these  acts,  remained  unchanged. 
The  whole  of  the  acts  passed  in 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


630 

March  1S4S  recdred  the  royal  assent, 
which,  on  the  11th  of  April,  the  em- 
peror persoQally  eonftrmed  at  Pies- 
hrxrg  in  the  midst  of  the  diet.  These 
sets  then  became  statutes  of  the  tdiif  ^ 
dom,  in  aecerdaace  with  wliich  the 
new  responmble  Hongarian  minntrj 
was  formed^  and  commenced  the  per- 
formance of  hs  doties  with  the  foil 
conenrrence  of  the  emperor- king  and 
the  aid  of  the  Archdnke  Palatine.  Tlie 
changes  that  had  been  effected  were 
received  with  grxtitode  bj  the  pea- 
sants, and  with  entire  satisfaction,  not 
only  by  the  population  of  Hungary 
Proper,  bnt  also  by  that  olf  all  tiie 
Sclavonic  provinces.  From  CroaHay 
more  especially^  the  expressi«n  of 
satisfactioa  was  kmd,  and  appanntly 
sineere. 

^If/'  says  Prinoe  Ladeslas  Teleki, 
^  the  conceesioos  of  the  emperor-king 
to  the  spirit  of  modem  times  had  beea 
sincerely  made,  if  his  advisers  had  honestly 
abandoned  all  idea  of  returning  to  the 
past,  Hungary  wonld  now  be  in  l£e  enjoy- 
ment of  the  peace  she  merited.  The 
people  who  bnt  yesterday  held  out  the 
hand  of  brotherhood,  would  haiw  pio- 
teeded,  in  peace  and  harmony,  on  the 
Way  of  advanoemeni  which  was  opened 
to  them,  and  eivilitationy  in  its  glory  and 
its  strength,  would  hare  established  itself 
in  the  centre  of  Eastern  Europe.  But 
the  reactionary  moTement  commenced  at 
'Vienna  the  Tei7  day  liberty  was  estab- 
lished there.  The  recognised  rights  of 
Hungary  were  considered  but  as  forced 
concessions,  which  most  be  destroyed  at 
any  price — eren  at  the  price  of  her  blood. 
Could  there  be  surer  means  of  attaindng 
that  end  than  dtriding  and  weakemag 
her  by  otvil  war  t  It  wae  not  understood 
that  honest  oonduot  towards  a  loyal  ma^ 
tion  would  more  certainly  seoure  her 
attachment^  than  attempts  to  revlTo  a 
power  that  could  not  be  re-established. 
Neither  was  it  understood  that  the  itUe- 
reiU  0^ Hungary  demanded  that  ihe  should 
ueky  tn  a  cordial  union  with  conttitutlonai 
Auttria,  $ecurHie$  for  her  independence 
and  her  HberHei,*' 

A  party  at  the  Asstrtan  eonrt,  op- 
posed to  att  concessions,  aod  desiioos 
still  to  lerert  to  the  patriarchal  sys- 
tem that  had  been  overturned,  s«w  ia 
the  established  constitutional  freedom 
of  Himgafy  the  greatest  faspediment 
to  the  success  of  their  plans.  Seeking 
everywhere  the  means  of  prodndng  a 
reaction,  it  ibnnd  in  Croatia  a  party 


Aiutnm  mmS  Hungmfifit^ 


\Mv^ 


whirii  had  beea  endeaToqrnig  to  gei* 
np  a  Sclavonic  movement  m  faiv«vr  etf 
what  they  called  Illyiian  natiooiMty, 
aad  whidi  was  therefore  opposed  t(» 
Majjar  ascMidencyinHongary.    Tha 
peci^iar  organisatioD  of  the  military 
frontier,  whiefa  extends  from  the  Adri- 
atic to  tiie  frontiers  of  Bassiar  and 
which  is  in  floct  a  military  colony  ia 
Hnngary,  under  the  immediate  iBfln- 
ence  and  anthority  of  AHsfria,  mtA 
eomposed  almost  exclnaivelyof  a  Sel»- 
vonic  population,   afiforded  fadlitiea 
for  exciting  distarbances  in  Hnngary. 
Bnt  it  wae  necessary  te  previde  lead^ 
ers  for  the  Sclavonic  revolt  against  the 
Hnngarnns.  Baron  Joseph  Jellachielr, 
eokml  of  a  Croat  regiment  in  the 
army  ef  Italy,  was  selected  by  the 
agitators  for  reactioa  as  a  man  ^ted 
by  his  position,  his  eharaeter,  and 
military  talents,  as  well  as  by  his  ambi- 
tion, to  perform  this  dnty  in  Croatia. 
He  was  named  Ban.  of  that  provinee^ 
without    consulting   the    Hungarian 
nunistiy,  whose  eoui^eisignature  waa- 
neceauiy  to    legatiae   ^   mNaiBa^ 
tion.     This  was  the  first  breach  of 
fruth  committed  by  the  imperml  gor- 
emment;  bnt  the  Hungarian  minis* 
try,  desirons  to  avoid  causes  of  difie- 
rence,  aecfoiesced  hi  the  appointment^ 
aad  invited  the  Ban  to  pat  himself  in 
eonimuiricatioa  with  tiiem.    Jffis  int 
act  was  to  interdict  the  Croat  magis^ 
trart;es  from  holding  any  commninca* 
tiott  with  the  government  of  Hungary, 
of  which  Croatia  is  a  province,  de^ 
daring  that  the  Croat  revolt  was  en* 
eeuraged  by  the  king.    On  te  repre^ 
sentatioft  <k  the  Hungarkn  muBstry, 
the  king,  in  an  autograph  letter,  dated 
29th  M^,  reprobated  the  proceedings 
of  the  Baa,  and  summoned  him  to 
Innspruck.    On  the  10th  of  June,  l^  a 
royal  ordinance,  he  was  suspended 
from  all  his  functions,  dvil  aad  mili- 
tary; bnt  Jelladiich  retained  his  podi> 
tion,  and  dedaied  that  he  was  actii^ 
in  accordance  with  the  real  wishes 
and  instructions  of  his  sovereign,  whBe 
these  public  ordinances  were  extorted 
by  eompulsioB.    At  tiie  same  timn^ 
and  hj  similar  means,  a  revolt  of  the 
Serbes  on  the  Lower  Danube  was  orga* 
nised  by  Stephen  SupUkacs,  aaotuer 
ookmel  of  a  frtmtier  regiment,  aided  by 
the  Greek  patriarch.  Several  counties^ 
some  of  which  were  prindpally  inh»> 
kited  by  Hungarians,  WaUacks,  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 

Crermans,  wwre  dedafed  to  have  bees 
formed  into  a  Serbe  Y vf  oodat  ov  gor- 
ernmeDt,  whieb  was  to  be  in  aUianet 
with  Croatia.  The  Serbes,  joined 
by  bands  from  Toridi^  Servia,  at^ 
tacked  the  ae^hboming^  Hang^afian: 
Tillages,  slauffbtered  the  iriiabitontv, 
and  plnndiBred  the  country;  Bui  this 
did  not  prevent  Jellaeliiab,  who  bad 
been  denoonced  and  charged  with  high 
treason,  or  tbe  Greek  patriarch  iUi- 
jaesis,  the  aoconplice  of  Saplikacs, 
from  being  reoelTed  1^  tlie  emperor 
and  bis  brother,  t^e  Arehdake  Fran- 
cis Cbaries,  at  Innspmck.  In  a  letter, 
dated  tbe  4th  of  Jnne,  addressed  to 
the  fronMer  fefiiawBtH  stationed  hi 
Italy,  Jellacfaica  declared  that  the 
imperial  family  of  Anstria  enconraged 
the  insorrections  against  the  Hnaga- 
rians.  Meanwhile  the  Serbes  were 
carrying  on  a  war  of  extermination, 
massaering^  the  inhabitants,  bmming 
towns  and  Tillages^  even  when  they 
encountered  no  resistance ;  and  a  force 
was  collected  en  the  frontiers  of  Croa- 
tia with  tbe  muafest  intention  of  fai- 
▼admg  Hnngaiy. 

"  In  Buch  a  crisis,'*  says  Coant  L. 
Teleki,  <^the  Hungarian  goyemment  ex- 
perienced the  most  painftil  feelings.  Cooo 
demned  to  inaction  while  entire  pepn- 
lation*  were  being  eztermiDattd,  it 
aoqnired  the  Mtd  ooavietlen  that  the  Aus- 
trian ministry  only  kept  the  Battonal 
troops  out  of  the  eowtryy  and  abandoned 
Hungary  to  the  protection  of  foreign 
troops^  through  ooniuTanoa  with  the 
enemy." 

The  revolt  oontinved  to  be  ponied 
forward  in  the  naow  of  the  emperor- 
king,  and  tbe  dfet  was  about  to  be 
opened.  The  Hungarian  ministers, 
therefore,  entreated  hismiQestytoopen 
the  diet  in  person,  Id  order  by  bis  pre- 
sence to  prove  the  fUsehood  of  the 
enendee  of  Hungary ;  but  the  invita- 
tion had  no  effect. 

The  new  nationi*  assembly  of 
Hungary,  retirmed  for  the  first  time 
by  the  sufirage  ef  all  daeses  of  the 
nation,  was  opened  at  Pesth,  when  it 
was  found  that,  with  scarcely  an  ex- 
ception, all  tbe  members  of  the  diet, 
formerly  elected  by  the  nobles,  bad 
been  again  returned — so  calmly  bad 
the  people  exercised  their  newly-ae- 
ffuired  privileges.  On  the  2d  of 
July  the  Archduke  Palatfaie,  who  had 
been  Hnanimonsly  chosen  l^  the  diet 


iBmgmy.  631 

on  the  presentation  of  tJie  king,  al- 
Inded  in  his  opening  speech  to  a  revolt 
m  Croatia^  and  to  the  proceedings  of 
armed  bands  in  the  counties  of  the 
Lower  Danube.  Bis  Imperial  Hl^- 
ness  made  the  following  statement : — 

^  His  majesty  the  long  has  seen  with 
profound  grief,  after  haying  spontaneouely 
sanetioaed  tbe  laws  Yotod  by  the  last  diet, 
because  they  wera  fayourable  to  the  de- 
velopment of  the  country,  that  agitators, 
especially  in  Croatia  and  the  Lower 
Danube,  had  excited  against  each  other 
the  inhabitants  of  diffbrent  creeds  and 
races,  by  fsAaet  reports  and  Tain  alarms, 
and  had  urged  them  to  resist  the  laws  and 
ttie  legialatiTe  authority,  assertmg  that 
they  were  not  the  fieee  expression  of  his 
mi^'etty's  wilL  Some  hafe  gone  so  far  ta 
encourage  tho  nyolt,  as  to  pretend  thai 
their  resistanoe  is  made  in  the  interest 
of  the  royal  family,  and  with  the  know- 
ledge and  consent  of  his  majesty.  For 
the  purpose,  therefore,  of  tranquillising 
the  inhabitants  of  those  countries,  I  de- 
clare, in  the  name  of  his  majesty,  their 
lord  and  king,  that  his  majesty  is  firmly 
resolved  to  protect  the  unity  and  the  in- 
violability of  the  it>yal  crown  of  Hunr 
gary,  agi^nst  all  attaek  from  vrithont  or 
disturbaneo  in  the  interior  of  the  kingdom^ 
aad  to  carry  out  the  laws  which  he  has 
sanotioned.  At  the  same  time  that  his 
majesty  would  not  allow  any  infraction  of 
the  lawful  rights  of  his  subjects,  he  blames, 
and  in  this  all  the  members  of  the  royal 
family  agree  with  him,  the  audacity  of 
those  who  have  dared  to  pretend  that 
illegal  acts  are  compatible  with  the  wishes 
of  his  majesty,  or  were  done  in  the  intereet 
of  the  royal  fismily.  His  majesty  sane* 
tiooed,  with  tho  greatest  ntisfaction,  the 
incorperatioa  of  TraasylvHiia  with  Hun- 
gary, not  only  because  he  thus  gratified 
the  ardent  itesif«  of  his  beloved  people — 
both  Hungariansand  Transy  Ivanians^but 
also  because  the  union  of  the  two  coun- 
tries will  give  a  more  firm  support  to  the 
throne  and  to  liberty,  by  the  combiued 
development  of  their  power  and  their 
prosperity." 

The  diet,  rejoiced  b  ' 
ances,  immediately  sen 
to  entreat  the  king  to  r 
as  the  only  means  of 
minds  of  the  Croats  an 
wereandetobelieTe  tha 
were  the  result  of  ceerc» 
of  the  deputation  was 
Servian  insurrection  coi 
ground ;  the  Austrian  ti 
in  Hungary,  forthedefei 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


632 

try,  refdsed  to  obey  the  goyemment, 
and  at  length  a  communication  to  the 
Hongarian  ministry,  dated  the  29th  of 
Jane,  three  di^s  prior  to  the  speech  of 
the  Archduke  Palatine,  annoonced  the 
intention  of  the  Anstrian  ministry 
to  pat  an  end  to  the  neatrality  it 
had  hitherto  observed,  and  to  sap- 
port  Croatia  openly.  All  the  Hnn- 
garians  were  then  convinced  that 
their  constitation,  and  the  independ- 
ence of  the  country,  must  be  defended 
by  force  of  arms.  But  the  ministry 
and  the  diet  would  not  depart  from 
the  constitutional  and  legal  course. 
A  levy  of  200,000  men  was  decreed, 
as  well  as  an  issue  of  bank-notes 
to  cover  the  deficits:  and  the  acts 
were  presented  for  the  royal  assent 
by  the  Prime  Minister  and  the 
Mlnbter  of  Justice :  but  a  long  time 
elapsed  before  any  reply  comd  be 
obtained.  In  the  mean  time  the 
situation  of  the  country  every  day 
became  worse,  and  another  deputa- 
tion was  sent  to  the  king,  headed  by 
the  president  of  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  to  obtain  the  royal  assent 
to  the  laws  alreadjr  presented ;  the 
recall  of  the  Hungarian  troops  pf  the 
line,  quartered  everywhere  except  in 
Hungary ;  and  orders  to  the  foreign 
troops  stationed  in  that  country  to 
discharge  their  duty  faithfully.  Fin- 
ally the  king  was  again  entreated  to 
come  into  his  kingdom,  to  restore  to 
her  peace  and  order.  The  deputation 
received  an  evasive  reply.  But  at 
the  same  time,  and  while  the  two 
ministers  were  at  Vienna,  the  king, 
without  acquainting  them,  despatch- 
ed, on  the  dlst  of  August,  a  letter  to 
the  Palatine,  directing  him  to  send 
several  members  of  the  Hungarian 
ministry  to  Vienna,  for  the  purpose 
of  concerting  measures  with  the  Aus- 
trian ministry,  to  consolidate  and 
insure  the  unity  of  the  government 
and  of  the  monarchy,  and  to  open 
negotiations  with  the  Croats  for  the 
reconciliation  of  their  differences. 
But  the  king  declared  it  to  be  an 
indispensable  condition  that  the  Ban 
Jellachich — who  in  the  end  of  May 
had  been  denounced  as  a  traitor — 
should  take  a  part  in  the  conferences; 
that  all  preparations  for  war  should 
cease  on  both  sides;  and  that  the 
districts  of  the  military  frontier,  which 
have  always  formed  part  of  Hungary, 


Austrui  and  Hungary. 


[Mar, 


should  be  provisionally  subject  to  the 
Austrian  minlstrr.   In  tki$  9awie  docu- 
ment a  communication  was  made  to 
the  Hungarian  ministry,  of  a  note  of 
.  the  Austrian  government,  on  the  re- 
lations  to  be   established  between 
Austria    and    Hungary.       It    was 
stated  *Uhat  the  provisions  of  the 
law  of  1848,  by  which  the  Archduke 
Palatine  had  been  u>pointed  deposi- 
tory of  the  royal  authority,  and  chief 
of  the  executive  power  in  die  absence 
of  the  king — ana  by  which  a  respon- 
sible ministry  had  been  conceded  to 
Hungary,  detaching  from  the  central 
government  of  Vienna  the  administra- 
tion of  war,  finance,  and  commerce — 
were  contrary  to  ^e  Pragmatic  Sanc- 
tion, opposed  to  the  legal  relations 
between  Austria  and  Hunguy,  and 
detrimental  alike  to  the  interests  of 
Hungary  and  Austria.    These  ccm- 
cessions  were  declared  illegal  and 
of  none  effect,  under  the  pretext  tiiat 
they  had  not  been  consented  to  by 
the  responsible  Austrian  ministry; 
and  although  they  had  been  sanc- 
tioned by  the  royal  word  on  the  11th 
of  April,  and  again  formally  recog- 
nised in  the  speech  from  the  throne 
on  Uie  2d  Jdy,  it  was  announced 
that   these  laws  were  to  be  con- 
siderably modified,  in  order  that  a 
central  power  might  be  established  at 
Vienna.^' 

Never,  we  vrature  to  say,  was  a 
discreditable  breach  of  public  faith 
palliated  on  pretexts  more  futile. 
Hungary  is  as  independent  of  the 
Her^tary  States  as  the  Hereditary 
States  are  of  Hunganr;  and,  in 
matters  relating  to  BLungary,  the 
ministers  of  Austria,  responsible  or 
unresponsible,  have  no  more  right  to 
interfere  between  the  King  and  his 
Hungarian  ministers,  or  Hungarian 
diet,  than  these  have  to  interfere 
between  the  £mperor  of  Austria 
and  his  Austrian  ministers,  in  matters 
relating  to  the  Hereditaiy  States. 
The  pretension  to  submit  the  deci- 
sions of  the  Hungarinn  diet,  sanc- 
tioned by  the  King,  to  the  i4>proval 
or  disapproval  of  the  Austrian  minis- 
ters, is  too  absurd  to  have  been 
resorted  to  in  good  faith.  The  truth 
appears  to  be,  that  the  successes  of 
the  gallant  veteran  Radetaki,  and  of 
the  Austrian  army  in  Italy,  which 
has  so  well  sustained  its  ancient  repu- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Austria  and  Hungary. 


633 


tatioD,  had  emboldened  the  Austrian 
goyemment  to  retrace  the  steps 
that  had  been  taken  bj  the  emperor. 
Trusting  to  the  movements  hitherto 
snccessrai  in  Croatia  and  the  Dantibian 
provinces  of  Hungary, — ^to  the  absence 
of  the  Hnngarian  army,  and  of  all  effi- 
cient preparation  for  defence  on  the 
part  of  the  Hnngarian  government, 
and  dat^  with  military  success  in 
Italy,  —  the  Austrian  ministers  re- 
sumed their  intention  to  subvert  the 
constitution  of  Hungary,  and  to  fhse 
the  various  parts  of  ue  emperor^s  do- 
minions into  one  whole.  Theb*  avi- 
dity to  accomplish  this  object  prevented 
their  percelvine  the  stain  they  were 
affixing  to  the  character  of  the  empire, 
and  the  honour  of  the  emperor;  or 
the  injury  they  were  thereby  inflict- 
ing on  the  cause  of  monarchy  all  over 
the  world.  '^  Honour  and  good  faith, 
if  driven  from  every  other  asylum, 
ought  to  find  a  refhge  in  the  breasts 
of  princes."  And  the  ministers  who 
sully  the  honour  of  theur  confiding 
prince,  do  more  to  injure  monarchy, 
and  therefore  to  endanger  the  peace 
and  security  of  society,  than  the 
rabble  who  shout  for  Socialism. 

The  Austrian  ministry  did  not  halt 
in  their  course.  They  made  the  em- 
peror-king recall,  on  the  4th  Septem- 
ber, the  decree  which  suspended  Jel- 
lachich  from  all  his  dignities,  as  a 
person  accused  of  high  treason.  This 
was  done  on  the  pretext  that  the 
'  accusations  against  ue  Ban  were  Oalse, 
and  that  he  had  exhibited  undeviating 
fidelity  to  the  house  of  Austria.  He 
was^  reinstated  in  aU  his  offices  at  a 
moment  when  he  was  encamped  with 
his  army  on  the  frontiers  of  Hunganr, 
preparing  to  invade  that  kingdom.  In 
consequence  of  this  proceeding,  the 
Hungarian  ministry,  which  had  been 
appomted  in  March,  gave  in  their 
resignation.  The  Palatine,  by  vh^ue 
of  his  full  powers,  called  upon  Count 
Louis  Bathianyi  to  fbrm  a  new  mini- 
stry. All  hope  of  a  peaceful  adjust- 
ment seemed  to  be  at  an  end;  but,  as 
a  last  resource,  a  deputation  of  the 
Hungarian  deputies  was  sent  to  pro- 
pose to  the  representatives  of  Austria, 
that  the  two  countries  should  mutually 
guarantee  to  each  other  their  consti- 
tutions and  their  independence.  The 
deputation  was  not  received. 

Count  Louis  Bathianyi  undertook 


the  direction  of  affairs,  upon  the  con- 
dition that  Jellachich,  whose  troops 
had  already  invaded  Hungary,  should 
be  ordered  to  retire  beyond  the  boun- 
dary. The  king  replied,  that  this 
condition  could  not  be  accepted  before 
the  other  ministers  were  known. 

But  Jellachich  had  passed  the  Drave 
with  an  army  of  Croats  and  Austrian 
regiments.  His  course  was  marked 
by  plunder  and  devastation ;  and  so 
little  was  Hungary  prepared  for  resist- 
ance, that  he  advanced  to  the  lake  of 
Balaton  without  firing  a  shot.  The 
Archduke  Palatine  took  the  command 
of  the  Hungarian  forces,  hastily  col- 
lected to  oppose  the  Ban ;  but,  after 
an  ineffectufd  attempt  at  reconcilia- 
tion, he  set  off  for  Vienna,  whence  he 
sent  the  Hungarians  his  resignation. 

The  die  was  now  cast,  and  the  diet 
appealed  to  the  nation.  The  people 
rose  en  masse.  The  Hungarian  regi- 
ments of  the  line  declared  for  theur 
country.  Count  Lemberg  had  been 
iwpointed  by  the  king  to  the  command 
of  all  the  troops  stationed  in  Hungary ; 
but  the  diet  could  no  lonser  leave  tbe 
country  at  the  mercy  of  the  sovereign 
who  had  identified  himself  with  the 
proceedings  of  its  enemies,  and  they 
declared  the  appointment  illegal,  on 
the  ground  that  it  was  not  connter- 
siguM,  as  the  laws  required,  by  one 
of  the  ministers.  They  called  upon 
the  authorities,  the  citizens,  the  army, 
and  Count  Lemberg  himself,  to  obey 
this  decree  under  pam  of  hi^^h  treason. 
Regardless  of  this  proceedmg.  Count 
Lemberg  hastened  to  Pest,  and  ar- 
rived at  a  moment  when  the  people 
were  fiocking  firom  all  parts  of  the 
country  to  oppose  the  army  of  Jella- 
chich. A  cry  was  raised  that  the 
gates  of  Bnda  were  about  to  be  closed 
by  order  of  the  count,  who  was  at  this 
time  recognised  by  the  populace  a^  he 
passed  the  bridge  towards  Buda,  and 
brutally  murdeiid.  It  was  the  act  of 
an  infwated  mob,  for  which  it  is  not 
difficult  to  account,  but  which  nothing 
can  justify.  The  diet  immediately 
ordered  the  murderers  to  be  brought 
to  trial,  but  they  had  absconded.  This 
was  the  only  act  of  popular  violence 
committed  in  the  capital  of  Hungary. 

On  the  29th  of  September,  Jdla- 
chich  was  defeated  in  a  battle  fought 
within  twelve  miles  of  Pesth.  The 
Ban  fied,  abandoning  to  their  fate  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


634 


Ambrim  oarf  iT— yy. 


[MV, 


detftdied  cenrps  of  Us  nrmj;  and  tiw 
Croat  rearguard,  ten  thoasaad  strong, 
mnrrendered,  with  Generals  Roth  and 
PhHipo¥its,  who  commanded  it 

In  detailing  the  events  subsequent; 
to  the  11th  of  April  1848,  we  \ae?t 
followed  the  Hnngarian  nmnifeato, 
published  hi  Paris  bj  Coont  Ladedas 
Teleki,  whose  character  is  a  snfficieiit 
second  for  the  fidelity  of  his  state- 
ments; and  the  English  trsnaladcm 
of  that  document  by  Mr  Brown,  which 
is  understood  to  hkvB  been  ezecctted 
under  the  Ootmt's  own  eye.  But  we 
have  not  relied  upon  the  Count  alone, 
nor  even  upon  the  offidid  docnmenti 
he  has  printed.  We  have  availed 
ourselves  of  other  sources  of  infbnna- 
tion  equally  authentic  One  of  tiie 
documents,  which  had  previously  been 
transmitted  to  us  from  another  quar- 
ter, and  which,  we  perceive,  has  also 
been  pnnted  by  the  Count,  is  so  re- 
markable, both  because  of  the  peraons 
from  whom  it  emanates,  and  the  state- 
ments it  contains,  that,  althoigh  some- 
what lengthy,  we  think  it  right  to 
give  it  entire. 
The  lUman-CaOioUe  CUrfjfof  Hnnomy 

King  ofHtmgarp. 
BtpneBeiKUitioa  preaented   to  (be   Em* 

peror-King,  in  the  name  of  the  Clergy; 

by  the  AiSibishop  of  Gna,  Primate  of 

Hungary^  and  by  the  Arnhbiflhep  of 

Erlaw. 

"  Sire  !  Penetrated  with  feelings  of 
6ie  most  profound  sorrow  at  the  sight  of 
the  innumerable  calamities  and  the 
internal  erils  wlneh  desolate  our  un- 
happy country^  we  respectfully  address 
your  Ifajesty,  in  the  hope  that  you  nay 
Ksten  wtth  fliTonr  to  the  voice  of  those, 
fHio,  after  harring  proved  their  inviolable 
fidelity  to  your  Mii^sty,  believe  it  to  be 
their  da^,  as  heads  of  the  Hungarian 
Church,  at  last  to  break  silence,  and  to 
bear  to  the  lioot  of  the  throne  their  just 
complaints^  for  the  interests  of  the  church, 
4>f  the  country,  and  of  the  monarchy. 

"  Sire  ! — We  refbse  to  believe  that 
your  Majesty  is  correctly  informed  of  the 
present  state  of  Hungary.  We  are  oon- 
viseed  that  your  Majesty,  in  consequence 
of  your  being  «o  frr  away  from  our  un- 
ibrtonate  ooostry,  knows  neither  the 
misCtrtunes  wfaidi  #Terwhelm  her,  nor 
the  evils  which  immediately  threaten  her, 
and  which  place  the  throne  itself  in 
danger,  onless  your  Ma^'esty  applies  a 
prompt  and  efficacious  remedy,  by  at- 
tending to  nothing  but  the  dictates  of 
your  own  good  heart. 


^Bnngaty  is  aetraOly  m  flm  mAdtmt 
and  most  deplecable  aitaatien.  Is  the 
south,  aa  entire  raec^akhengh  eqjoyin^ 
all  the  eiriland  political  rights  reeogidfla^ 
in  Hungary,  has  been  in  openinsnrrectiQn 
for  sereral  months,  excited  and  led  astraj' 
by  a  party  which  seems  to  have  adopted 
the  fHghtfol  misnon  of  exterminating  the 
Majjsr  and  German  races,  which  nave 
constantly  been  the  etrongest  and  surest 
■npport  &(  yoor  Majesty's  throne.  Nms- 
berlest  thririag  towns  asid  villages  lia;va 
beeome  m  prey  te  fte  lames,  and  haerm 
been  totaUf  destBOfod;  thomsasris  «l 
M^jjsor  and  German  aubjeets  are  wander- 
ing abont  without  food  •or  shelter,  or  h«VA 
foUen  victims  ie  indescribable  cruelty — 
Tor  it  is  revoUmg  to  repeat  the  frightfol 
atrocities  by  which  the  popular  rage,  let 
loose  by  diabolical  excitement  ventures 
to  display  itself. 

**  These  horrors  were,  however,  but  the 
prelude  to  still  greater  evils,  which  were 
about  to  §a31  upon  imr  country.  God 
forbid  thait  we  riiould  aflBet  your 
lf«$eB«y  with  the  Udeeus  pictare  of  i^ 
onr  misfortnnsi  I  Suflkm  it  to  say,  tiist 
the  diffisreBt  xaces  who  inhabit  yoor 
kimdem  ef  Hnqgary,  stirred  up,  excited 
9MB  against  the  other  by  ii^bnial  iatri* 
gnes,  «nly  distinguish  themselves  by  pil- 
lage, infiftndiarism,  and  murder,  perpe- 
trated with  the  greatest  refinement  of 
atrocity. 

"^  Sire  J— The  Hungarian  nation,  here- 
tofore the  firmest  bulwark  of  Christianity 
and  civilisation  against  the  incessant 
attacks  of  batharism,  often  experienced 
Tude  shocks  in  ^at  protracted  struggle 
for  lifo  and  deafli ;  but  at  no  period  did 
there  gather  ofor  her  head  so  many  and 
so  ierriUe  Sentpeots,  never  was  she 
entuigled  m  the  metres  of  so  perlldioni 
an  intrigne^  never  had  she  to  aabmit  te 
treatment  so  omel,  and  at  the  .same  time 
so  cowardily — and  yety  oh !  profound 
sorrow  I  all  these  hocrors  are  committed 
in  the  name,  and,  as  they  assure  us,  by 
the  order  of  your  Majesty. 

*^  Yes,  Sire  !  it  is  under  your  govern- 
ment, and  in  Che  name  of  your  Majesty, 
that  our  flourishing  towns  are  bombarded, 
saciked,  and  destroyed.  In  the  name  of 
your  Mi^'eety,  they  butcher  the  Mj^ars 
and  Germans.  Tes,  sire  1  aU  this  is 
done ;  and  they  jncessantly  repent  it,  in 
tiw  name  and  by  the  order  of  your  Ma- 
jesty, who  neverthekas  has  proved,  in  a 
manner  so  antheatie  and  so  reeent,  your 
benevolent  and  pstremal  intentions  to- 
wards  Hungary.  In  the  name  of  your 
Mi^esty,  who  in  the  last  Diet  of  Pres- 
burg,  yielding  to  the  wishes  of  the  Hun- 
garian nation,  and  to  the  exigendes  of 
Bie  time,  oonsente<*  '  ''      ^nd  oon- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.1 


jiMiitni  Mud  Zftwpniy. 


635 


firm  by  jmt  roy«l  woed  and  Mith,  ibe 
irandatioii  of  ft  aew  ooofltitQiioiiy  e^ab- 
Bdbed  on  the  utill  broader  foiudation  of  a 
pMfooUy  independent  government. 

"  Itisfer  tbie  reason  that  the  Hungarian 
nation,  deeply  grateful  to  your  Majesty, 
aocoatomed  flJso  to  receiye  firom  her  king 
nothing  but  proofe  of  goodness  really 
paternal,  when  he  listens  only  to  the 
dictates  of  his  own  heart,  refuses  to 
believe,  and  we  ber  ehief  pastors  also 
reftMe  to  beliere,  that  your  Bli^jesty  either 
knows,  or  sees  with  indiflbrence,  etill  less 
api»OTes  the  inikmons  manner  in  which 
^  enemies  of  our  ooimftry,  and  of  ««r 
libeiiiefl,  eempromise  the  kk^y  mi^festy, 
aEming  the  populations  agakist  each 
other,  shaking  the  yery  foun£btions  of  the 
oonstiintion,  Ihistratlng  legally  estab- 
lished powers,  seeking  eyen  to  destroy  in 
the  hearts  of  all  the  lore  of  subjects  for 
fteir  sovereign,  by  saying  that  your 
Migesty  wishes  to  withdraw  fhran  your 
fcithfnl  Hungarians  the  eonoessions  so- 
lemnly sworn  to  and  sanctioned  in  the 
diet ;  and,  finidly,  to  wrest  firom  the 
ooontry  her  cbacM^r  of  a  free  and  inde- 
pendent kiagdom. 

^*  Already,  Sire  2  bare  theae  new  laws 
and  liberties,  giTing  the  surest  guarantees 
for  the  freedom  of  Uie  people,  struck  root 
so  deeply  in  the  hearts  of  the  nation,  that 
public  opinion  makes  it  our  duty  to  repre- 
sent to  your  Majesty,  that  the  Hungarian 
people  could  not  but  lose  that  devotion 
and  Teneration,  consecrated  and  prored 
on  so  many  occasions,  up  to  the  present 
time,  if  it  was  attempted  to  make  them 
belie?e  that  tibe  Tioliition  of  the  laws,  and 
of  the  goTenment  sasetiosed  a»d  estab- 
lished by  your  majesty,is  committed  with 
the  consent  of  the  kii^ 

'^  But  if,  on  the  one  hand,  we  are 
strongly  conyinoed  that  your  majesty  has 
taken  no  part  in  the  intrigues  so  basely 
woTen  against  the  Hungarian  people,  we 
are  not  the  less  persuaded,  that  that 
people,  taking  arms  to  defend  their 
Vherij,  bare  stood  on  legal  ground,  and 
that  in  obeying  instinctifily  the  supreme 
law  of  nations,  wkuA  demtmdt  the  Mtfetf 
of  all,  they  have  at  the  same  time  sayed 
tiie  dignity  of  the  throne  and  the  mon- 
archy, greatly  compromised  by  advisers 
as  dangerous  as  they  are  rash. 

Sire  I  We,  the  chief  pastors  of  the 
greatest  part  of  the  Hungarian  people, 
know  better  than  any  others  their  noble 
sentiments  ;  and  we  venture  to  assert,  in 
accordance  with  history,  that  there  does 
not  exist  a  people  more  faithful  to  their 
monarchs  than  the  Hungarians,  when 
they  are  governed  according  to  their 
laws. 

^  We  guarantee  to  your  majesty,  thai 


this  people,  sadi  ikithfhl  obsarrers  of 
order  and  of  the  dvil  laws  in  the  midst 
of  the  present  turmoils,  desire  nothing 
but  the  peaceable  eigoyment  of  the  libev* 
ties  granted  and  sanctioned  by  the 
throne. 

'^  In  this  deep  conrietion,  moved  also 
by  the  sacred  interests  of  the  country 
and  the  good  of  the  church,  which  sees 
in  your  majesty  her  first  and  principal 
defender,  we,  tiie  bishops  of  Hungary, 
humbly  entreat  your  majesty  patienUy  to 
look  upon  onr  oonvtry  now  in  danger. 
Let  your  majesty  deign  to  think  a  mo- 
ment vpoa  tiie  lamentable  eitnation  in 
which  this  vrretched  country  is  at  present, 
where  thonsandeof  yonrinnoeenteubjeets, 
who  fermeriy  all  lived  together  in  peAce 
and  brotherhood  on  all  sides,  notwith- 
standing dafi(erenee  of  races,  now  find 
themselves  plunged  into  the  most  fi^t- 
fU  misery  by  their  civil  wars. 

^  ne  blood  of  the  people  is  flowing  in 
torrents — thousaatds  of  yonr  majesty's 
fUthfbl  subjects  are,  some  maoMtcred, 
others  wandering  about  without  shelter, 
and  reduced  to  beggary  our  towns,  our 
viUageB,are  nothing  bat  heaps  of  ashes — 
the  clash  of  arms  has  driven  the  futhM 
people  from  onr  temples,  whidi  have  be- 
come deserted  —  the  mourning  chnnA 
weeps  over  the  fall  of  religion,  and  the 
education  of  the  people  is  interrupted  and 
abandoned. 

**  The  frightful  spectre  of  wretchedness 
increases,  and  develops  itself  every  day 
under  a  thousand  hideous  forms.  The 
morality,  and  with  it  the  happiness  of  the 
people,  disan[>ear  in  the  gnlf  of  dvil  war.  . 

''But  let  yoor  mijesty  also  deign  to 
reflect  upon  the  terrible  oonse^uences  of 
these  dvil  wars;  not  only  as  regards 
their  influence  on  the  moral  and  substan- 
tial interests  of  the  people,  but  also  afl 
regards  their  influence  upon  the  security 
and  stability  of  the  monarchy.  Let  your 
majesty  hasten  to  speak  one  of  those 
powerftil  words  which  calm  tempests  ! — 
the  flood  rises,  the  waves  are  gathering, 
and  threaten  to  engulf  the  throne ! 

^Let  a  barrier  be  speedily  raised 
against  those  passions  excited  and  let^ 
loose  with  infernal  art  amongst  popula- 
tions hitherto  so  peaceable.  How  is  it 
possible  to  make  people  who  have  been 
inspired  with  the  most  frightful  thirst — 
that  of  blood — return  within  the  limits  of 
order,  justice,  and  moderation ! 

''  Who  will  restore  to  the  regal  majesty 
the  original  purity  of  its  brilliancy,  of  its 
splendour,  after  having  dragged  that 
majesty  in  the  mire  of  the  most  evil  pas- 
dons  !  Who  vrill  restore  faith  and  con- 
fidence in  the  royal  word  and  oath !  Who 
wiU  xonder  an  aooonnt  to  the  tribunal  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


636 


Austria  and  Umufwry, 


[May,  184^. 


the  liTing  Ood,  of  the  thonsaads  of  indi- 
TidoAla  who  hftTO  fallen,  and  ftiU  every 
day,  innocent  Tictims  to  the  fury  of  ciril 
war! 

**  Sire !  oar  dnty  as  fttithfol  sabjects, 
the  good  of  the  ooontry,  and  the  honour 
of  our  religion,  hare  inispired  us  to  make 
these  humble  but  sincere  remonstrances, 
and  hare  bid  us  raise  our  Toices  !  So, 
let  us  hope,  that  your  majesty  will  not 
merely  reoeire  our  sentiments,  but  that, 
miudfUl  of  the  solemn  oath  that  you  took 
on  the  day  of  your  coronation,  in  the  fkce 
of  heaTen,not  only  to  defend  the  liberties 
of  the  people,  but  to  extend  them  still 
further — that,  mindful  of  this  oath,  to 
which  you  appeal  so  often  and  so  solemnly, 
you  will  remoTO  fVom  your  royal  person 
the  terrible  responsibility  that  these  im- 
pious  and  bloody  wars  heap  upon  the 
throne,  and  that  you  will  tear  off  the 
tissue  of  rile  falsehoods  with  which  per- 
nicious  adTisers  beset  you,  by  hastening, 
with  prompt  and  strong  resolution,  to 
recall  peace  and  order  to  our  country, 
which  was  always  the  flrmest  prop  of 
your  throne,  in  order  that,  with  Dinne 
assistance,  that  country,  so  seyerely  tried, 
may  again  see  prosperous  days  ;  in  order 
that,  in  the  midst  of  profound  peace,  she 
may  raise  a  monument  of  eternal  grati- 
tude to  Uie  justice  and  paternal  bencTO- 
lence  of  her  king. 

**  Signed  at  Perth,  tke  2M  Get,  1848, 

^  Thb  Bishops  op  the  Catholic  Church 
OP  HunoART." 

The  Roman  Catholic  hierarchy  of 
Hungary,  it  mnst  be  kept  in  mind, 
have  at  all  times  been  in  close  con- 
nexion with  the  Roman  Catholic 
court  of  Austria,  and  have  almost 
uniformly  supported  its  views.  The 
Archbishop  of  Gran,  Frifhate  of  Hnu- 
gary,  possesses  greater  wealth  and 
higher  privileges  than  perhaps  any 
magnate  in  Hungary. 

In  this  unhappv  quarrel  Hungary 
has  never  demanded  more  than  was 


voluntarily  c<mceded  to  her  by  the 
Emperor-King  on  the  11th  of  April 
1848.  All  she  has  requbred  has  heea. 
that  faith  should  be  kept  with  her; 
that  the  laws  passed  by  her  diet,  and 
sanctioned  by  her  king,  should  be 
observed.  On  the  other  hand,  she  is 
required  by  Austria  to  renounce  the 
concessions  then  made  to  her  by  her 
sovereign — to  relinquish  the  indepen- 
dence she  has  enjoyed  for  nine  cen- 
turies, and  to  exchange  the  constUn- 
tion  she  has  cherished,  fought  for, 
loved,  and  defended,  during  seven 
hundred  years,  for  the  experimental 
constitution  which  is  to  be  tried  in 
Austria,  and  which  has  already  be^i 
rejected  by  several  of  the  provinces. 
This  contest  is  but  another  form  of 
of  the  old  quarrel—an  attempt  on  the 
part  of  Austria  to  enforce,  at  any 
price,  uniformity  of  system;  and  a 
determination  on  the  part  of  Hun- 
gary, at  any  cost,  to  resist  it. 

We  hope  next  month  to  resume 
the  consiaeration  of  this  subject,  to 
which,  in  the  midst  of  so  many  stir- 
ring an^  important  events  in  coun- 
tries nearer  home  and  better  known, 
it  appears  to  us  that  too  little  atten- 
tion has  been  directed.  We  believe 
that  a  speedy  adjustment  of  the  dif- 
ferences between  Austria  and  Hun- 
gary, on  terms  which  shall  cordially 
reunite  them,  is  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance to  the  peace  of  Europe— and 
that  the  complications  arising  out  of 
those  differences  will  increase  the 
difficulty  of  arriving  at  such  a  solu- 
tion, the  longer  it  is  delayed.  We 
believe  that  Austria,  distracted  by  a 
multiplicity  of  counsels,  has  com- 
mitted a  great  error,  which  is  danger- 
ous to  the  stability  of  her  position  as 
a  first-rate  power;  and  we  should 
consider  her  descent  from  that  posi- 
tion a  calamity  to  Europe. 


Printed  by  William  Blachcood  and  SofU,  Edinhur^l. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCCCIV. 


JUNE,  1849. 


Vol.  LXV. 


THE  CAXT0N8. — PABT  XIU. 


OHAFTEB  LXYL 


St  Chbtsostom,  in  his  worlc  on 
The  Priesthood,  defends  deceit,  if  for  a 
good  purpose,  by  many  Scriptand 
examples ;  ends  his  first  book  by  as- 
serting that  it  b  often  necessary,  and 
that  mach  benefit  may  arise  from  it ; 
and  begins  his  second  book  by  saying 
that  it  ouffht  not  to  be  called  ckctU^ 
bat  ^*  good  management." 

6o<^  management,  then,  let  me 
call  the  innocent  arts  by  which  I  now 
sought  to  insinuate  my  project  into 
faTonr  and  assent  with  my  nnsns* 
pecting  family.  And  first  I  began 
with  Roland.  I  easily  induced  him 
to  read  some  of  the  books,  full  of  the 
charm  of  Australian  life,  which  Tre- 
vanion  had  sent  me ;  and  so  happily 
did  those  descriptions  suit  his  own 
erratic  tastes,  and  the  free,  half- 
saYa|;e  man  that  lay  rough  and  large 
withm  that  soldierly  nature,  that  he 
himself,  as  it  were,  seemed  to  suggest 
my  own  ardent  desire — sighed,  as  the 
careworn  Trevanion  had  done,  that 
**  he  was  not  my  ase,"  and  blew  the 
flame  that  consumed  me  with  his  own 
wUling  breath.  So  that  when  at 
last — wandering  one  day  over  the 
wild  moors  —  I  said,  knowing  his 
hatred  of  law  and  lawyers — 

**  Alas,  nude,  that  nothing  should 
be  left  for  me  but  the  bar !— *' 

Captain  Roland  struck  his  cane  into 
the  peat,  and  exclaimed,  *^  Zounds, 
sir,  the  bar  and  lying,  with  truth  and 
a  world  fresh  from  Ck>d  before  you !" 

*^  Your  hand,  uncle — ^we  understand 
^ach  other.  Now  help  me  with  those 
two  quiet  hearts  at  home  1 " 

VOL.  LXY.— NO.  CCCCIV. 


*^  Plague  on  mv  tongue!  what  have 
I  done?"  said  the  Captain,  looking 
aghast.  Then,  after  musing  a  Ultle 
time,  he  turned  his  dark  eye  on  me 
and  growled  out,  ^*  I  suspect,  young 
sir,  you  have  been  laying  a  trap  for 
me ;  and  I  have  fallen  into  it,  like  an 
old  fool  as  I  am." 

"  Oh,  sur,  if  you  prefer  the  bar  I—" 

"Rogue!" 

"  Or,  indeed,  I  might  perhaps  get  a 
clerkship  in  a  merchant's  office?" 

"  If  you  do,  I  will  scratch  you  out 
of  the  pedigree ! " 

"  Huzza  then  for  Australasia ! " 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  said  my  unde, 

^With  a  smile  on  his  lip  and  a  tear  in  his  eye  ;** 

"  the  old  sea-king's  blood  wiU  force 
its  way — a  soldier  or  a  rover,  there  is 
no  other  choice  for  you.  We  shall 
mourn  and  miss  you ;  but  who  can 
chain  the  young  eagles  to  the  eyrie  ?  " 
I  had  a  harder  task  with  my  father, 
who  at  first  seemed  to  listen  to  me 
as  if  I  had  been  talking  of  an  excur- 
sion to  the  moon.  But  I  threw  in  a 
dexterous  dose  of  the  old  Greek 
CleruchuB  —  cited  by  Trevanion  — 
which  set  him  off  fdll  trot  on  his 
hobby,  till,  after  a  short  excursion  to 
Eubcea  and  the  Chersonese,  he  was 
fairiy  lost  amidst  the  Ionian  colonies 
of  Asia  Minor.  I  then  gradually  and 
artifhlly  decoyed  hkn  into  his  fa- 
vourite science  of  Ethnology;  and 
while  be  was  speculating  on  the 
origin  of  the  American  savages, 
and  considering  the  rival  claims  of 
Cimmeriims,  Israelites,  and  Scandi- 

28 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


The  CaxtOM.-^Part  XIII . 


nayians,  I  said  quietly,—"  And  you, 
sir,  who  think  that  all  human  im- 
provement  depends  on  the  mixture  of 
races— you,  whose  whole  theory  is  an 
absolute  sermon  upon  ^migratioUf  and 
the  transplanting  and  interpoHty  tf  our 
species — ^you,  sir,  should  be  the  last 
man  to  chain  vour  son,  your  elder 
son,  to  te  ■Dil»  whilt  jviir  younger 
is  the  very  missionary  of  rovers." 

"Pisistratus,"  said  my  father,  "you 
reason  bv  synecdoche — ornamental, 
but  Uogical;"  and  therewith,  re- 
solved to  hear  no  more,  my  father 
rose  and  retreated  into  his  study. 

But  his  observation,  now  quick- 
ened, began  from  that  day  to  follow 
my  mocKls  and  humours  —  then  he 
himself  grew  silent  and  thoughtful, 
and  finally  he  took  to  long  conferences 
with  BoUmd.  The  result  was  that, 
one  evening  in  spring,  as  I  lay  list- 
less amidst  the  weeds  and  fern  tiiai 
sprang  m  through  the  BielaadM>ly 
ruins,  I  felt  a  hand  on  my  shoulder;  and 
myfiUher,  seating  fafanself  beside  me  en 
a  fra^eat  of  stone,  said  eamesthr— 
"Pisistratus,  let  us  talk  —  I  had 
hoped  better  things  from  your  study 
of  Robert  Hall." 

"  Kay,  dear  &ther,  tiie  mefficine 
did  me  great  good :  I  hwre  not  re- 
pined since,  and  I  look  stead&stly 
and  cheerfully  on  life.  But  Bobert 
Han  ftimUed  his  missioD,  and  I 
would  frOfil  mine." 

"Is  there  no  mission  in  thy  native 
land,  0  planeticose  and  exallotriote 
q>irit  ?***  asked  my  fiM;her,  with  oom- 
passkmate  rebuke. 

"Alas,  yes  I  But  what  Ae  impulse 
of  genius  is  to  the  great,  the  instinct 
of  vocation  is  to  the  medkHsre.  In 
every  man  there  is  a  magMt;  in  that 
tiiinff  which  the  nuui  can  do  best  there 
isaloaditoiie.'' 

"Pap»r  said  my  ftrtiier,  opening 
hise^es;  "and are  no  leadsteMSlo 


[Jmie, 

be  found  ibr  yon  nearer  than  the  great 
Australasian  Bight?" 

"Ah,  sir,  if  you  rescMrt  to  irony,  I 
can  say  no  more !"  My  father  looked 
down  on  me  tenderly,  as  I  hung  my 
bead  moody  and  abashed. 

"  Son,"  said  he,  "  do  you  think  that 
there  is  any  real  jest  at  my  heart  when 
tiie  matter  dbcasaed  is  whether  yon 
are  to  put  wide  seas  and  long  years 
between  us  ?"  I  pressed  nearer  to  his 
side,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  Butlhave  noted  you  of  laie,^  con- 
tinued my  father,  *^  and  I  have  ob- 
served  that  your  old  studies  are  grown 
distasteful  to  you ;  and  I  have  talked 
with  Roland,  and  I  see  that  your  de- 
sire is  deeper  than  aboy^s  mere  whim. 
And  then  I  have  asked  myself  what 
prospect  I  can  hold  out  at  home  to  in- 
duce you  to  be  contented  here,  and  I 
see  none ;  and  therefore  I  shoidd  say 
to  you,  *  Go  thy  wi^s,  and  God  slueld 
thee,'-— but,  Pisistratus,  ytnar  moAert^ 

"  Ah,  tar,  tliat  is  indeed  the  ^es* 
tion  1  and  there  uideed  I  ehrinlL  But, 
after  all,  whatever  I  were — ^idie&er 
toiling  at  the  bar,  or  in  somo  public 
office— I  should  be  still  so  much  horn 
home  and  her.  And  then  you,  sir— «he 
loves  yom  so  entirely,  that " 

"No," interrupted myfather;  "yon 
can  advance  no  arguments  like  these 
to  touch  a  mother's  heart  There  is 
but  one  argument  that  comes  home 
there — ^Is  it  for  your  good  to  leave 
her?  Ifso,  there  will  be  no  need  of  ikr- 
therwords.  But  let  us  not  decide  that 
question  hastily ;  let  yon  and  I  be  to- 
gether tiie  next  two  montiiB.  Bring 
yoiff  books  and  sit  witii  me ;  when 
you  want  to  go  oot,  tap  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  say  ^  Ccvne.*  At  the  end 
ofthosetwo  months,  I  will  say  to  you 
^  Go,' or  ^  Stay.'  And  vou  will  trust 
me ;  and  if  I  say  the  last,  you  will 
submit?" 

"Oh  yes,  sir,  yes." 


LXTII. 


This  coMiMct  mnde,  my   iktber 
ronsed  liiniself  fimn  all  hisstadies 
devoted  Us  whole  thoughts  to  ne^ 
aonght  with  all  his  gentle  wisdom  to 
wean  me  imperceptibly  Horn  my  own 


fixed  tvrannical  idea,  ranged  through 
his  wide  pharmacy  of  boMES  for  such 
medicaments  as  miriit  alter  the  sys- 
tem of  my  thouffhts.  And  little 
thought  he  that  his  very  tendeniess 


*  Words  eohiedbylbQntonlkomwXMiim^, 


diflpeaed  to  roandng^  and  <Mam|^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.] 


7%e  Ocuttan8.--PtKi  ZIIL 


689 


tad  wisdom  worked  against  him,  for 
al  each  new  instance  of  either  mj 
heart  caUed  akmd,  ''  Is  it  not  tiiat 
thy  tenderness  may  be  repaid,  and  thy 
w^om  be  known  abroad,  that  I  go 
fhmi  thee  into  the  strange  land,  O  my 
fether?" 

And  the  two  months  expired,  and 
my  father  saw  that  tfie  magnet  had 
tsnied  mialtnmbly  to  the  loadstone  m 
the  great  Anstralasian  Bight ;  Mid  he 
said  to  me,  *^  Go,  and  oomfort  yoor 
mother.  I  have  tM  her  yomr  wish, 
and  anthorised  it  by  my  ocmsent,  for 
I  belieye  now  that  it  lii  for  yonr  good." 

I  fonnd  my  mo^er  in  the  little  room 
which  she  had  appropriated  to  herself, 
next  my  father's  study.  And  in  Itiat 
loom  there  was  a  pathos  which  I.  have 
BO  words  to  express ;  for  my  mother's 
meek,  gentle,  womanly  soul,  q[K>ke 
there,  so  that  it  was  as  the  Home  of 
Home.  The  care  with  which  she  had 
transplanted  from  the  Brick  Honse, 
and  lovingly  arranged,  aU  the  hmnble 
meuKHials  ot  old  tbniaB,  dear  to  her 
affections— tiie  black  sflhooette  of 
mv  fttlier's  profile  cot  in  paper,  in  the 
fiiU  pomp  of  academics,  cap  and  gown, 
(how  had  he  ever  consented  to  sit  for 
it!)  framed  and  g^ed  in  the  place  of 
honour  over  the  fittie  hearth;  and 
boyish  sketdies  of  mine  at  the  Hel- 
lenic  InstitQte,  first  essay?  in  sepia 
and  Indian  ink,  to  animate  the  walls, 
and  bring  her  back,  when  she  sate  there 
in  the  twili^t  nnising  atone,  to 
smmy  hours  when  Sbty  and  the  yomig 
mother  threw  daisies  at  each  other ; — 
and,  covered  with  a  great  g^assriiade, 
and  dusted  each  day  with  her  own 
hand,  the  flower -pot  Sisty  had 
bought  witii  the  proceeds  of  the  do- 


mino-box, on  that  memorable  occa* 
sion  on  wbidi  he  had  learned  *^  how 
bad  deeds  are  repaired  with  good."* 
There,  in  one  ecmier,  stood  the  little 
cottage  i^aao,  whkdi  I  remembered  all 
my  lifo---old-fo^<Hied,  and  with  the 
jingling  voice  of  approaching  decrepi- 
tude, but  still  associated  with  such 
melodies  as,  afta*  childhood,  we  bear 
never  more^  And  in  the  modest 
hanging  shelves  which  kx^ced  so  gay 
with  rwbons,  and  tassels,  and  silken 
cords — my  mother's  own  library,  say- 
ing mwe  to  the  heart  than  all  the  cold 
wise  poets  whose  souls  my  fatha*  in- 
voked inhisgrandHeradea.  TheBible 
over  which,  with  e^^os  yet  untaught  to 
read,  I  had  hung  in  vague  awe  and 
love,  as  it  lay  open  on  my  mother's 
lap,  while  her  sweet  voice,  then  only 
serious,  was  made  tiie  oracle  of  its 
truths.  And  my  first  lesson-books 
were  there,  all  hoarded.  And  bound  in 
blue  and  gold,  but  elaborately  paper- 
ed up,  Catcper'a  Poems — a  gift  from 
my  fatiier  in  the  davs  of  courtship— 
sacred  treasore  which  not  even  I  had 
iShe  privilege  to  toodi ;  and  which  my 
mother  took  out  only  in  the  great 
crosses  and  trials  of  conjugal  life, 
whenever  some  woid  less  Und  than 
usual  had  dropped  unawares  from  her 
scholar's  absent  lips.  Ahl  all  these 
poor  hoosehdd  gods,  all  seemed  to 
k>ok  on  me  with  mUd  anger;  and 
frx>m  all  came  a  voice  to  my  soul, 
^'Crael,  dost  thou  forsake  us  r  And 
amongst  them  sate  mvmodier,  desc^te 
as  Rachel,  and  weepmg  silently. 

«« Mother !  mother  I"  I  cried,  Mhig 
on  her  neck,  **forgive  me,  it  is  past, 
I  cannot  leave  you !" 


CEAITKR  LZVm. 


"No— no!  it  is  for  your  good — 
Austin  says  so.  Go— it  is  baft  the 
first  8ho(^" 

Then  to  n^  mother  I  opened  the 
sfadces  of  that  deep  I  had  oon- 
oealed  from  scholar  and  soldier.  To 
her  I  poured  all  the  wild,  reetiess 
thoughts  which  wandered  throufffa  the 
ndns  of  love  destroyed— to  her  I  cmi- 
fossed  wliat  to  myself  I  had  scarcely 
before  avowed.  And  when  the  pic- 
ture of  that,  the  daiker,  side  of  my 
mind  was  shown,  it  was  with  ft  prouder 


tee,  and  less  broken  voice,  that  I 
rooke  of  the  manlier  hopes  and  nobler 
aims  thatf^eamed  across  the  wrecks 
and  the  desert,  and  showed  ine  my 


)id  yon  not  once  say,  mothw, 
that  you  had  folt  it  like  a  remorse 
that  my  fother's  ffenius  passed  so 
noiselessly  away,  half  accusing  the 
hiqipiness  jon  gave  Urn  for  the 
death  of  his  aadbition  in  the  content 
of  his  mind?  DidyouBOtfeelanew 
olject  in  lilb   iHien  the   ambition 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


640 


7%e  CaxUmB.—Part  XIIL 


[Joae, 


revived  at  last,  and  jon  thought  yon 
heard  the  applause  of  the  world  mnr- 
"moringroQiidyoar  scholar's  cell?  Did 
yoQ  not  share  in  the  daj-dreams  yonr 
brother  conjured  np,  and  say,  *  If  my 
brother  conld  be  the  means  of  raising 
him  in  the  world!*  and  when  yon 
thought  we  had  found  the  way  to 
fiame  and  fortune,  did  yon  not  sob 
out  from  your  Ml  heart,  ^  And  it  is 
my  brother  who  will  pay  back  to 
his  son — all— all  he  gave  up  for 
me?'" 

"  I  cannot  bear  this,  Sisty  I — cease, 
cease!" 

"  No ;  for  do  you.not  yet  understand 
me?  Will  it  not  be  better  stni,  if 
your  son — yours — restore  to  your 
Austin  aU  that  he  lost,  no  matter  how? 
If  through  your  son,  mother,  you  do 
indeed  mske  the  world  hear  of  your 


husband's  grains— restore  the  spripg 
to  his  mind,  the  glory  to  his  purBoita 
— if  yon  rebuild  even  that  vaunted 
ancestral  name,  which  is  glory  to  our 
poor  sonless  Roland — if  your 'son 
can  restore  the  decay  of  generatlaDS, 
and  reconstruct  from  the  dust  tbe 
whole  house  into  which  yon  hare 
entered,  its  meek  presiding  angel — all, 
mother,  if  this  can  be  done,  it  will 
be  your  work ;  for  unless  yon  can 
share  my  ambition — unless  yon  can 
dry  those  eyes,  and  smile  in  my  face, 
and  bid  me  go,  with  a  cheerful  voice 
—  all  my  courage  melts  from  my 
heart,  and  again  I  say  I  cannot  leave 
you!" 

Then  my  mother  folded  her  arms 
round  me,  and  we  both  wept,  and 
could  not  speak— but  we  were  both 
happy. 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 


Now  the  worst  was  over,  and  mv 
mother  was  the  most  heroic  of  us  all. 
So  I  began  to  prepare  myself  in  good 
earnest ;  and  I  followed  Trevanion's  in- 
structions with  a  perseverance,  which 
I  could  never,  at  that  young  day,  have 
thrown  into  the  dead  life  of  books.  I 
was  in  a  «)od  school  amongst  our 
Cumberland  sheepwalks,  to  learn 
those  simple  elements  of  rural  art 
which  belong  to  the  pastoral  state. 
Mr  Sidney,  in  his  admirable  Austra- 
lion  Hand-Book^  recommends  young 
gentlemen  who  think  of  becoming 
settlers  in  the  Bush  to  bivouac  for 
three  months  on  Salisbury  Plain. 
That  book  was  not  then  written, 
or  I  might  have  taken  the  advice; 
meanwhSe  I  think,  with  due  re- 
spect to  such  authority,  that  I  went 
through  a  preparatory  training  quite 
as  useM  in  seasoning  the  fhture  emi- 
grant. I  associated  readily  with  the 
kindly  peasants  and  craftsmen,  who 
became  my  teachers.  With  what 
pride  I  presented  my  father  with  a 
desk  and  my  mother  with  a  work- 
box,  fashioned  by  my  own  hands! 
I  made  Bolt  a  lock  for  his  plate-chest. 
And  (that  last  was  my  magnum  opus, 
my  mat  masterpiece)  I  repaired 
and  absolutely  set  going  an  old  turret 
clock  in  the  tower,  that  had  stood  at 
two  P.M.  since  the  memory  of  man. 
I  loved  to  think,  each  time  the  hour 


sounded,  that  those  who  heard  its  deep 
chime  would  remember  me.  But  the 
flocks  were  my  main  care.  Hie  sheep 
that  I  tended  and  Jielped  to  shear, 
and  the  lamb  that  I  hooked  out  of  the 
great  marsh,  and  the  three  venerable 
ewes  that  I  nursed  throng  a  myste- 
rious sort  of  murrain,  which  puzzled 
aU  the  neighbourhood— are  they  not 
written  in  thy  loving  chronicles,  O 
House  of  Caxton ! 

And  now,  since  much  of  the  suc- 
cess of  my  experiment  must  depend 
on  the  friendly  terms  I  could  estab- 
lish with  my  intended  partner,  I 
wrote  to  Trevanion,  begging  him  to 
get  the  youuff  gentleman  who  was 
to  join  me,  and  whose  capital  I  was 
to  administer,  to  come  and  visit 
us.  Trevanion  complied,  and  there 
arrived  a  tall  fellow  somewhat  more 
than  six  feet  high,  answering  to  the 
name  of  Guy  BolcUng,  in  a  cut-away 
sporting-coat,  with  a  dog-whistle 
tied  to  the  button-hole ;  drab  shorts 
and  gaiters,  and  a  waistcoat  with 
all  manner  of  strange  furtive  pockets. 
Guy  Bolding  had  Uved  a  year  and 
a  half  at  Oxford  as  a  "  fast  man ;" 
so  ''fast"  had  he  Uved  that  there 
was  scarcely  a  tradesman  at  Oxford 
into  whose  books  he  had  not  contrived 
to  run. 

His  father  was  compeUed  to  with- 
draw him  from   the   university,  at 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1W9.] 


The  Caxtom.^Pdrt  XIII . 


641 


which  he  had  already  had  the  honour 
of  being  plocked  for  the  little  go : 
and  the  yoong  gentleman^  on  being 
asked  for  what  profession  he  was 
fit,  had  replied  with  conscious  pride, 
''That  he  conld  tool  a  coach!"  In 
despair,  the  sire,  who  owed  his 
living  to  lYeyanion,  had  asked  the 
statesman's  advice,  and  the  advice 
had  fixed  me  with  a  partner  in  expa- 
triation. 

My  first  feeling,  in  greeting  the 
fast  man,  was  certainly  that  of  deep 
disappofaitmentandstrongrepngnance. 
But  i  was  determined  not  to  be  too 
fastidious ;  and,  having  a  lucky  knack 
of  suiting  myself  pretty  well  to  all 
tempers,  (without  which  a  man  had 
better  not  think  of  loadstones  in  the 
great  Australasian  Bight,)  I  contrived, 
before  the  first  week  was   out,  to 
establish  so  many  points  of  connexion 
between  us  that  we  became  the  best 
friends  in  the  world.  Indeed,  it  would 
have  been  my  fault  if  we  had  not, 
for  Guy  Bolding,  with  all  his  faults, 
was  one  of  those  excellent  creatures 
who  are  nobody's  enemies  but  their 
own.    His  good  humour  was  inex- 
haustible.   Not  a  hardship  or  priva- 
tion came  amiss  to  him.    He  had  a 
phrase ''  Such  fon  1 "  that  always  came 
to  his  lips  when  another  man  would 
have  cursed  and  groaned.    If  we  lost 
our  way  in  the  great  trackless  moors, 
missed  our  dinner,  and  were  half- 
fiimished,  Guy  rubbed   hands   that 
would  have  felled  an  ox,  and  chuckled 
out  ''Such  ftinl"    If  we  stuck  in  a 
bog,  if  we  were  caught  in  a  thunder- 
storm, if  we  were  pitched  head  over 
heels  by  the  wild  colts  we  undertook 
to  break  in,  Guy  Bolding's  only  elegy 
was  "  Such  fun  1 "    That  mnd  shib- 
boleth of  philosophy  only  rorsook  him 
at  the  sight  of  an  open  book.    I  don't 
tlvi 
fou 
Thj 
ins< 
bea 
stn 
me] 
dan 
offi< 
qui 
one 
But 
woi 
of 


Euphrates  of  gold  into  his  pockets  at 
morning,  it  would  have  been  as  dry  as 
the  great  Sahara  by  twelve  at  noon. 
What  he  did  with  the  money  was  a 
mystery  as  much  to  hhnself  as  to 
every  one  else.  His  father  said  in  a 
letter  to  me,  that  "  he  had  seen  him 
shying  at  sparrows  with  half-crowns !" 
That  such  a  young  man  could  come 
to  no  good  in  England,  seemed  per- 
fectly clear.  Still,  it  is  recorded  of 
many  great  men,  who  did  not  end 
their  days  in  a  workhouse,  that  they 
were  equally  non-retentive  of  money. 
Schiller,  when  he  had  nothing  else  to 
give  away,  gave  the  clothes  from  his 
back,  and  Groldsmith  the  blankets 
from  his  bed.  Tender  hands  found  it 
necessary  to  pick  Beethoven's  pockets 
at  home  before  he  walked  out.  Great 
heroes,  who  have  made  no  scruple  of 
robbing  the  whole  world,  have  been  just 
as  lavish  as  poor  poets  and  musicians. 
Alexander,  in  parcelling  out  his  spoils, 
left  himself  "hope!"  And  as  for 
Julius  Cttsar,  he  was  two  millions  in 
debt  when  he  shied  his  last  half-crown 
at  the  sparrows  in  Ganl.  Encouraged 
by  these  illustrious  exatmples,  I  had 
hq[>es  of  Guy  Bolding ;  and  the  more 
as  he  was  so  aware  of  his  own  infir- 
mity that  he  was  perfectly  contented 
with  the  arrangement  which  made  me 
treasurer  of  his  capital,  and  even 
besought  me,  on  no  account,  let  him 
beg  ever  so  hard,  to  permit  his  own 
money  to  come  in  his  own  way.  In 
fact,  I  contrived  to  gain  a  great  as- 
cenden^  over  his  simple,  generous, 
thoughtless  nature;  and  by  artful 
appeals  to  hb  afiections— to  all  be 
owed  to  his  fiither  for  many  bootless 
sacrifices,  and  to  the  dutv  of  provid- 
ing a  little  dower  for  his  mfant  sister, 
whose  meditated  pmrtion  had  half  gone 
to  pay  his  ooUege  debts—I  at  last 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


643 


I%e  Caxttm.-^PanXin^ 


CJ». 


Will  Peterscm,  and  more  popniarlj 
"  Will  o'  the  Wisp,"  had  commenced 
thas  :^ — ^Bolt  had  managed  to  rear,  in  a 
small  copse  about  a  mOe  firom  the 
house— «id  which  was  the  only  bit  of 
ground  in  my  nude's  domains  that 
might  bj  courtesy  be  called  ^*  a  wood" 
— a  joung  cc^ony  of  pheasants,  that 
he  dignified  by  the  title  of  a  ^^pre- 
serve.^'  This  colony  was  audaciously 
despoiled  and  grievoudy  depopulated, 
in  spite  of  two  watchers  who,  with 
Bolt,  guarded  for  seren  nights  saoees- 
siyely  the  slumbers  of  the  in£uit  set- 
tlement. So  insc^ent  was  the  assault 
that  bang,  bang  went  the  felonious 
gun  —  behind,  before— within  but  a 
few  yards  of  the  sentinels — aad  the 
gunner  was  off^  and  the  prey  seised, 
before  they  could  rush  to  the  spot. 
The  boldness  and  skill  of  the  enemy 
soon  proclaimed  him,  to  theexperienced 
watchers,  to  be  WiH  o*  the  Wisp ;  and 
so  great  was  the  dread  of  this  feUow's 
strength  and  courage,  and  so  complete 
their  despair  of  b^g  a  match  for  his 
s?riftness  and  cunning,  that  after  the 
seventh  night  the  watchers  refiued  to 
go  out  any  longer ;  and  poor  Bott  him- 
self was  cooined  to  his  bed  by  an  at- 
tadc  of  iHbatadoctorwonld  haTe  called 
rheumatism,  and  a  moralist,  rage. 
My  indignation  and  sympathy  were 
greatly  excited  by  this  mort^^ing 
fittlurt,  and  my  interest  romaatioaUy 
aroused  by  the  anecdotes  I  had  heard 
tf  Witt  o'  the  Wisp;  aeoordin^, 
armed  wift  a  thick  Undgeon,  I  BMd 
out  at  night,  and  took  ruf  way  to  the 
«opee.  The  leaves  were  not  off  the 
trees,  aad  hew  the  poacher  eontrifvad 
to  see  his  victims  I  know  not;  but  five 
shots  did  he  ire,  aad  not  is  vah^ 
without  allowiagme  toeatoh  a  |^pee 
of  him.  I  th»  retreated  to  we  out* 
skht  of  the  eepse,  and  waited  patient- 
ly by  an  an^  whidi  eoamaaded 
two  sides  of  the  wood.  Just  as 
the  dawn  began  to  peep,  I  saw  my 
man  emerge  wi^n  twmty  yards 
of  me.  I  held  mry  breath,  saflfer- 
ed  hha  to  get  a  few  stepe  finom 
the  wood,  ci^  on  so  as  to  inter- 
cept 1^  rettei^  and  tiMs  poaaee — 
such  a  bemd  I  My  hand  was  on  his 
Aonlder— prr,  pip— no  eel  was  ever 
morehtekate.  He  slid  te«  me  lik* 
a  tfcittg^  imnaierial,  aad  was  off  o^rer 
the  moors  with  a  swiftness  wfaidi 
migiil  welt  have  batted  any  dodhop- 


per^a  race  whose  calves.are  geneiallj 
absorbed  in  the  soks  of  their  holK- 
nail  shoes.  Bat  the  Hellenic  Instl- 
tnte,  with  its  dassical  gymnasia,  had 
trained  its  pupils  in  all  bodily  exer- 
cises; and  thongh  the  Will  o' the  Wl^ 
was  swift  for  a  dodhc^per,  he  was  no 
matdi  at  rnnning  lor  any  youth  who 
has  spent  his  boyhood  in  the  disdpliiie 
of  cricket,  prisoner's  bars,  and  hmst- 
the-hare.  I  reached  him  at  lengtk, 
and  brou^  him  to  bay. 

^^  Stand  back,''  said  he,  paatiag; 
aad  taking  aim  with  his  gm  ;  ^^it  is 
loaded." 

"Yes,"  said  I;  "but  though  you're 
a  brave  poacher,  yon  dare  not  fire  aft 
your  fdlow  man.  Give  up  the  goa 
this  instant" 

My  address  took  him  by  surpiiae ; 
he  did  not  fire.  I  stmdL  up  the  bar- 
rel, and  dosed  on  him.  We  graphed 
pretty  tightly,  and  in  the  wrestle  the 
gun  went  off.  The  man  looeeaed  Ida 
hold.  "  Lord  ha'  mercy,  I  have  DOi 
hurt  you !"  he  said  faitenugly. 

"My  good  fiBllow— no,"said  I; 
"  and  now  let  us  throw  aside  gun  and 
bludgeon,  and  fight  it  out  Ifte  Bngr- 
tishmen,  or  dse  let  us  sit  down  aaid 
talk  it  over  like  firiends." 

The  WiU  o'  the  Wiq>  scratched  ita 
head  and  laughed. 

"  WeU,  you're  a  queer  one,"  qa»tli 
it.  And  the  poadier  droHMd  the  gm 
aad  sate  down. 

We  did  talk  it  over,  aad  I  obtetaed 
Peteiaon's  prcmnse  to  respect  the  pi^ 
serve  henoeflnrth,  and  we  thereon  grew 
so  cordial  that  he  walked  home  with 
iBe>  and  even  presented  me,  shyly  aad 
^ologeticaUy,  wi^  the  five  pheasaata 
hehad^oi.  From  that  time  I  sought 
him  out.  He  was  a  yonfig  fiaUaw  noi 
fimr-aud  twenty,  who  had  tafcmi  to 
poadiiog  fitmi  the  wild  spc^  of  tha 
thiag,  aad  fitan  some  OQoftued  aotioaa 
that  he  had  a  lieenee  firom  Nature  to 
poa<^  I  seen  feaad  oat  that  he  waa 
meant  fbr  better  tldngs  than  to  mad 
six  moaths  of  the  twelve  in  pnsoa, 
and  finish  his  Mfe  on  tiie  jattows  after 
kitting  a  gamekeeper.  That  seeani 
to  me  his  most  probable  destiny  ia 
tiie  Old  Worid,  so  I  talked  him  iato 
a  bazaiDg  desire  for  the  New  one : 
and  a  most  vahiable  aidhi  the  Bash 
he  proved  too. 

My  third  selection  was  ia  a  penoa* 
age  win  eoald  brii«  little  p^aic^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1:84».] 


2^  Gntoitf.— PM  ZZIZ: 


§49 


strengtii  to  h^  qa,  bat  who  had  more 
mind  (though  with  a  wroag  twist  in 
it)  tiuui  aU  the  others  pat  togeth^ . 

A  wortiij  ooof^  in  the  TiBage  had 
a  son^  ^0  being  digfat  and  pony^ 
compared  to  the  Comberiand  breedt 
was  sboaldered  oat  of  the  maricet  <^ 
agricoltoral  labour,  and  went  off,  yet 
a  boy,  to  a  maim&ctnring  town. 
Now  about  the  age  of  thirty,  this 
mechanic,  ^sabled  for  his  work  by  a 
kmg  iUness,  came  home  to  recover ; 
and  in  a  short  time  we  heard  of  no- 
thing bat  the  pestitoiMal  doctrines  with 
wiiidi  he  was  eithor  shocking  or  infect- 
ing oar  primltiye  villagers.  Accord* 
ing  to  report,  Corcyra  itself  never  en- 
gendered a  democrat  more  awfoL  The 
poor  man  was  really  very  ill,  and  his 
parents  very  poor  ;  bat  his  anforta- 
nate  doctrines  dried  np  all  the  streams 
ei  chari^  that  osnally  flowed  throogh 
onr  kindly  hamlet  The  clergyman 
<an  exceUent  man,  bat  of  tiie  old 
echod)  walked  by  the  house  as  if  ii 
were  tabooed.  The  apotiiecary  said 
**•  Miles  Square  ought  to  have  wine," 
tut  he  did  not  send  him  any.  The 
iiiMrmers  held  his  name  in  execration, 
for  he  had  incited  idl  their  labourers 
to  strike  for  another  shOling  a-week. 
And  but  for  the  old  tower,  Miles 
Square  would  soon  have  found  hia  way 
to  the  only  republic  in  which  he  could 
«btam  that  democratic  frvtemisatioa 
for  which  he  sighed — the  grave  being, 
I  su^iect,  the  sole  oommonwealUi 
wMch  attakn  Aat  dead  flat  of  social 
equaMty,  that  fife  in  its  every  prin- 
ciple so  hearti^  abhors. 

My  unde  went  to  see  Miles  Square, 
and  caan  back  the  colour  of  purple. 
Ifilee  Square  had  preached  him  a  long 
asrmott  on  the  miholiness  of  war. 
^  Even  in  deftnoe  of  your  king  and 
«ountnrt**  had  roared  the  Captain; 
and  liiles  Square  had  replied  with 
*  remark  upon  kingis  in  general,  that 
the  Captain  eevdd  not  have  repeated 
without  azpeeting  to  see  ^le  old 
towerfoU  about  his  ears;  and  with  an 
obcervatioa  about  the  country,  in  par- 
ticular, to  the  effect  Aat  ^  the  coun- 
tiry  would  be  much  better  off  if  it  were 
ooBqueredl"  On  hearing  the  report 
of  these  foyal  and  patriotic  r^iliea, 
myfothersahl,  ^Pap»r  and,  roused 
<rat  of  his  usual  philosophical  indif- 
ference, went  himself  to  visit  Miles 
Square.    My  father  returned  as  pale 


as  my  unde  had  been  purple.  *'  And 
to  think,"*  said  he  mournfally,  ^^that 
in  the  town  whence  this*  man  comes, 
there  are,  he  tells  me,  ten  thousand 
other  of  God's  creatures  who  speed 
tiie  work  of  dvilisa^a  while  exe- 
crating its  laws  P 

But  neither  father  nor  unde  made 
any  opposition  when,  with  a  basket 
laden  with  wine  and  arrofwroot,  and 
a  neat  little  Bible,  bound  hi  brown, 
my  mother  took  her  way  to  the  ex- 
communicated cottage.  Her  visit  was 
as  signal  a  failare  as  those  that  pre- 
ceded it.  Miles  Square  refosed  the 
basket ;  '  he  was  not  going  to  accept 
ahnSy  Mideat  the  bread  of  charity;' 
and  on  my  mother  meekly  suggesting 
tiiat,  '  if  Mr  Miles  Square  would 
condescend  to  look  into  the  Bible,  he 
would  see  that  even  charity  was  no  sin 
in  giver  or  redpient,*  MrMilesSquara 
had  undertakcoi  to  prove  ^  that,  ac- 
o<»ding  to  the  Bible,  he  had  as  mudi 
a  rif^  to  my  mother's  property  as 
she  had-4hat  aU  tilings  should  be  in 
common — and  that,  when  things  were 
in  oommoo,  what  became  oi  chari^? 
No;  he  could  not  eat  my  nude's 
arrowroot,  and  drink  his  wme^  while 
my  undo  was  improperly  witliholding 
l^om  him  and  his  fdlow-oreatwee  so 
many  unprofitable  acres:  the  land 
belonged  to  the  people.'  It  was  now 
thetumofPisistratustogo.  He  went 
once,  and  he  went  often.  Miles  Square 
and  Pisistratas  wrangled  and  ai^;aed 
— argued  and  wrangled — and  ^ded 
by  taking  a  fonoy  to  eadi  other;  for 
this  poor  Miles  Square  was  not  half  so 
bad  as  his  doctrines.  His  errors  arose 
from  intense  sympathy  with  the  suf- 
ferings he  had  witnessed,  amidst  the 
misery  which  accompanies  the  rdgii 
of  miUocratiem^  and  from  the  vague 
aspirations  of  a  half-taught,  impaa- 
doned,  earnest  nature.  By  degrees, 
I  persuaded  faun  to  drink  the  wine  and 
eat  the  arrowroot,  en  altemdamt  that 
millennium  which  was  to  restore  the 
land  to  the  pec^le.  And  then  my 
mother  came  again  and  softened  his 
heart,  and,  for  &e  first  time  hi  his  life, 
let  into  its  cold  crotchets  the  warm 
]ighi  of  human  gratitude.  I  lent  him 
some  bodEs,  amongst  others  a  few 
volumes  on  Australia.  A  passage  in 
one  of  the  lattor,  hi  whkh  it  was 
said  **that  an  intelliffent  mechanic 
usually  made  his  way  In  the  cdonyr 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


644 


The  Caxiatu.^Part  XIII. 


[Jmie; 


eyen  as  a  shepherd,  better  than  a 
doll  agricaltnral  labourer,**  caught 
hold  of  his^  fancy,  and  sednced  his 
aspirations  into  a  healthfhl  du^c- 
tion.  Finally,  as  he  recovered,  he 
entreated  me  to  let  him  accompany 
me.  And  as  I  may  not  have  to  re* 
torn  to  Miles  Square,  I  think  it  right 
here  to  state,  that  he  did  go  with  me 
to  Australia,  and  did  succeed,  first  as 
a  shepherd,  and,  on  saving  money,  as 
a  landowner ;  and  that,  in  spite  of  his 
opinions  on  the  onhoUness  of  war,  he 
was  no  sooner  in  possession  of  a  com« 
fortable  log  homestead,  than  he  de- 
fended it  with  uncommon  gallantry 
against  an  attack  of  the  al^rigines, 


whose  right  to  the  soil  was,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  as  good  as  his  daim  to  my 
undoes  acres ;  that  he  commemorated 
his  subsequent  acquisition  of  »  firesh 
allotment,  with  the  stock  on  it,  by  s 
little  pamphlet,  published  at  Bjrdney, 
on  the  Saneiiiy  of  the  Bwhi$  of  Pro^ 
petty;  and  tiiat,  when  I  left  the  co* 
lony,  having  been  much  pestered  by 
two  refiractory  *^  helps*'  that  he  h«d 
added  to  his  establishment,  he  hmd 
just  disUnguished  himself  hr  a  very 
anti-levelUng  lecture  upon  the  duties 
of  servants  to  their  employers.  What 
would  the  Old  World  have  done  for 
this  man! 


CHAPTER  LXZ. 


I  had  not  been  in  haste  to  condude 
my  arrangements,  for,  independently 
of  my  wish.to  render  myself  acquainted 
with  Ae  small  useful  crafts  that  might 
be  necessary  to  me  in  a  life  that  makes 
the  individual  man  a  state  in  himself, 
I  naturally  desired  to  habituate  my 
kindred  to  the  idea  of  our  separation, 
and  to  plan  and  provide  for  them  all 
such  substitutes  or  distractibns,  in 
compensation  for  my  loss,  as  my  fer- 
tile imagination  could  suggest.  And 
first,  for  the  sake  of  Blanche,  Roland, 
and  my  mother,  I  talked  the  Captain 
into  reluctant  sanction  of  his  sister- 
in-law's  proposal,  to  unite  thehr  in- 
comes and  share  alike,  without  con- 
sidering which  party  brought  the 
laiger  proportion  into  the  firm.  Ire- 
presented  to  him  that,  unless  he  made 
that  sacrifice  of  his  pride,  my  mother 
would  be  wholly  without  those  little 
notable  uses  and  objects-^those  small 
household  pleasures — so  dear  to  wo- 
man; that  all  society  in  the  ndgh- 
bourhood  would  be  impossible,  and 
that  my  mother's  time  would  hang  so 
heavily  on  her  hands  that  her  only 
resource  would  be  to  muse  on  the 
absent  one  and  firet.  Nay,  if  he  per- 
sisted in  so  false  a  pride,  I  told  him, 
liEurly,  that  I  should  urge  my  father  to 
leave  the  tower.  These  representa- 
tions succeeded ;  and  hospitality  had 
commenced  in  the  old  hall,  and  a 
knot  of  gossips  had  centred  round 
my  mother— groups  of  laughing  chil- 
dren had  relaxed  the  still  brow  of 
Blanche— and  the  Captain  himself  was 
a  more  cheerful  and  social  man.    My 


next  point  was  to  eneage  my  fiuker 
in  the  completion  of  tibe  Great  Book. 
"Ah,  sir,"  said  I,  "  give  me  anin* 
ducement  to  toil,  a  reward  for  mj 
industry.  Let  me  think,  in  eadi  tempt- 
ing pleasure,  each  costly  vice— No, 
no;  I  will  save  fbr  the  Great  Bo(^l 
and  the  memory  of  the  father  shall 
still  keep  the  son  from  error.  Afa, 
look  you,  sir!  Mr  Trevaaion  offered 
me  the  loan  of  the  £1500  necessaiy  to 
commence  with ;  but  you  generoealy 
and  at  once  said^*  No;  you  must  not 
begin  life  under  the  load  of  debt.* 
And  I  knew  you  were  right,  aad 
yidded— yidded  the  more  grafcdalljr, 
that  I  could  not  but  forfdt  something 
of  the  just  pride  of  manhood  in  in- 
curring such  an  obligaticm  to  the 
father  of— Miss  Trevanion.  There- 
fore I  have  taken  that  sum  from  you 
— a  sum  that  would  almost  have  saf- 
ficed  to  establish  your  younger  and 
worthier  child  in  the  worid  for  ever. 
To  that  child  let  me  mpay  it,  other- 
wise I  wUl  not  take  it.  Let  me  hold 
it  as  a  trust  for  the  Great  Book;  and 
promise  me  that  the  Great  Book  shall 
be  ready  when  your  wanderer  retmna, 
and  accounts  ibr  the  missuig  talent.** 
And  my  father  pished  a  little,  and 
rubbed  off  the  dew  that  had  ga^ered 
on  his  spectacles.  But  I  would  not 
leave  himin  peace  till  he  had  givei^ 
me  Ills  word  that  the  G^eat  Book 
should  go  on  h  pas  du  g^nU — ^aay,  till 
I  had  seen  him  sit  down  to  it  with 
good  heart,  and  the  wheel  went 
round  again  in  the  quiet  mechanism  ef 
that  gentle  life. 


1 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


The  CweUm9.-^Pan  XUL 


G4& 


Finallj,  and  as  the  cnlminatiiig 
acme  of  my  diplomacy,  I  effected  the 
pordiase  of  the  neighbouiog  apothe- 
cary'spractioe  andgood-will  for  SqniUs, 
vpoQ  terms  which  he  willingly  sub- 
scribed to;  for  the  poor  man  had  pined 
at  the  loss  of  his  fayonrite  patients, 
thoQgh,  Heayen  knows,  they  did  not 
add  much  to  his  income.  And  as  for 
my  father,  there  was  no  man  who 
diyerted  hhn  more  than  Sqoills,  though 
he  accused  him  of  being  a  matraialist, 
and  set  his  whole  spiritual  pack  of 
sages  to  worry  and  bark  at  him,  from 
Plato  and  2^no  to  Beid  and  Abraham 
Tucker. 

Thus,  although  I  haye  yery  loosely 
intimated  the  flight  of  time,  more  than 
a  whole  year  elapsed  from  the  date  of 
our  settlement  at  the  tower  and  that 
affixed  for  my  departure. 

In  the  meanwhile,  deroite  the  rarity 
amongst  us  of  that  phenomenon  a 
newspaper,  we  were  not  so  utterly  cut 
off  from  the  sounds  of  the  fur-booming 
world  beyond,  but  what  the  intelli- 
gence of  a  change  in  the  administra- 
tion, and  the  appointment  of  Mr  Tre- 
yanion  to  one  of  the  great  offices  of 
State,  reached  our  ears.  I  had  kept 
up  no  correspondence  with  Treyanion 
subsequent  to  the  letter  that  occa- 
sioned Guy  Bolding^s  yisit ;  I  wrote 
now  to  congratulate  him :  his  reply 
was  short  and  hmiied. 

Intelligence  that  startled  me  more, 
and  more  deeply  moyed  my  heart, 
was  conyeyed  to  me  some  three 
months  or  so  before  my  departure,  by 
Treyanion's  steward.  The  ill  health 
of  Lord  Castieton  had  def(»red  his 
marriage,  intended  originally  to  be 
cdebnSed  as  soon  as  he  came  of 
age.  He  left  the  uniyersity  with  the 
honooTB  of  ^^a  double-first  class;*' 
and  his  constitution  appeared  to  rally 


from  the  effects  of  studies  more  seyere 
to  him,  than  they  might  haye  been  to 
a  man  of  quicker  and  more  brilliant 
capacities — when  a  feyerish  cold, 
caught  at  a  county  meeting,  in  which 
his  first  public  appearance  was  so 
creditable  as  fully  to  justify  the 
warmest  hopes  of  his  party,  produced 
inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and 
ended  fatally.  The  startling  contrast 
forced  on  my  mind — here  sudden 
death,  and  cold  clay — there  youth 
in  its  first  flower,  princely  rank, 
boundless  wealth,  the  sanguine  ex- 
pectation of  an  illustrious  career*  and 
the  prospect  of  that  happiness  which 
smiled  from  the  eyes  of  Fanny— that 
contrast  impressed  me  with  a  strange 
awe:  death  seems  so  near  to  us 
when  it  strikes  those  whom  life  most 
flatters  and  caresses.  Whence  is  that 
curious  sympathy  that  we  all  haye 
with  the  possessors  of  worldly  great- 
ness, when  the  hour-glass  is  shaken 
and  the  scythe  descends?  If  the 
famous  meeting  between  Diogenes  and 
Alexander  had  taken  place  not  before, 
but  after,  the  achieyements  which  gaye 
to  Alexander  the  name  of  Great,  the 
cynic  would  not,  perhi^,  haye  envied 
the  hero  his  pleasures  or  his  splen- 
dours, the  charms  of  Statira,  or  the 
tiara  of  the  Mede;  but  If,  the  day 
after,  a  cry  had  gone  forth,  **  Alex- 
ander the  Great  is  dead!"  yerily  I  be- 
lieye  that  Dio^nes  would  haye  coiled 
himself  up  in  his  tub,  and  felt  that,  with 
the  shadow  of  the  stately  hero,  some- 
thing of  glory  and  of  warmth  had  gone 
fit>m  that  sun,  which  it  should  darken 
neyer  more.  In  the  nature  of  man, 
the  humblest  or  the  hardest,  there  is  a 
something  that  liyes  in  all  of  the  Beau- 
tiful ortlra  Fortunate,  which  hope  and 
desire  haye  appropriated,  even  iu  the 
yanities  of  a  childish  dream. 


GBArTER  LXXI. 


Why  are  you  here  all  alone, 
1?  How  oold  and  still  it  is 
amoD^t  the  grayes ! " 

^^  Sit  down  beside  me,  Blanche ;  it 
is  not  colder  in  the  churchyard  than 
on  the  yiilage  green." 

And  Blanche  sate  down  beside  me, 
nestled  dose  to  me,  and  leant  her  head 
upon  my  shoulder.  We  were  both 
long  ulent.  It  was  an  eyening  in  the 
early  spring,  clear  and  serene—the 


roseate  streaks  were  fading  gradually 
from  the  dark  gray  of  long,  narrow, 
fantastic  clouds.  Tall,  leafless  pop- 
lars, that  stood  in  orderiy  level  line, 
on  the  lowland  between  the  church- 
yard and  the  hill,  with  its  crown  of 
ruins,  left  their  shaip  summits  distinct 
against  the  sky.  But  the  shadows 
coiled  dull  and  heavy  round  the  ever- 
greens that  skirted  the  churchyard,  so 
that  their  outline  was  vague  and  con- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


646 


The  Ca3st(m»,-^Pan  XIU. 


[J«t 


f  ased ;  and  there  was  a  depth  in  their 
gloomj  8tiUne68,  brokoi  only  when 
the  thrash  flew  ont  from  tiie  loww 
bnshes,  Bxid  the  thick  laurel  leayes 
stirred  reloctantlyt  and  again  were 
rigid  in  repose.  There  is  a  certain 
melandioly  in  the  eyenings  of  earij 
spring  which  is  among  those  influences 
of  nature  the  most  universallj  recog- 
nised, the  most  difficult  to  exi^ain. 
The  silent  stir  of  reyiving  life,  which 
does  not  yet  betray  signs  in  the  bnd 
and  blossom — only  in  a  softer  clear- 
ness in  the  air,  a  more  lingering 
pause  in  the  slowly  lengthening  day ; 
a  more  delicate  freshness  and  balm  in 
the  twilight  atmo^ere ;  amoreliyely 
yet  still  unquiet  note  fr(Mn  the  birds, 
settling  down  into  thdr  coyerts ; — the 
yague  sense  under  all  that  hush,  which 
still  outwardly  wears  the  Ueak  ster- 
ility of  winter — of  the  bni^  change, 
houriy,  momently,  at  work — renew- 
ing the  youth  6f  the  world,  redothing 
with  yigcMTOus  bloom  the  skeletons  of 
things — all  these  messages  from  the 
heart  of  Nature  to  the  heart  of  Man 
may  well  affect  uid  moye  us.  But 
why  with  melancholy?  No  thon^t  on 
our  part  connects  and  oonstnies  the 
low,  gentle  yoices.  It  is  not  ikaugki 
that  replies  and  reasons :  it  is  feeSng 
that  hears  and  dreams.  Examine  not, 
O  child  of  man  1— examine  not  that 
mysterious  melancholy  with  the  hard 
«yes  oi  thy  reason ;  thorn  canst  noi 
impale  it  on  the  sj^es  of  thy  thorny 
logic,  n<Mr  describe  its  enchanted  circle 
by  problems  conned  from  thy  schools. 
Borderer  thysdf  of  two  worlds — the 
Dead  and  the  liying — giye  thine  ear 
to  the  tones,  bow  thy  soul  to  the  sha- 
dows, that  steal,  in  the  season  of 
<^hange,  from  the  dim  Border  Land. 

Blanche  (m  a  wkuper.) — ^Whaft 
are  you  thinking  of  ?-HBpeak,  pray ! 

PisiSTRATUs. — ^I  was  uot  thinking, 
Blanche ;  or,  if  I  were,  the  thought  is 
gone  at  the  mere  effort  to  seize  or  de- 
tain it. 

BuorcHB  (after  a  pauM.>— I  know 
what  yon  mean.  It  is  the  same  with 
me  often— so  often,  when  I  am  sitttng 
by  myself,  quite  stilL    It  is  just  like 


the  atoiy  Piinmins  was  telling  ns 
the  other  eyettittg,  how  tiiere  was  s 
woman  in  her  yilLiige  who  saw  thingB 
and  people  m  a  piece  of  crystal,  not 
bigger  than  my  hand  :*  they  pawwd. 
akMigas  laigeas  life,  but  they  wwa 
(mly  pictures  in  the  crystaL  Since  I 
hearci  the  story,  iHien  aunt  asks  me 
what  I  am  thinkhig  of,  I  long  to  8^« 
^*  Pm  not  thinking !  I  am  seeiBg  pie- 
tores  hi  the  crystal  1" 

PiaisnATUs.— Tell  my  father  that ; 
it  will  please  hinu  There  is  bmeb 
philosophy  in  it  than  yon  are  aware 
of,  Kanche.  There  are  wise  mea 
who  haye  thought  the  whole  woffld, 
^^  its  pride,  pomp,  and  drenmstanee/ 
only  a  phaatoai  image  a  ptctnre  ia 
the  crystal. 

BiJUffOHB.— And  I  shall  see  yoai— 
see  us  both,  as  we  are  sitting  here — 
and  that  star  which  has  just  iiseii 
yonder— see  it  all  in  my  crya^ai — 
when  yon  are  gone  I — gone,  woam  1 

And  Blandie's  head  drooped. 

There  was  sometiiing  so  qnrat  and 
deep  in  the  tendenieas  of  tins  poor 
motherless  child,  that  it  did  not  aftei 
one  superficially,  like  a  child's  load 
momentary  affection,  in  which  «• 
know  that  the  first  toy  will  rq>laoe  as. 
I  kissed  my  little  eoushi's  palo  fiaeot 
and  said,  ^*  And  I  too,  Blaache»  hart 
my  crystal;  and  when  I  conaolt  k, 
I  shall  be  yeiy  aagry  if  I  see  yoa  aad 
and  frettmg,  or  s^feed  aloae.  For  yon 
must  know,  Blanche,  that  thai  i&  all 
selfishness.  God  made  ns,  aei  to  in- 
dulge only  in  crystal  pictares,  wawa 
idle  fimdes,  pine  akme,  aad  moara 
oyer  what  we  ctfinoi  help— bat  to  bo 
alert  aad  actlyo— glyers  of  hsppiafi, 
Now,  Blanche^  see  what  a  trast  I  aai 
goinff  to  beqneatii  yon.  Yoa  are  ta 
sniHpiy  my  piaoe  to  all  whom  I  ksva. 
Ton  are  to  bring  sanririae  whorevar 
you  glide  with  Uiat  shy,  soft  st^[>— 
whedier  to  your  father,  when  you  aee 
his  brows  knit  and  his  arms  crosaed, 
(that,  indeed,  yon  always  do^  w  to 
mine,  when  they oiame  drops  mm  hia 
hand — when  he  walks  to  and  fro  tho 
room,  restless,  and  maiimiiing  to  him- 
seif   then  yoa  are  ta  steal  ap  to  hka. 


*  In  primitive  villages  in  the  west  of  EngUnd,  the  belief  that  the  absent  may  be 
seen  in  a  piece  of  crystal  is,  or  was  not  many  years  ago,  by  no  means  an  nneommoa 
superstition.  I  have  seen  more  than  one  of  these  magio  mirrors,  which  Spenaer,  by 
the  way,  has  besntiftiUy  described.  They  are  abont  £e  site  and  riu^  of  a  swun 
ei^.  It  is  not  every  one,  however,  who  ean  be  »  erystal-seer  ;  Wtt  aeeond-sighfty  il  is 
a  fecial  gift. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1949.] 


I%€  Caxkim.—4kKrt  XIII. 


647 


put  your  haad  in  hk,  lead  him  bade  to 
bis  books,  and  whi^)er,  ^  What  will 
SiBty  say  if  Ids  joiing«r  brother,  the 
Great  Book,  is  not  grown  vp  when  he 
<x>mesback?^ — Aad  my  poor  notiier, 
Blanche  1 — ah,  how  can  I  coonsel  yoa 
there— 4iow  tell  yon  where  to  find 
comfort  for  her?  Only,  Blanche,  steal 
into  her  heart  and  be  her  dangh- 
ter.  And,  to  fHlfil  this  tbreefold 
tmst,  yon  must  not  content  yonrself 
with  seeing  pictnres  in  Ae  ciystal— do 
yon  understand  me?  " 

^^Oh  yes,**  said  Blanche,  raising 
her  eyes,  while  the  tears  rolled  firom 
them,  and  fddh^^  her  arms  resohrtely 
on  her  breast. 


^^  And  so,"  saidi,  '^  as  we  two,  sit- 
ting  in  this  qniet  bnrial-gronnd,  take 
new  heart  for  the  dnties  and  cares  of 
life,  so  see,  Blanche,  how  the  stars 
come  ont,  one  by  one,  to  smile  upon 
as,  for  they  too,  glorions  orbs  as 
they  are,  perform  their  i^pointed 
tasks.  Things  seem  to  approximate 
to  €rod  in  proportion  to  their  vitality 
and  movement.  Of  all  things,  least 
inert  and  sullen  should  be  tiie  soal  of 
man.  How  the  grass  grows  up  over 
the  very  graves — quickly  it  grows  and 
gre^y— -but  neither  so  qukk  and  so 
green,  my  Blanche,  as  hope  and  oom- 
mi  firom  hnman  sorrows.*' 


CHAPTB&  EZXH. 


Thero  is  a  beautiful  and  singular 
passage  in  Dante,  (which  has  not  per- 
haps attracted  the  attention  it  de- 
serves,) wherein  the  stem  Florentine 
defends  Fortune  firom  the  popular  ac- 
cusations against  her.  According  to 
him,  she  is  an  angdic  power  appdnted 
by  the  Supreme  Befaig  to  direct  and 
order  the  conrse  of  human  splendonrs ; 
die  obeys  the  wili  of  €rod;  she  is 
blessed,  and,  hearing  not  thoee  who 
blaspheme  her,  calm  and  al<^ 
amongst  'the  other  angelic  powers, 
revolves  her  spheral  course,  and  re- 
joices in  her  beatttade.* 

This  is  a  eonoeption  very  different 
firom  the  pmlar  notion  which  Aris- 
tophanes, in  his  tnie  instinct  of  things 
popular,  ezineeses  by  the  sullen  lips 
of  his  PhUBs.  Hiat  deity  accounts 
for  his  blindness  by  saying,  that 
^^  whes  a  boy  he  had  hidisaeetly  pro- 
mised to  visit  only  the  good,''  and  Jn* 
piter  was  so  envious  of  the  good  that 
he  blinded  the  poor  money-god. 
Whereon  Cfaremylns  asks  him,  wlw- 
tfaer,  ^if  he  recovered  his  sight, he 
-would  fireqoent  the  company  of  the 
good?"  "" Gertiriiiy,"  qnoth  Flntns, 
**^fi)rlhave  not  seen  them  ever  so 
long."  ''NorIeidwr,"i^dnsChro- 
mylus  fntfaily,  ^^  far  all  I  can  see  out 
of  both  eyes  1" 

Bnt  that  misanthropieal  awwer  of 
Chremyhn  is  aeither  here  nor  ^bat^ 


and  only  diverts  us  finom  the  real 
question,  and  that  is,  ^^  Whether  For- 
tune be  a  heavenly.  Christian  angel, 
or  a  blind,  blundering,  old  heathen 
deity?"  For  my  part,  I  hold  with 
Dante — ^for  which,  if  I  were  so  pleased, 
or  if,  at  tills  period  of  mymemoirs,  I  had 
half  a  doaen  pages  to  ^[xire,  I  could 
give  many  good  reasons.  One  thing, 
however,  is  quite  dear—that,  whether 
Fortmie  be  more  like  Plutus  or  an 
angel,  it  is  no  use  abusing  her — one 
may  as  wdl  throw  stones  at  a  star. 
And  I  think  if  one  locked  nairowly  at 
her  operations,  <me  might  percdve 
tliat  she  gives  everyman  a  chance,  at 
least  once  in  his  life ;  if  he  take  and 
make  the  best  of  it,  she  will  renew  her 
vidts;  if  not — itur  ad  attral  And 
therewith  I  am  reminded  of  an  inci- 
dent quamtly  narrated  by  Mariana  in 
his  ''History  of  Spmn,"  how  the 
army  of  the  Spanish  kings  got  ont  of 
3  sad  hobUe  among  the  mountains  at 
the  pass  of  Losa,  by  the  hdp  of  a 
shepherd,  who  showed  tiiem  Hie  way. 
''But,"  saitii  Mariana,  parentheti- 
odly,  ''somedosaytheslMpherdwas 
an  angd ;  for  after  he  had  shown  the 
way,  he  was  never  sera  more."  That 
is,  the  angelic  nature  of  the  guide  was 
proved  by  being  only  once  seen,  and 
disappearing  after  having  got  the  anny 
ont  of  the  hobble,  leaving  it  to  fight 
or  mn  away,  as  it  had  most  mind  to. 


*  Dante  here  evidently  asioeiates  Fortime  with  the  planeiarj  inflnenoes  of  Jadidal 
astrelogy.  It  it  dovbtfiil  whether  SddDer  ever  read  Daate,  but  in  one  ef  hie  most 
thoagfatfid  poena,  he  nndertakes  the  mmm  deimee  of  Fortane,  makiBg  tiie  Fortnnate 
impart  of  the  Beairtif Hi. 


Digitized  by 


Googl^ 


648 


The  Caxtan8.^Part  XIIL 


Now  I  look  upon  that  sh^herd,  or 
angel,  as  avery  good  type  of  my  for- 
tune at  least.  The  apparition  showed 
me  my  way  in  the  roc^  to  the  great 
*^  Battle  of  Life;"  after  that,— hold 
fast  and  strike  hard ! 

Behold  me  in  London  with  Uncle 
Holand.  My  poor  parents  naturally 
wished  to  accompany  me,  and  take 
the  last  glimpse  of  the  adventurer  on 
board  ship ;  but  I,  knowing  that  the 
parting  would  seem  less  dreadful  to 
them  by  the  hearthstone,  and  while 
they  could  say,  ^^  He  is  with  Roland — 
he  is  not  yet  gone  from  the  land" — in- 
sisted on  their  staying  behind ;  and  so 
the  farewell  was  spoken.  But  Roland, 
the  old  soldier,  had  so  many  practical 
instructions  to  give — could  so  help  me 
in  the  choice  of  the  outfit,  «id  the 
jpreparations  for  the  voyage,  that  I 


[June, 

could  not  refuse  his  companlon^ip  to 
the  last.  Guy  Bolding,  who  had  gone 
to  take  leave  of  his  father,  was  to  join 
me  in  town,  as  well  as  my  humUer 
Cumberland  colleagoes. 

As  my  nnde  and  I  were  both  of  one 
mind  upon  the  question  of  economy, 
we  took  up  our  quarters  at  a  lodging- 
house  in  the  City ;  and  there  it  wafr 
that  I  first  made  acquaintance  with  & 
part  of  London,  <^  which  few  of  my 
politer  readera  even  pretend  to  bo 
cognisant.  I  do  not  mean  any  sneer 
at  the  City  itself,  my  dear  alderman ; 
that  jest  is  worn  out.  I  mu  not  al- 
luding to  streets,  courts,  and  lanes ; 
what  I  mean  may  be  se^  at  the 
west  end,  not  so  well  as  at  the  east, 
but  still  seen  very  fairly ;  I  mean — 
THE  House-tops  I 


CUAPTEB  LXXIII. 


BEING  A  CHAPTER  ON  H0V8B-T0P8. 


The  house-tops  !  what  a  soberising 
effect  that  prospect  produces  on  the 
mind.  But  a  great  many  requisites 
go  towards  the  selection  of  the  right 
point  of  survey.  It  is  not  enough  to 
secure  a  lodging  in  the  attic;  you 
must  not  be  fobbed  off  with  a  front 
attic  that  faces  the  street.  Firs^ 
your  attic  must  be  unequivocally  a 
back  attic;  secondly,  the  house  in 
which  it  is  located  must  be  slightly 
elevated  above  its  neighbours;  thirdly, 
the  window  must  not  lie  slant  on  the 
roof,  as  is  common  with  attics — ^in 
which  case  you  only  catch  a  peep  of 
that  leaden  canopy  which  infatuated 
Londoners  call  the  sky — but  must  be 
a  window  perpendicular,  and  not  half, 
blocked  up  by  the  parapets  of  that 
fosse  called  the  gutter ;  and,  lastly, 
the  sight  must  be  so  humoured  that 
yon  cannot  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
pavements :  if  you  once  see  the  world 
beneath,  the  whole  charm  of  that 
worid  above  is  destroyed.  Taking  it 
for  granted  that  you  have  secured 
these  requisites,  open  your  window, 
lean  your  chin  on  both  hands,  the 
elbows  propped  commodiously  on  the 
sill,  and  contemplate  the  extraordinary 
scene  which  spreads  before  you.  Ton 
find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  life  can 
be  so  tranquil  on  high,  while  it  is  so 
noisy  and  turbulent  below.     "What 


astonishmg  stillness  I  Eliot  Warbur- 
ton  (seductive  enchanter)  recommends 
you  to  sail  down  the  Nile  if  you  want 
to  lull  the  vexed  spirit.  It  is  easier 
and  cheaper  to  hire  an  atUc  in  Hol- 
bom  I  Ton  don*t  have  the  crocodiles, 
but  you  have  animals  no  less  hallowed 
in  Egypt — the  cats !  And  how  har- 
moniously the  tranquil  creatures  bknd 
with  the  prospect — how  noiselessly 
they  glide  along  at  the  distance, 
pause,  peerabouC  and  disappear.  It 
is  only  from  the  attic  that  you 
can  appreciate  the  picturesque  which 
belongs  to  our  domesticated  tiger- 
kin!  The  goat  should  be  seen  on 
the  Alps,  and  the  cat  on  the  house- 
top. 

By  degrees  the  curious  eye  takea 
the  scenery  in  detail :  and  first,  what 
fttntastic  variety  in  the  heights  and 
shapes  of  the  chimney-pots  I  Some  all 
level  in  a  row,  uniform  and  resect- 
able, but  quite  uninteresting ;  others, 
again,  rising  out  of  idl  proportion,  and 
imperatively  tasking  the  reason  to 
conjecture  why  they  are  so  aspiring. 
Reason  answers  that  it  is  but  a  homely 
expedient  to  give  freer  vent  to  the 
smoke;  whereon  Imagination  steps 
in,  4uid  represents  to  you  all  the 
fretting,  and  fuming,  and  worry,  and 
care,  which  the  owners  of  that  chim- 
ney,   now   the   tallest   of  all,    en- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


7%e  Caxtani.^Pari  XIIL 


e4d 


dtired,  before,  by  baflding  it  higher, 
ihej  got  rid  of  the  vapours  I  Tonsee 
the  dtetress  of  the  oooIl,  when  the  sooty 
invader  mshed  down,  **  lil^e  a  wdf  on 
the  fold,"  fall  spring  on  the  Sunday 
johdt.  Ton  hear  the  exclamations  of 
the  mistress,  (perhaps  a  bride, — honse 
newly  famished,)  when,  with  white 
apron  and  cap,  she  ventured  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  was  straiffhtway 
sainted  by  a  joyons  dance  of  those 
tnonads,  called  vulgarly  smuts.  Ton 
feel  manly  indignation  at  the  brnte 
of  a  bridegroom,  who  rushes  out  from 
the  door,  with  the  smuts  dancing 
after  him,  and  swears,  *'  Smoked  out 
again — By  the  Arch-smoker  himself, 
ril  go  and  dine  at  the  dab  I"  All 
this  might  well  have  been,  till  the 
chimney-pot  was  raised  a  few  feet 
nearer  heaven ;  and  now  perhaps  that 
long-suffering  family  owns  the  happiest 
home  in  the  Row.  Such  contrivances 
to  get  rid  of  the  smoke  I  It  is  not 
every  one  who  merdy  heightens  his 
chimney ;  others  clap  on  the  hollow 
tormentor  all  sorts  of  odd  headgear 
and  cowls.  Here  patent  contrivances 
act  the  purpose  of  .weathercocks, 
swaying  to  and  fro  with  the  wind ; 
there  others  stand  as  fixed  as  if  by  a 
^'  sicJHbeol'^  they  had  settled  the  busi- 
ness. But  of  all  those  houses  that,  in 
the  street,  one  passes  by,  unsnspidous 
of  whafs  the  matter  within,  there  is 
not  one  in  a  hundred  but  what  there 
has  been  the  devil  to  do,  to  cure  the 
diimneys  of  smoking!  At  that  reflec- 
tion, Philosophy  dismisses  the  subject ; 
and  deddes  that,  whether  one  lives  in 
a  hut  or  a  palace,  the  first  thing  to  do 
is  to  look  to  the  hearth— and  get  rid  of 
the  vapours. 

New  beauties  demand  us.  What 
endless  undulations  in  the  various 
declivities  and  ascents :  here  a  slant, 
there  a  zig-f  ag !  With  what  majestic 
disdain  yon  roof  rises  up  to  the  leftl 
— ^Doubtless,  a  palace  of  Grenii  or 
Gin,  (which  last  is  the  proper  Arabic 
word  for  those  builders  of  halls  out  of 
nothing,  employed  by  Aladdin.)  See- 
ing only  the  roof  of  that  palace  boldly 
breaking  the  skyline  —  how  serene 
your  contemplations  I  Ferhi^M  a  star 
twinkles  over  it,  and  you  muse  on  soft 
eyes  far  away;  while  below,  at  the 
threshold— Ko,  phantoms,  we  see  yon 
not  from  our  attic!  Note,  yonder, 
that  precipitous  fall— how  ragged  and 


jagged  the  roof-scene  descends  in  a 
gorge.  He  who  would  travel  on  foot 
through  the  pass  of  that  defile,  of 
which  we  see  but  the  picturesque 
summits,  stops  his  nose,  averts  his 
eves,  guards  his  pockets,  and  hurries 
alcmir  through  the  squalor  of  the  grim 
London  lazzaroni.  But  seen  above^ 
what  a  noble  break  in  the  skyline ! 
It  would  be  sacrilege  to  exchange 
that  fine  goive  for  a  dead  flat  of  dull 
roof-tops.  Look  here— how  delight- 
ful!—that  desolate  house  with  no 
roof  at  all— ffutted  and  skinned  by 
the  last  London  fire !  Yon  can  see 
the  poor*  green  and  white  paper  stiU 
dinging  to  the  walls,  and  the  chasm 
that  once  was  a  cupboard,  and  the 
shadows  gathering  black  on  the  aper- 
ture that  once  was  a  hearth !  Seen 
bdow,  how  quickly  you  would  cross 
over  the  way !  That  great  crack  for- 
bodes  an  avalanche ;  you  would  hold 
your  breath,  not  to  bring  it  down  on 
your  head.  But  seen  above,  what  a 
compassionate  inquisitive  charm  in  the 
skeleton  rain  I  How  your  fancy  runs 
riot — ^repeopling  the  chambers,  hear- 
ing the  last  cheerful  good-night  of  that 
destined  Pompeii — creeping  on  tiptoe 
with  the  mother,  when  she  gives  her 
farewell  look  to  the  baby.  Now  all 
Is  midnight  and  dlence ;  then  the  red, 
crawling  serpent  comes  out.  Lo! 
his  breath;  hark!  his  hiss.  Now, 
spire  after  spire  he  winds  and  coils ; 
now  he  soars  up  erect — crest  superb, 
and  forked  tongue  —  the  beautiful 
horror !  Then  the  start  from  the  sleep, 
and  the  doubtful  awaking,  and  the 
run  here  and  there,  and  the  mother's 
rush  to  the  cradle ;  the  cry  from  the 
window,  and  the  knock  at  the  door, 
and  the  spring  of  those  on  high  to- 
wiurds  the  stair  that  leads  to  safety 
bdow,  and  the  smoke  rushing  up 
like  the  surge  of  a  hell !  And  they  run 
back  stifled  and  blinded,  and  the 
floor  heaves  beneath  them  like  a  bark 
on  the  sea.  Harkl  the  grating  wheds 
thundering  low ;  near  and  near  comes 
the  engine.  Fix  the  ladders ! — there  I 
there!  at  the  window,  where  the 
mother  stands  with  the  babe !  Splash 
and  hiss  comes  the  water ;  pales,  then 
flares  out,  the  fire:  foe  defies  foe; 
element,  dement.  How  sublime  is 
the  war !  But  the  ladder,  the  ladder!— 
there  at  the  window!  All  else  are 
saved :  the  derk  and  his  books ;  tha 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


650 


The  Oaxkms.—Boai  XIIL 


[Jwe^ 


lawyer,witli  Ihatlte  box  of  title-deeds ; 
1^  landlord,  with  his  p<^<7  of  insur- 
ance ;  the  miser,  with  his  bank-notes 
and  gold :  all  are  sayed — all,  but  the 
babe  and  the  mother.  What  a  crowd 
hi  the  streets !  how  the  light  crimsons 
over  the  gasers,  handreds  on  hnnd- 
redsl  All  those  faces  seem  as  one  £ue, 
with  fSsar.  Not  a  man  mounts  tiie 
ladd^.  Yes,  ther»— gallant  fellow! 
God  inspires— God  shall  speed  thee  I 
How  plainly  I  see  him  1 — ^his  ^es  are 
closed,  his  teeth  set.  The  serpent  leaps 
up,   the  forked  tongue   darts  np^ 


hhn,  and  tiMvsekof  flie  breach  wrapis 
him  ronnd.  The  crowd  has  ebbed 
back  like  asea,  and  the  smoke  nulies 
oyer  them  alL  Ha!  what  dim  forms 
are  those  on  the  ladder?  Near  and 
nearer— crash  come  the  roof-tiiea. 
Alas,  and  alas  I— no ;  a  ay  of  J07 — a 
**  Thank  heaven  I"  and  the  women  foroe 
theur  way  throogh  the  men  to  cooie 
roimd  the  child  and  the  mother.  All 
is  gone,  save  that  sketeton  min.  But 
here,  the  rain  is  seen  from  o&mw.  O 
Art,  study  life  from  the  roof-lopsi 


I  was  agahi  fbiled  in  seefaig  Tre- 
vanion.  It  was  the  EaiEfter  recess,  and 
he  was  at  the  house  of  one  of  his  bro- 
ther ministers,  somewhere  in  the  north 
of  England.  But  Lady  Ellinor  was  in 
London,  and  I  was  ushered  into  her 

Sresence.  Nothing  could  be  more  cor- 
ial  than  her  manner,  though  she  was 
evidently  much  d^yressed  in  spirits, 
and  looked  wan  and  careworn. 

After  the  kindest  inquiries  relative 
to  my  parents,  and  the  Captain,  she 
entered  with  much  sympathy  into  my 
schemes  and  plans,  which  she  said  that 
Trevanion  had  confided  to  her.  The 
sterling  kindness  that  belonged  to  my 
old  patron  (despite  his  affected  anger 
at  my  not  accepting  his  proffered 
loan)  had  not  only  saved  me  and  my 
fellow-adventurer  all  trouble  as  to 
allotment  orders,  but  procured  advice, 
as  to  choice  of  site  and  soil,  from  the 
best  practical  experience,  which  we 
found  afterwards  exceedingly  useful. 
And  as  Lady  Ellinor  gave  me  the  little 
packet  of  pi^>ers  with  Trevanion*s 
shrewd  notes  on  the  mar^,  she  said 
with  a  half  sigh,  "  Albert  bids  me  say, 
that  he  wish^  he  Were  as  sanguine  of 
his  success  in  the  cabinet  as  oK  yours 
in  the  Bush.'*  She  then  turned  to  her 
husband's  rise  and  prcwpects,  and  her 
foce  began  to  change.  Hereyessparic- 
led,  the  colour  came  to  her  cheeks — 
*•  But  you  are  one  of  the  few  who 
know  him,"  she  said,  interrupting  her- 
self suddenly;  "you  know  how  he 
sacrifices  aU  things — joy,  leisure, 
health— 40  his  countiT.  lliere  is  not 
one  sdfish  thought  in  his  nature.  And 
yet  such  envy— sudi  obstacles  still ! 
and"  (her  eyes  drc^ped  mi  her  drc»s, 


and  I  perodved  that  she  was  in  moiBii- 
ing,  though  the  moiorning  was  not 
deep,)  ''and,"  she  added,  '^it  ha^ 
{Heased  heaven  to  withdraw  from  his 
side  one  who  would  have  been  worthy 
his  alliance." 

I  felt  for  tiie  proud  woman,  thourii 
her  emotion  seemed  more  that  of  pride 
than  sorrow.  And  perhaps  Lord  Cas- 
tleton's  highest  merit  in  her  eyes  had 
been  that  of  ministering  to  bar  hus- 
band's power  and  her  own  ambition. 
I  bowed  my  head  in  silence,  and 
thought  of  Fanny.  Did  i^e,  too,  pine 
for  the  lost  rank,  or  rather  mourn  the 
lost  lover? 

After  a  time,  I  said  hesitatingly, 
''  I  scarcdy  presume  to  condde  with 
you.  Lady  Eifinor ;  yet,  believe  me, 
few  things  ever  shocked  me  Uke  the 
deatii  you  allude  to.  I  trast  Miss  TVe- 
vanion's  health  has  not  modi  raffered. 
Shall  I  not  see  her  before  I  leave  Eng- 
land?" 

Lady  Ellinor  fixed  her  keen  bright 
eyes  searehingiy  on  my  countenance, 
and  pwhaps  &e  gaze  satisfied  her,  for 
she  held  out  her  hand  to  me  witii  a 
frankness  almost  tender,  and  said— 
"  Had  I  had  a  son,  the  dearest  wish 
of  my  heart  had  been  to  see  you 
wedded  to  my  daughter."    - 

I  started  up^the  blood  rushed  to 
my  cheeks,  and  then  Idt  me  pale  as 
death.  I  looked  reproadifhlly  at  Lady 
Ellinor,  and  the  word  "cruel"  Altered 
on  my  lips. 

''Yes,"  continued  Lady  Ellinor, 
mournfully,  "'that  was  mvreal  thought, 
my  impulse  of  regret,  when  Ifirst  saw 
you.  ^ut,  as  it  is,  do  not  think  me 
too  hard  and  worldly,  if  I  quote  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18tf.] 


Tke  OnatoM.— iWt  XIII. 


651 


Mtj  M  French  piowb,  Noblesse 
obhge.  listen  to  me,  my  joimg 
friend, — ^we  may  Mver  meet  again, 
and  I  would  not  hare  yoor  father's 
eon  think  imkmdly  of  me  with  all  my 
fitolts.  From  my  first  childfaood  I 
was  ambitions—not  as  women  nsoally 
are,  of  mere  wealth  and  rank-— bat 
amMtkms  as  noble  men  are,  of  power 
and  fiune.  A  woman  can  omy  in- 
dulge snch  ambitloB  by  inyesting  it  in 
another.  It  was  not  wealth,  it  was 
not  rank,  that  attracted  me  to  Albert 
Treyanion ;  it  was  tiie  nature  that 
dispenses  with  the  wealth,  aid  com- 
mands the  rank.  Nay,**  oontinned 
Lady  EUimv,  in  a  T(^oe  that  slightly 
tresilded,  **  I  may  hare  seen  in  ray 
yonth,  before  I  knew  Trevaaioa,  one 
(she  paosed  a  moment,  and  went  on 
hniriedly)— (me  who  wanted  bat  am- 
bition to  hare  reaBsed  my  ideaL 
Perhaps,  eren  when  I  mariied— 4md 
it  was  said  for  love— I  loTed  less  with 
mr  wh(4e  heart  than  with  my  whole 
mind.  I  may  say  this  now,  for  now 
every  beat  of  this  raise  is  whoUy 
and  only  true  to  him  "with  whom 
I  have  schemed,  and  toiled,  and 
aspired;  wiHi  wh(Mn  I  haye  grown 
as  one ;  with  whom  I  haye  shared 
the  straggle,  and  now  partake  the 
triamph— realising  the  yisioos  of  my 
youth." 

Again  the  light  broke  from  the  dark 
^3res  of  this  grand  daughter  of  tiie 
world,  who  was  so  superb  a  type  of 
that  moral  contradiction— <m  ttmbi- 
turns  woman, 

^'  I  cannot  tell  you,**  resomed  Lady 
EUinor,  softening,  ^how  pleased  I 
was  when  you  came  to  liye  with  ns. 
Your  father  has  periiaps  spoken  to 
yon  of  me,  and  of  our  first  acquain- 
tance?"— 

Lady  Hlinor  paraed  abrnptly, 
and  sureyed  me  as  she  pansed.  I 
was  silent 

^'  Perhi^M,  too,  he  has  blamed  me?  " 
she  resumed,  wi^  a  he^htened 
cokmr. 

^^He  never  blamed  yon,  Lady 
EUinor  1" 

^*  He  had  a  right  to  do  so— though 
I  doubt  if  he  woold  have  blamed  me 
on  the  true  gromd.  Tet,  no ;  he  never 
could  havedoneme  the  wrongthat  your 
nnde  did,  wlien,  kmg  years  ago,  Mr 
de  Caxton  in  a  letter— toe  very  bitter- 
ness of  which  disarmed  all  anger— 


accused  me  of  having  trifled  with 
Austin — nay,  with  himself  I  And  he^ 
at  least,  had  mo  ri^t  to  reproadi  me," 
oontinned  Lady  £llinor  warmly,  and 
with  a  <mrve  of  her  haughty  lip,  •*  for 
if  I  felt  interest  in  his  wild  thirst  for 
some  romantic  glory,  it  was  but  in 
the  hope  that,  what  made  the  one 
brother  so  restless,  might  at  least 
wake  the  other  to  Ihe  imibition  that 
would  have  become  his  intdlect,  and 
aroused  his  energies.  But  these  are 
old  tales  of  follies  and  delusions  now 
no  more :  only  this  will  I  say,  that  I 
have  ever  felt  in  thinking  of  your 
father,  and  even  <^  your  sterner  uncle, 
as  if  my  conscience  reminded  me  of  a 
debt  which  I  longed  to  discharge— if 
not  to  them,  to  their  childrffli.  So 
when  we  knew  you,  believe  me  that 
your  interests,  your  career,  instantly 
became  to  me  an  object.  But^  mis- 
taking you— iHien  I  saw  your  ardent 
industry  bent  on  sedous  objects,  and 
accompanied  by  a  mind  so  fresh  and 
buoyant ;  and,  absorbed  as  I  was  in 
sdi^nes  or  projects  far  beyond  a 
woman's  ordinary  province  of  hearth 
and  home — I  never  dreamed,  while 
you  were  our  ^uest— never  dreamed  of 
danger  to  you  or  Fanny.  I  wound 
you,  pardon  me;  but  I  must  vindi- 
cate myself.  Irq>eatthat,  if  wehad 
a  son  to  inherit  our  name,  to  bear 
the  burthen  which  the  world  lays 
upon  those  who  are  bom  to  influence 
the  worid's  destmies,  there  is  no 
one  to  whom  Trevanion  and  myself 
would  sooner  have  intrusted  the  hap- 
piness of  a  daughter.  But  my  daugh- 
ter is  the  sole  representative  of  the 
moUier's  line,  of  the  father's  name: 
it  is  not  her  happiness  alone  that  I 
have  to  consult,  it  is  her  duty — duty 
to  her  Ixrthright,  to  tiie  career  of  the 
noblest  of  England's  patriots— duty, 
I  may  say,  without  exiu^geration,  to 
the  countiy  for  the  sake  of  which 
that  career  is  runl" 

'^Sayno  more,  Lac^EUfaior;  say 
no  more.  I  understand  you.  I  have 
no  hq)e — ^I  never  had  hope — it  was  a 
madness — ^it  is  over.  It  is  but  as  a 
friend  that  I  ask  again,  if  I  may  see 
Miss  Trevanion  m  your  presence, 
before— before  I  go  alone  into  this 
kmg  exile.  Ay,  look  in  my  &ce — 
you  cannot  fear  i^  resolution,  my  ho- 
nour, my  truth.  But  once.  Lady  EUi- 
nor, but  once  mow  I  Do  I  ask  in  vain?" 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


652 


The  C<uaMi.^Part  XIIL 


CJn—^ 


LadyElUnor  was  evidently  mach 
moyed.  I  bent  down  almost  in  the 
attitude  of  kneeling;  and,  brnshing 
away  her  tears  with  one  hand,  she 
laid  the  other  on  my  head  tenderly, 
and  said  in  a  very  low  yoice— 

^'  I  entreat  yon  not  to  ask  me ;  I  en- 
treat yon  not  to  see  my  daughter.  Ton 
have  shown  that  you  are  not  selfish — 
conquer  yourself  still.  What  if  such  an 
interview,  however  yarded  you  might 
be,  were  but  to  agitate,  unnerve  my 
child,  unsettle  her  peace,  prey  upon" — 

**  Oh,  do  not  speak  thus — she  did 
not  share  my  feelings!" 

"  Could  her  mother  own  it  if  she 
did?  Come,  comCt  remember  how 
youngyou  both  are.  When  you  return, 
all  these  dreams  will  be  forgotten ;  then 
we  can  meet  as  before — then  I  will  be 
your  second  mother,  and  again  your 
career  shall  be  mv  care;  for  do  not 
think  that  we  shall  leave  you  so  long 
in  this  exile  as  you  seem  to  forbode. 
No,  no;  it  is  but  an  absence — an  ex- 
cursion—not a  search  after  fortune. 
Your  fortune— confide  that  tons  when 
you  return!" 

"  And  I  am  to  see  her  no  more?"  I 
murmured,  as  I  rose,  and  went  silent- 
ly towards  the  window  to  conceal  my 
face.  The  great  struggles  in  life  are 
limited  to  moments.  In  the  drooping 
of  the  head  upon  the  bosom — in  the 
pressure  of  the  hand  upon  the  brow — 
we  may  scarcely  consume  a  second  in 
our  threescore  years  and  ten;  but 
what  revolutions  of  our  whole  being 
may  pass  within  us,  while  that  single 
sand  drops  noiseless  down  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hour-glass. 

I  came  back  with  a  firm  step  to  Lady 
EUinor,  and  said  calmly,  '*  My  reason 
tells  me  that  yon  are  ri^ht,  and  I  sub- 
mit. Forgive  me!  and  do  not  think 
me  ungrateful,  and  over  proud,  if  I 
add,  that  you  must  leave  me  still  the 
object  in  life  that  consoles  and  en- 
courages me  through  all." 

"  What  object  is  that?"  asked  Lady 
Ellinor,  hesitatingly. 

"  Independence  for  myself,  and  ease 
to  those  for  whom  life  is  still  sweet. 
This  is  my  twofold  object;  and  the 
means  to  eflfect  it  must  be  my  own 
heart  and  my  own  hands.  And  now 
<jonvey  all  my  thanks  to  your  noble 
husband,  and  accept  my  warm  prayers 
for  yourself  and  Aer— whom  I  will  not 
name.    Farewell,  Lady  EUinor." 


"Ko,  do  not  leave  me  ao  bastSjr;  ^ 
have  many  things  to  discaaswitfa  y<M 
— at  least  to  ask  of  vou.  Tellmehov 
your  father  bears  nis  reverse? — teil 
me,  at  least,  if  there  is  aught  he  will 
suffer  us  to  do  for  him  ?  Hiere  are 
many  appointments  in  TrevanioQ^ 
range  of  influence  that  would  wsaat 
even  the  wilM  indolence  of  a  man  of 
letters.    Come,  be  firank  with  me  !^ 

I  could  not  resist  so  much  kindness ; 
so  I  sat  down,  and,  as  coUectedij-  as  I 
could,  replied  to  Lady  Ellinor^s  ques- 
tions, and  sought   to  convince   her 
that  my  father  only  felt  his  losses  so 
far  as  thev  afiected  me,  and  that  no- 
thing in  Irevanion's  power  was  likely 
to  tempt  him  from  his  retreat,  or  cal- 
culated to  compensate  for  a  change 
in  his  habits.    Turning  at  last  from 
my  parents,  Lady  ElUnor  inquired 
for  Boland,  and,  on  learning  that  he 
was  with  me  in  town,  expressed  a 
strong  desire  to  see  him.    I  told  her 
I  would  communicate  her  wish,  and 
she  then  said  thoughtfully — 

^*  He  has  a  son,  I  think,  and  I  have 
heard  that  there  is  some  unhappy 
dissension  between  them." 

"  Who  could  have  told  you  that?" 
I  asked  in  surprise,  knowing  how 
closely  Roland  had  kept  the  secret  of 
his  family  afflictions. 

"  Oh,  I  heard  so  from  some  one  who 
knew  Captain  Roland — I  forget  when 
and  where  I  heard  it — but  is  it  not 
the  fact?" 

*^  My  uncle  Roland  has  no  son." 

"  How  1" 

"His son  is  dead.". 

"  How  such  a  loss  must  grieve  him !" 

I  did  not  speak. 

"But  is  he  sure  that  his  son  is 
dead !  What  joy  if  he  were  mistaken 
—if  the  son  yet  lived  I" 

"  Nay,  my  uncle  has  a  brave  heart, 
and  he  is  resigned ; — but,  pardon  me, 
have  yon  heara  anything  of  that  son  ?" 

"  1 1 — ^what  should  I  hear  ?  I  would 
fain  loam,  however,  firom  your  uncle 
himself,  what  he  might  like  to  tell  me 
of  his  sorrows— or  i^  indeed,  there  be 
any  chance  that" — 

"  That— what  ?" 

"  That— that  his  son  still  survives." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  I ;"  and  I 
doubt  whether  you  will  learn  mach 
from  my  uncle.  Still  there  is  some- 
thing in  your  words  that  belies  their 
apparent  meaning,  and  makes  me 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


HH 


1849.] 


The  CaxUm.-^Part  XIIL 


659 


siispect  that  you  know  more  than  yon 
will  say." 

«'  Diplomatist  !'*  said  Lady  EUinor, 
half  smiling;  but  then,  her  facesettling 
into  a  serionsness  almost  severe,  she 
added,  ''  It  is  terrible  to  think  that 
a  father  should  hate  his  son  1" 

«'Hatet— Roland^itehisson!  What 
calomnyisthis?" 

'^  He  does  not  do  so,  then !  Assure 
me  of  that ;  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  know 
that  I  have  been  misinformed.  ** 

'^  I  can  tell  you  this,  and  no  more — 
for  no  more  do  I  know— that  if  ever 
the  soul  of  a  father  were  wrapt  up  in 
a  son — ^fear,  hope,  gladness,  sorrow, 
all  reflected  back  on  a  father*s  heart 


from  the  shadows  on  ason*s  life— 
Boland  was  that  father  while  the  son 
Uved  stm." 

"I  cannot  dlsbeUeye  you,"  ex- 
claimed Lady  EUinor,  thou^  in  a 
tone  of  surprise.  ^^  Well,  do  let  me 
see  your  unde." 

'*  I  will  do  my  best  to  induce  him 
to  visit  you,  and  learn  all  that  you 
evidently  conceal  from  me.'' 

Lady  EUinor  evasively  repUed  to 
this  insinuation,  and  i^ortly  after- 
wards I  left  that  house  in  which  I 
had  known  the  hi^piness  that  brings 
the  foUy»  and  the  gnef  that  bequeaths 
the  wisdom. 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 


I  had  always  felt  a  warm  and  al- 
most filial  affection  for  Lady  EUinor, 
independently  of  her  relationship  to 
Fanny,  and  of  the  gratitude  with 
which  her  kindness  inspired  me :  for 
there  is  an  affection  very  peculiar  in 
its  nature,  and  very  high  m  its  de- 
gree, which  results  from  the  blending 
of  two  sentiments  not  often  aUied, 
—'Viz.,  pity  and  admiration.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  admire  the  rare 
gifts  and  great  quaUties  of  Lady  EUi- 
nor, and  not  to  feel  pity  for  the  cares, 
anxieties,  and  sorrows  which  tor- 
mented one  who,  with  aU  the  sensi- 
tiveness of  woman,  went  forth  into 
the  rough  world  of  man. 

My  father's  confession  had  some- 
what impaired  my  esteem  for  Lady 
EUinor,  and  had  left  on  my  mind  the 
nneasy  impression  that  she  had  trifled 
with  his  deep,  and  Roland's  impetu- 
ous, heart.  The  conversation  that 
had  just  passed  aUowed  me  to  judge 
her  with  more  justice — aUowed  me  to 
see  that  she  had  really  shared  the 
affection  she  had  inspired  in  the  stu- 
dent, but  that  ambition  had  been 
stronger  than  love— an  ambition,  it 
might  be,  irregular  and  not  strictly 
feminine,  but  stiU  of  no  vulgar  nor 
sordid  kind.  I  gathered,  too,  from 
her  hints  and  aUnsions,  her  true  ex- 
cuse for  Roland's  misconception  of  her 
apparent  interest  in  himself:  she  had 
but  seen,  in  the  wUd  energies  of  the 
elder  brother,  some  agency  by  which 
to  arouse  the  serener  faculties  of  the 
younger.    She  had  but  sought,  in  the 

VOL.  LXY.— NO.  CCCCrv. 


strange  comet  that  flashed  before  her, 
to  fix  a  lever  that  might  move  the  star. 
Norcould  I  withhold  my  reverence  from 
the  woman  who,  not  being  married 
predselv  from  love,  had  no  sooner 
linked  her  nature  to  one  worthy  of 
it,  than  her  whole  life  became  as 
fondly  devoted  to  her  husband's  as  if 
he  had  been  the  object  of  her  first 
romance  and  her  earUest  affections. 
If  even  her  chUd  was  so  secondary  to 
her  husband— if  the  fate  of  that 
chUd  was  but  regarded  b^  her  as  one 
to  be  rendered  subservient  to  the 
grand  destinies  of  Trevanion — stlU  it 
was  impossible  to  recognise  the  error 
of  that  conju^  devotion  without 
admiring  the  wife,  though  one  might 
condemn  the*  mother.  Turning  from 
these  meditations,  I  felt  a  lover's 
thriU  of  selfish  joy,  amidst  aU  the 
moumfhl  sorrow  comprised  in  the 
thought  that  I  should  see  Fanny  no 
more.  Was  it  true  as  Lady  EUinor 
impUed,  though  delicately,  that  Fanny 
StiU  dierished  a  remembrance  of  me — 
which  a  brief  interview,  a  last  fare- 
weU,  might  re-awaken  too  danger- 
ously for  ner  peace  ?  WeU,  that  was 
a  thought  that  it  became  me  not  to 
indulge. 

What  could  Ladv  EUinor  have 
heard  of  Roland  and  his  son?  Was 
itpossiUe  that  the  lost  Uved  stUl? 
Aaklng  myself  these  questions,  I  ar- 
rived at  our  lodgings,  and  saw  the 
Captain  himseU*  b^ore  me,  busied 
with  the  inspection  of  sundiy  speci- 
mens  of   the   rude  necessuies  an 

2t 


Digitiz^GoOgle 


654 


The  CaxUmt.'-Pmrt  XIII. 


[Jane, 


AnstraUanadv^iiirerreqiiiTes.  There 
stood  the  old  soldier,  bj  the  window, 
examining  narrowly  into  the  temper 
of  hand-saw  and  teaor-saw,  broad 
axe  and  drawing-knife;  and  as  I 
came  np  to  him,  he  looked  at  me  from 
nnder  his  black  brows,  with  gmff 
compassion,  and  said  peevishly — 

*^  Fine  weapcms  th^  for  the  son  of 
a  gentleman  I — one  bit  of  steel  in  the 
shape  of  a  swrard  were  worth  them 
alL" 

''Any  weapon  that  conquers  fiite 
is  noble  in  the  haads  of  a  Wave  man, 
nnde  1'* 

"  The  boy  has  an  answer  for  ereiy- 
thing,"  quoth  the  Captain,  smiling, 
as  he  took  out  his  purse  and  paid  the 
shopman. 

When  we  were  alone,  I  said  to  him 
— "  Uncle,  you  must  go  and  see  Lady 
ElHnor ;  i^e  desires  me  to  tell  you  so.** 

"Pshaw!" 

"YouwiUnotr 

"No!" 

"  Uncle,  I  think  that  she  has  some- 
thing to  say  to  Tou  witii  regard  to— 
to— pardon  me  I— to  my  cousin." 

"To  Blanche?" 

"  No,  no — tothecousinlneFersaw." 

Roland  turned  pale,  and,  siiddng 
down  on  a  chair,  faltered  out — "  To 
him— to  my  son !" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  do  not  think  it  is  news 
that  will  afflict  you.  Unde,  are  you 
sure  that  my  cousin  is  dead  ?" 

"What! — how  dare  you!— ^who 
doubts  it?  Dead— dead  to  me  for 
erer  1  Boy,  would  you  h«?e  him  liye 
to  dishonour  these  gray  ht&n !" 

"Sir,  sir,  foi^give  me— unde,  fbr- 
gire  me :  but,  pray,  go  to  see  Lady 
ElHnor;  fbr  whatever  die  has  to  say, 
I  repeat  that  I  am  sure  it  wiH  be 
nothing  to  wound  you." 


"  Nothhig  to  wound  me— yet  relate 
to  him  r 

It  is  impossiUe  to  convey  to  the 
reader  the  despak  that  was  in  tboee 
words. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  I,  after  a  lon|^ 
pause,  and  in  a  low  voiGe— for  I  was 
awestricken — "perhaps — if  he  be 
dead — ^he  may  have  repented  of  all 
offisnce  to  you  before  he  died." 

"  Bepented  1— ha,  ha !" 

"Or,  if  he  be  not  dead"— 

"  Hush,  boy— hush !" 

"While  there  is  life,  there  ii  hope 
ofrq^tance." 

"  Look  you,  nephew,**  said  the 
Captain,  rising  and  folding  his  arms 
resolutely  on  his  breast — "  look  you, 
I  desired  that  that  name  might  never 
be  breathed.  I  have  not  cursed  my 
son  yet;  could  he  come  to  life — ^the 
curse  might  fall!  You  do  not  know 
whBt  torture  your  words  have  givai 
me,  just  when  I  had  opened  my 
heart  to  another  son,  and  found  ^at 
son  in  you!  With  respect  to  the 
lost,  I  have  now  but  one  prayer,  and 
yon  know  it — ^the  heartbroken  prayer 
—that  his  name  never  more  may  oome 
to  my  ears!" 

As  he  dosed  these  words,  to  which 
I  ventured  no  reply,  the  Captain 
took  long  disordered  lEMdes  across 
the  room;  and  suddei^y,  as  if  the 
space  imprisoned,  or  the  air  stifled 
him,  he  seized  his  hat»  and  hastraed 
into  the  streets.  Beoevering  my  sur- 
prise and  dismay,  I  ran  alter  him ; 
hvi  he  commanded  me  to  leave  him 
to  his  own  Noughts,  in  a  voice  so 
stem,  yet  so  sad,  that  I  had  no  choice 
but  to  obey.  I  knew,  by  my  6wn 
experience,  how  necessary  is  solitude 
hi  the  moments  when  grief  is  strongest 
and  thought  most  troubled. 


CHAPTER  LXXTT. 


Hours  elap6ed,'a&d  liie  Captain  had 
not  returned  home.  I  began  to  fed 
uneasy,  and  went  forth  in  search  of 
him,  though  I  knew  not  whither  to 
direct  my  stqps.  I  thought  it,  how- 
ever, at  least  probable,  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  resist  vidting  Ladv 
EUinor,  so  I  went  first  to  St  Jameses 
Square.  My  suspidons  wwe  correct ; 
the  Captain  had  been  tiiere  two  hours 
before.     Lady  Ellinor  herself  had 


gone  out  shortly  after  the  Captain  left. 
While  the  porter  was  giving  me  this 
hiformation,  a  carriage  stopped  at  the 
door,  and  a  footman,  stepping  up, 
gave  the  porter  a  note  and  a  small 
pared,  seemingly  of  books,  saying 
shnply,  "From  the  Marquis  of 
CasUeton."  At  the  sound  of  that 
name  I  turned  hastily,  and  recognised 
Sir  Sedley  Beaudeeert  seated  m  the 
carriage,  and  looking  out  of  tbt  win- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Caxkm.'^Part  XIIL 


655 


dow  with  a  dejected,  moody  expres- 
j9lon  of  conntenance,  very  di£fermit 
from  his  ordinary  aspect,  except  when 
the  rare  sight  of  a  gray  haur,  or  a 
twinge  of  the  toothache,  reminded 
him  that  he  was  no  longer  twenty- 
five.  Indeed,  the  change  was  so 
great  that  I  exdaimed,  dnbionsly — 
''Is  that  Sir  Sedley  Beandesert?" 
The  footman  looked  at  me,  and 
touching  his  hat  said,  with  a  conde- 
scending smile, — ''  Tee,  sii^-iiow  the 
Marqnis  of  Castleton." 

Then,  fat  the  first  time  since  the 
yonng  lord's  death,  I  remembered  Sk 
Sedley's  expressions  of  gratitade  to 
Lady  Castleton,  and  the  waters  of 
Ems,  ftnr  having  saved  him  from 
*'  that  horrible  marqnisate."  Mean- 
niiile,  my  old  Mend  had  perceived 
me,  exclaiming,— 

''What,  Mr  Caxtcml  I  am  de- 
Hghtedto  see  yon.  Open  the  door, 
Thomas.    Pray  come  in,  come  in." 

lobeyed;  and  the  new  Lord  Castle- 
Um  majie  room  for  me  by  his  side. 

"Are  yon  in  a  hnrry ? '*  said  he ; 
^'ifso,  shiall  I  take  yon  anywhere? — 
if  not,  give  me  half  an  hour  of  yonr 
time,  while  I  drive  to  the  City." 

As  I  knew  not  now  in  what  direc- 
tion, more  than  another,  to  prosecute 
my  search  for  the  Captain,  and  as  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  call  at  onr 
lodgings  to  inquire  if  he  had  not  re- 
turned, I  answered  that  I  should  be 
very  happy  to  accompany  his  lord- 
ship; "though  tiie  City,"  said  I, 
smmng, "  sounds  to  me  strange  upon 
the  lips  of  Sir  Sedley— I  b^  pardon, 
I  should  say  of  Lord— " 

"Don't  say  any  such  thfaig;  let 
me  once  more  hear  the  grateM  sound 
of  Sedley  Beaudesert.  ^ut  the  door, 
Thomas;  to  Gracechurch  Street^ 
Messrs  Fudge  and  Fidget." 

The  carrii^  drove  on. 

"  A  sad  affliction  has  befollen  me," 
stdd  the  marquis,  "  and  none  sympa- 
thise with  me  1 " 

"  Tet  all,  even  unacquainted  with 
the  late  l<n^,  must  have  fdt  shocked 
at  the  death  of  one  so  young,  and  so 
foil  of  promise." 

"  So  fitted  in  eveiy  way  to  bear  the 
burthen  of  the  great  Castieton  name 
and  property,  and  yet  you  see  it 
kmedMm!  Ah !  if  he  had  been  but 
a  simple  gentieman,  or  if  he  had  had 
a  less  conscientious  desire  to  do  his 


duties,  he  would  have  lived  to  a  good 
old  ^;e.  I  know  what  it  is  alr^y. 
Oh,  if  yon  saw  the  piles  of  letters  on 
my  taUel  I  positively  dread  the 
post.  Such  colossal  improvements  on 
the  property  which  the  poor  boy  had 
b^B;nn,  for  me  to  finish.  What  do  you 
think  takes  me  to  Fudge  and  Fidget's  ? 
Sir,  thc^  are  the  agents  for  an  infomal 
coal  mine  which  my  cousin  had  re- 
opened in  Durham,  to  plague  my  Mfo 
out  with  another  thnrty  thousand 
pounds  a-year !  How  am  I  to  i^)end 
tiie  money  ? — ^how  am  I  to  q>end  it  I 
There's  a  cold-Uooded  head  steward, 
irbo  says  tiiat  charity  is  the  greatest 
crime  a  man  in  high  station  can  com- 
mit; it  demoralises  the  poor.  Then, 
becausesomehalf-a-dozenformerssent 
me  a  round-robin,  to  the  efi'eet  that 
their  rents  were  too  higfa^  andl  wrote 
them  word  the  rents  should  be  lower- 
ed, there  was  sneh  a  hullabaloo— you 
would  have  thought  heaven  and  earth 
were  coming  together.  '  If  a  man  in 
the  position  of  the  Marquis  of  C  astie- 
ton  set  the  example  of  letting  land 
below  its  value,  how  could  the  poorer 
squires  intheoountyexist  ?— or,if  they 
did  exist,  what  ii^tice  to  expose 
them  to  the  charge  that  they  w^xt 
grasping  landlords,  vamj^res,  and 
bloodsuckers.  Cleariy,  if  Lord  Cas- 
tleton lowered  his  rents,  Tthey  were 
too  low  already,)  he  stnu»  a  mortal 
blow  at  the  propertv  of  his  neighbours, 
if  they  followed  his  example ;  or  at 
thefar  character,  if  they  did  not.'  No 
man  can  tcdl  how  hard  it  is  to  do  good, 
unless  fortune  gives  him  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  a-year,  and  sm, — 
'Now,  do  good  with  iti'  Sedley  Beau- 
desert  might  f<^ow  his  whims,  and 
all  that  would  be  said  against  him 
would  be,  'Good-natured,  simile 
f^owl'  But  if  Lord  Castieton  follow 
his  whims,  yon  would  think  he  was  a 
second  CatiUne— unsettUng  the  peace, 
and  undermining  the  prosperity,  of  the 
entire  nation  1*^  Here  the  wretched 
man  paused,  and  sighed  heavily; 
tiien,  as  his  thoughts  wandered  into 
a  new  channel  of  woe,  he  resumed, — 
"  Ah,  if  you  could  but  see  tiie  foriom 
great  house  I  am  expected  to  inhabit, 
cooped  up  between  dead  walls,  instead 
of  my  pretty  rooms,  with  the  windows 
fon  on  tiie  park ;  and  the  balls  I  am 
expected  to  rive,  and  the  parliamen- 
taj^  interest  I  am  to  keep  up ;  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


656 


7%e  Caxtom.-^Part  XIIL 


[Jane, 


the  Tillanoas  proposal  made  to  me 
to  become  %  lord  steward,  or  lord 
chamberlain,  because  it  suits  my  rank 
to  be  a  sort  of  a  servant  Oh,  Pisis- 
tratnsl  yon  Ind^  dog— not  twenty- 
one,  and  with,  I  dare  say,  not  two 
hundred  pounds  a-year  in  the  world  1 " 

Thus  bemoanmg  and  bewailing  his 
sad  fortunes,  the  poor  marquis  ran 
on,  till  at  last  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 
of  yet  deeper  despair,— 

^^  And  everybody  says  I  must 
many,  tool— that  the  Castleton  line 
must  not  be  extinct !  The  Beaude« 
sorts  are  a  good  old  family  eno* — 
as  old,  for  what  I  know,  as  the  Cas- 
tletons ;  but  the  British  empire  would 
suffer  no  loss  if  they  sank  into  the 
tomb  of  the  Capulets.  But  that  the 
Castleton  peerage  should  expire,  is  a 
thoueht  of  crime  and  woe,  at  which 
all  tiae  mothers  of  England  rise  in  % 
phalanx !  And  so,  instead  of  visiting 
the  sins  of  the  fathers  on  the  s(ms,  it 
is  the  father  that  is  to  be  sacrificed 
fbr  the  benefit  of  the  third  and  fourth 
generation  I " 

Despite  my  causes  for  seriousness, 
I  could  not  help  laughing ;  my  com- 
panion turned  on  me  a  look  of  re- 
proach. 

**  At  least,'*  said  I,  composing  my 
countenance,  ^^Lord  Castleton  has  one 
comfort  in  his  afflictions — if  he  must 
mmv,  he  may  choose  as  he  pleases." 
"That  is  precisely  what  Sedley  Beau- 
desert  could,  and  Lord  Castleton  can- 
not do/' said  the  marquis  gravdy.  *^The 
rank  of  Sir  Sedley  beaudesert  was  a 
quiet  and  comfortable  nmk— he  might 
marry  a  curate's  daughter,  or  a  duke's 
— and  please  his  eye  or  grieve  his  heart 
as  the  Clarice  took  him.  But  Lord 
Castleton  must  marry,  not  for  a  wiib, 
but  for  a  marchioness, — ^marry  some 
one  who  %ciU  wear  his  rank  for  him, — 
take  the  trouble  of  splendour  off  his 
hands,  and  allow  him  to  retire  into  a 
comer,  and  dream  that  he  is  Sedley 
Beaudesert  once  more  1  Yes,  it  must 
be  so— the  crowning  sacrifice  must  be 
completed  at  the  altar.  But  a  truce 
to  my  complaints.  Trevanion  informs 
me  yon  are  going  to  Australia,— can 
that  be  true?" 

"  Perfectly  true." 

"  They  say  there  is  a  sad  want  of 
ladies  there." 

"  So  much  the  better,— I  shall  be 
jll  the  more  steady." 


"Well,  there's  something  in  th^. 
Have  you  seen  Lady  Ellinor  ?  '* 

"  Tea— this  morning." 

"Poor  womant— a  great  blow  to  her 
— ^we  have  tried  to  console  each  other. 
Fanny,  you  know,  is  staying  at  Otl- 
ton,  in  Surrey,  with  Lady  Castleton, — 
the  poor  lady  is  so  fond  of  her — and  na 
one  has  comforted  her  like  Fanny.'* 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  Miss  Tre- 
vanion was  out  of  town.** 

"  Only  for  a  fow  davs,  and  then  she 
and  Lady  Ellinor  jom  Trevanion  in 
the  north — ^you  know  he  is  with  Lord 

N ,  settling  measures  on  which — 

but  alas,  they  consult  me  now  on  tho^ 
matters — ^force  their  secrets  on  me.  I 
have,  heaven  knows  how  many  votes! 
Poor  me  I  Upon  my  word,  if  Lady 
Ellinor  was  a  widow,  I  should  cer- 
tainly make  up  to  her:  very  clev^* 
woman— nothing  bores  her."  (The 
marquis  yawned—^  Sedley  Beau- 
desert  never  yawned.)  "  Trevanion  has 
provided  for  his  Scotch  secretary,  and 
is  about  to  get  a  place  in  the  Foreign^ 
Office  for  tiiat  young  fellow  Gower, 
whom,  between  you  and  me,  Idon't  like. 
But  he  has  bewitched  Trevanion  1" 

"  What  sort  of  a  person  is  this  Mr 
Gower?— I  remember  you  said  that 
he  was  clever,  and  good-looking." 

"  He  is  both,  but  it  is  not  the  clever- 
ness of  youth ;  he  is  as  hard  and  sar- 
castic as  if  he  had  been  cheated  fifty 
times,  and  jilted  a  hundred!  Neither 
are  his  ffood  looks  that  letter  of  re- 
commendation which  a  handsome  face 
is  said  to  be.  He  has  an  expression 
of  countenance  very  much  like  that  of 
Lord  H^tford's  pet  bloodhound,  when 
a  stranger  comes  into  the  room.  Very 
sleek,  handsome  dog,  the  bloodhound 
is  certainly— wc^-mannered,and  I  dare 
say  exceedingly  tame ;  but  still  you 
have  but  to  look  at  the  comer  of  the 
eye,  to  know  that  it  is  only  the  habit 
of  the  drawing-room  that  suppresses 
the  creature's  constitutional  tendency 
to  seize  you  by  the  throat,  inst^&d  of 
giving  you  a  paw.  Still  this  Mr  Grower 
has  a  very  striking  head— something 
about  it  Moorish  or  Spanish,  like  a 
picture  by  Murillo:  I  half  suspect  that 
he  is  less  a  Gower  than  a  gipsy  1" 

"  What!"— I  cried,  as  I  listened  with 
rapt  and  breathless  attention  to  this 
description.  "  He  is  then  y&rj  dark, 
with  high  narrow  forehead,  features 
slightly  aquiline,  but   very  delicate, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  CaxUms.-^Pari  XIIL 


657 


and  teeth  so  dazzling  that  the  whole 
face  seems  to  sparkle  when  he  smiles^ 
though  it  Is  only  the  Up  that  smiles, 
not  uie  eye." 

"Exactly  as  you  say;  you  have 
Been  him,  then?** 

"  Why,  I  am  not  sure,  shice  you 
Bay  his  name  is  Gower." 

"  He  says  his  name  is  Gower,**  re- 
turned Lord  Castleton,  drily,  as  he 
inhaled  the  Beaudesert  mixture. 

"  And  where  is  he  now  ? — ^with  Mr 
Trevanion?" 

"  Yes,  I  bdieve  so.  Ah  I  here  we 
are—Fudge  and  Fidget  I  But  per- 
haps," added  Lord  Castleton,  with  a 
gleam  of  hope  in  his  blue  eye, — "  per- 
haps they  are  not  at  home  I " 

Alas,  that  was  an  illusiye  "  imagin- 
ing," as  the  poets  of  the  nineteenth 
century  unaffectedly  express  them- 
Belves.  Messrs  Fudge  and  Fidget 
were  never  out  to  such  clients  as  tiie 
Marquis  of  Castleton:  with  a  deep 
sigh,  and  an  altered  expression  of  face, 
the  Victim  of  Fortune  slowly  descended 
the  steps  of  the  carriage. 

"  I  can*t  ask  you  to  wait  for  me," 
said  he;  "  heaven  onlv  knows  how  long 
I  shall  be  kept !  Take  the  carriage 
where  you  will,  and  sendit  backtome." 

"  A  thousand  thuiks,  my  dear  lord, 
I  would  rather  walk— but  you  will  let 
me  call  on  you  before  I  leave  town." 

"Let  you  I— I  insist  on  it.  I  am  still 
at  the  old  quarters,  under  pretence," 


said  the  marquis,  with  a  sly  twinkle 
of  the  eyelid, "  that  Castleton  House 
wants  painting!" 

"  At  twelve  to-morrow,  then?" 

"  Twelve  to-morrow.  Alas !  that's 
just  the  hour  at  which  Mr  Screw,  the 
agent  for  the  London  pr(»>erty,  (two 
squares,  seven  streets,  and  a  lane  1)  is 
to  call." 

"  Ferhiq[)8  two  o^clock  will  suit 
you  better?" 

"  Two !— just  the  hour  at  which 
Mr  Plausible,  one  of  the  Castleton 
members,  insists  upon  telling  me  why 
his  conscience  will  not  let  him  vote 
with  Trevanion!" 

"Three  o'clock?" 

"  Three !— just  the  hour  at  which  I 
am  to  see  the  Secretary  of  the  Trea- 
suiy,  who  has  promised  to  relieve  Mr 
FlMsible's  conscience  1  But  come  and 
dine  with  me— vou  will  meet  the  exe- 
cutors to  the  will!" 

"  Nay,  Sir  Sedley— that  is,  my  dear 
lord— I  will  take  my  chance,  and  look 
in,  after  dinner." 

"  Do  so ;  my  guests  are  not  lively  I 
What  a  firm  step  the  rogue  has !  Only 
twenty,  I  think— twenty !  and  not  an 
acre  of  property  to  plague  him  I"  So 
saying,  the  marquis  dolorously  shook 
his  head,  and  vanished  through  the 
noiseless  mahoganvdoors,behindwhich 
Messrs  Fudge  and  Fidget  awaited  the 
unhappy  man, — ^with  the  accounts  of 
the  gireat  Castleton  coal  mine. 


CHAPTEB  LXXTII. 


On  my  way  towards  our  lodgings, 
I  resolved  to  look  in  at  a  humble 
tavern,  in  the  coffee-room  of  which 
the  Captain  and  myself  habitually 
dined.  It  was  now  i^ut  the  usual 
hour  in  which  we  took  that  meal,  and 
he  might  be  there  waiting  for  me.  I 
had  just  gained  the  steps  of  this  tavern, 
when  a  stage  coach  came  rattling 
along  the  pavement,  and  drew  up  at 
an  inn  of  more  pretensions  than  that 
which  we  favoured,  situated  within 
a  few  doors  of  the  latter.  Aa  the 
coach  stopped,  my  eye  was  caught  by 
the  Trevanion  livery,  which  was  very 
peculiar.  Thinking  I  must  be  deceiv- 
ed, I  drew  near  to  the  wearer  of  the 
livery,  who  had  just  descended  from 
the  roof,  and,  while  he  paid  the  ooach- 
2nan,  gave  his  orders  to  a  waiter  who 


emerged  from  the  inn—"  Half-and- 
half,  cold  without !"  The  tone  of  the 
voice  struck  me  as  familiar,  and,  the 
man  now  looking  up,  I  beheld  the  fea- 
tures of  Mr  Peacock.  Tes,  unquestion- 
ably it  was  he.  Theyhiskers  were  shav- 
ed—there were  traces  of  powder  in  the 
hair  or  the  wig— the  liveiy  of  the  Tre- 
vanions  (ay,  the  very  livery— crest- 
button,  and  all)  upon  that  portly 
figure,  which  I  nad  last  seen  m  the 
more  august  robes  of  a  beadle.  But 
Mr  Peacock  it  was— Peacock  traves- 
tied, but  Peacock  still.  Before  I  had 
recovered  my  amaze,  a  woman  got 
out  of  acabriolet,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  in  waiting  for  the  urivalofthe 
coach,  and,  hurrying  up  to  Mr  Pea- 
cock, said  in  the  loud  impatient  tone 
common  to  the  frdreet  of  the  fair  sex. 


Digitized  by 


Gooizle 


0|l 


658 

when  in  haste — *^  How  late  yon  i 
I  was  jost  going.    I  must  get  back  to 
Oxton  to-night." 

Oxton  —  Miss  Treranion  was 
staying  at  Oxton  I  I  was  now  close 
behind  the  pair— I  listened  with  my 
heart  in  my  ear. 

''So  yon  shall,  my  dear— so  yon 
shall ;  just  come  in,  will  you." 

^'  Ko,  no ;  I  have  only  tea  minutes 
to  catch  the  coach.  Have  you  any 
letter  for  me  from  Mr  Gower?  How 
can  I  be  sure,  if  I  don't  see  it  under 
his  own  hand,  that " — 

'^  Hush  1"  said  Peacock,  sinking  his 
voice  so  low  that  I  could  only  catch 
the  words,  "^  no  nameSf  letter,  pooh, 
rn  tell  you."  He  then  drew  her  apart, 
and  whin)ered  to  her  for  some  mo- 
ments. 1  watched  the  woman's  face, 
which  was  bent  towards  her  compa- 
nion's, and  it  seemed  to  show  quick 
intelligence.  She  nodded  her  head 
more  than  once,  as  if  in  impatient 
assent  to  what  was  said ;  and,  after  a 
shaking  of  hands,  hurried  off  to  the 
cab ;  then,  as  if  a  thought  struck  her, 
she  ran  back,  and  said— 

'*  But  in  case  my  lady  should  not 
go — ^if  there's  any  diange  of  plan  ?  " 

'*  There'll  be  no  change,  you  may 
be  sure:  Positirely  to-morrow— not 
too  early ;  you  understand?" 

•'  Yes,  yes ;  good-by" — and  the  wo- 
man, who  was  dressed  with  a  quiet 
neatness,  that  seemed  to  stamp  her 
profession  as  that  of  an  abl£^,  (black 
cloak,  with  long  cape — of  that  peculiar 
silk  which  seems  spun  on  purpose  for 
ladies' -maids — ^bonnet  to  match,  with 
red  and  black  ribbons,)  hastened  once 
more  away,  and  in  another  moment 
the  cab  drove  off  furioosly. 

What  could  all  this  mean?  By 
this  time  the  waiter  brought  Mr  Pea- 
cock the  half-and-half.  He  despatch- 
ed it  hastily,  and  then  strode  on  to- 
wards a  neighbouring  stand  of  cabrio- 
lets. I  followed  him ;  and  just  as, 
after  be^oning  one  of  the  vehides 
from  the  stand,  he  had  ensconced 
himself  therein,  I  sprang  up  the 
steps  and  placed  myself  by  his  side. 
"Now,  Mr  Peacock,"  said  I,  "you 
will  tell  me  at  onee  how  yon  come  to 
wear  that  livery,  or  I  shall  order  the 
cabman  to  drive  to  Lady  EUinor  Tre- 
vanion's,  and  ask  her  that  question 
mysell" 

'« And  who  the  devil !— Ah,  you're 


7^  Oaxtoiu.^Part  XIII . 


[Jime, 

the  young  gentleman  that  came  to  me 
behbid  the  scenes— I  remember." 

«'  Where  to,  sir?"  asked  the  cabman. 

"To— to  London  Bridge,"  said  Mr 
Peacock. 

The  man  mounted  tiie  box,  and 
drove  on. 

"Well,  Mr  Peacock,  I  wait  your 
answer.  I  guess  by  your  fuse  that  yon 
are  about  to  tell  me  a  fie ;  I  advise 
you  to  speak  the  trntii." 

".I  don't  know  what  bnsineBS  yon 
have  to  question  me,"  said  Mr  Pea- 
cock sullenly;  and,  raising  his  glance 
from  his  own  dendied  fists,  he  suffered 
it  to  wander  over  my  fonn  with  so  vin- 
dictive a  significance  that  I  intermpted 
the  survey  by  saying,  "  Will  you  en- 
counter the  house?  as  tiie  Swan  Inter- 
rogatively puts  it — shall  I  order  the 
cabman  totbive  to  St  James's  Square?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  my  weak  pdntt 
sir ;  any  man  who  can  quote  Will — 
sweet  Will— has  me  on  the  hip,"  ro- 
joined  Mr  Peacock,  smoothing  hia 
countenance,  and  spreading  his  palms 
on  his  knees.  "But  if  a  man  does  fsD 
in  the  worid,  and,  after  keeping  ser- 
vants of  his  own,  is  obliged  to  be  him* 
self  a  servant, 


'  I  will  not  sluLine 


To  tell  j<m  what  I  ■m.**' 

"The  Swan  says,  ^To  tell  you  what 
I  tcHw,'  Mr  Peacock.  But  enough  of 
this  trifling:  who  placed  yon  with  Mr 
Trevanion?" 

Mr  Peacock  looked  down  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then,  fixing  his  eyes  on  me, 
said—"  Well,  I'll  tell  you :  you  asked 
me,  when  we  met  last,  about  a  young 
gentleman— Mr— Mr  Vivian." 

PisiBTRATus. — ^Proceed. 

Pracock. — ^I  know  you  don't  want 
to  harm  him.  Besides,  "  He  hath  a 
prosperous  art,"  and  (me  day  or  other^ 
—mark  my  words,  or  rather  my  friend 
Will's— 

**  He  win  beitride  thii  haitow  worid 
Like  a  Colonoi.*^ 

Upon  my  life  he  will— like  a  Colossaa, 

**  And  we  petty  men — " 

PisuTRATUs  (saoagefy.)  —  Go  on 
with  your  story. 

Pbacock  (tnappithijf,) — ^lam  going 
on  with  it  I  You  put  me  out ;  where 
was  I— oh — ah  ye%,  I  had  just  been 
sold  up— not  a  penny  in  my  pocket ; 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  The  OaxtoM.^Part  XIII. 

and  if  70a  could  have  seen  my  coat- 
jet  that  was  better  than  the  small- 
clothes I  Well,  it  was  in  Oxford 
Street--no,  it  was  in  the  Strand,  near 
the  Lowther— 


659 


**  The  RiA  was  in  the  heaveiui ;  and  the  proud 

day 
Attended,  with  the  plearaxes  of  the  world.*^ 


there  reallj  were  an3rthing  in  them 
to  cause  embarrassment,  tiie  d-devant 
actor  was  too  practised  in  his  profes- 
sion to  exhibit  it  He  merely  smiled, 
and  smoothiqg  jauntily  a  very  tum- 
bled shirt-front,  he  said,  ^^Oh  sir. 


PisiSTRATUS,  (lowering  theglats,) — 
To  St  James's  Squiure? 

Peacock. — ^No,  no;  to  London 
Bridge. 

*<  How  ttfle  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man !  ** 

I  will  go  (M^-^onour  bright.  So  I 
met  Mr  Vivian,  and  as  he  had  known 
me  in  better  days,  and  has  a  good 
heart  of  his  own,  he  says — 

*•  Hozatio, — or  I  do  forget  myselt** 

Pisistratns  puts  his  hand  on  the 
check-string. 

Peacock.  —  I  mean,  (corredmg 
kwuelf) — "Why,  Johnson,  my  good 
fellow." 

PxsiSTRATUB. — Johusou  i^oh  that's 
your  name — ^not  Peacock. 

Pkacock. — Johnson  and  Peacock 
both,  (with  dignUg.)  When  you  know 
the  world  as  I  do,  sir,  you  will  find 
that  it  is  ill  travelling  this  "  naughty 
worid"  without  a  change  of  names  in 
your  portmanteau. 

"Johnson,"  says  he,  "my  good 
fellow,"  and  he  pulled  out  his  purse. 
"Sir," said  I,  "if,  ^exempt  from  public 
haunt,'  I  could  get  something  to  do 
when  this  dross  is  gone.  In  London 
there  are  sermons  in  stones,  certainly, 
but  not  'good  in  everything,' — an 
observation  I  should  take  the  liberty 
of  making  to  the  Swan,  if  he  were  not 
now,  alas!  'the  baseless  fabric  of  a 
vision.'" 

P18I8TBATU8. — ^Take  care ! 

Pbaoook  —  (kmrriedfy.)  —  Then 
says  Mr  Vivian,  "  If  yon  don't  mind 
wearing  a  livery,  till  I  can  provide 
for  you  more  suitably,  my  old  friend, 
there's  a  vacancy  in  the  establishment 
of  Mr  Trevanion."  Sir,  I  accepted  the 
proposal,  and  that's  why  I  wear  this 
livery. 

P1SI8TBATU6.  —  And,  pray,  what 
business  had  you  with  that  young 
woman,  whom  I  take  to  be  Miss 
Trevanion's  maid? — and  why  should 
Bhe  come  fr^m  Oxton  to  see  you  ? 

I  had  expected  that  these  questions 
would  confound  Mr  Peacock,  but  if 


<  Of  this  matter, 
Ii  little  Cnpid'k  eralty  anow  made.* 

If  you  must  know  my  love  affairs, 
that  young  woman  is,  as  the  vulgar 
say,  my  sweetheart." 

"Your  sweetheart!"!  exclaimed, 
greatly  relieved,  and  acknowledging 
at  once  the  probability  of  the  state- 
ment. "  Yet,"  I  added  suspiciously — 
"yet,  if  so,  why  should  she  expect 
Mr  Gower  to  write  to  her?" 

"  You're  quick  of  hearing,  sir ;  but 
though 

'  AU  adoration,  dnty,  and  observance ; 
All  hxmibIeneB8,and  patience,and  impatience,* 

the  young  woman  will  not  marry  a 
livery  servant— proud  creature,  very 
proud  I — and  Mr  Gower,  you  see, 
Imowing  how  it  was,  felt  for  me,  and 
told  her,  if  I  may  take  such  liberty 
with  the  Swan,  that  she  should 

*  Never  Ee  bv  Johnson*s  aide 

With  an  on^et  loiil,* 

fbr  that  he  would  get  me  a  place  in 
the  Stamps !  The  silly  girl  said  she 
would  have  it  in  black  and  white — as 
if  Mr  Gower  would  write  to  her  I 

"And  now,  sir,"  continued  Mr  Pea- 
cock, with  a  simpler  gravity,  "you 
are  at  liberty,  of  course,  to  say  what 
yon  please  to  my  lady,  but  I  hope 
yonli  not  try  to  take  the  bread  out  of 
my  mouth  because  I  wear  a  livery, 
and  am  fool  enough  to  be  in  love  with 
a  waiting- woman — ^I,  sir,  who  could 
have  married  ladies  who  have  played 
the  first  parts  in  l^b— on  the  metro- 
politan stage." 

I  had  nothing  to  say  to  these  repre- 
sentations—  they  seemed  plausible; 
and  though  at  first  I  had  suspected  that 
the  man  had  only  resorted  to  the 
buffooneiy  of  his  quotations  in  order 
to  gain  time  for  invention,  or  to  di- 
vert my  notice  firom  any  flaw  in  his 
narrative,  yet  at  the  dose,  as  the 
narrative  seemed  probable,  so  I  was 
willing  to  believe  that  the  buffoonery 
was  merely  characteristic.  I  content^ 
myself  therefore  with  asking- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


660 


The  CaxUmi, 


"  Where  do  you  come  ftx)in  now  ?** 

"  From  Mr  Trevanion,  in  the  comi- 
tiy,  with  letters  to  Lady  EUinor?" 

^'Oh,  and  so  the  yonng  woman 
knewyou were  coming  to  town?" 

^^  Yes,  sir;  some  days  ago.  Mr 
Trevanion  told  me  the  day  I  should 
have  to  start." 

'*  And  what  do  you  and  the  young 
woman  propose  doing  to-morrow,  if 
there  is  no  change  of  plan  ?" 

Here  I  certainly  thought  there  was 
a  slight,  scarce  perceptible,  alteration 
in  Mr  Peacock's  countenance,  but  he 
answered  readily,  "  To-morrow  ?  a 
litUe  assignation,  if  we  can  both  get 
out;— 

*  Woo  me,  now  I  tm  in  a  holiday  homoor, 
And  like  enongh  to  oonaent.* 

Swan  again,  sir!" 

"Humph!  —  so  then  Mr  Gowcr 
and  Mr  Vivian  are  the  same  person." 

Peacock  hesitated.  ^^ That's  not  my 
secret,  sir ;  *  I  am  combined  by  a  sacred 
vow.*  Tou  are  too  much  the  gentleman 
to  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the 
dark,  and  to  ask  me,  who  wear  the 
whips  and  stripes — I  mean  the  plush 
small-clothes  and  shoulder-knots  — 
the  secrets  of  another  gent,  to  whom 
'  my  services  are  bound.' " 

How  a  man  past  thirty  foils  a  man 
scarcely  twenty  !—!what  superiority 
the  mere  fact  of  living-on  gives  to 
the  dullest  dog !  I  bit  my  lip,  and 
was  silent. 

"  And,"  pursued  Mr  Peacock,  "  if 
you  knew  now  the  Mr  Vivian  you 
mquired  after  loves  you!  When  I 
told  him  incidentallv,  how  a  young 
gentleman  had  come  behind  the  scenes 
to  inquire  after  him,  he  made  me 
describe  yon,  and  then  said,  quite 
mournfully,  *If  ever  I  am  what  I 
hope  to  become,  how  happy  I  shall 
be  to  shake  that   kind   band  once 


-^Part  XIII.  [Jmie, 

more,* — very  words,  sir! — honour 

bright! 

*  I  think  thcre^ne^er  a  man  in  Chrittendoot 

Can  lesser  hide  hia  hate  or  lore  than  heu^ 

And  if  Mr  Vivian  has  some 
reason  to  keep  himself  concealed 
still—if  his  fortune  cv  ruin  depend 
on  year  not  divulging  his  secret  for 
awhile — ^I  can't  think  you  are  the 
man  he  need  fear.    'Pon  my  life, 

*  I  widi  I  waa  ai  snre  of  a  good  dinner/ 

as  tiie  Swan  touchingly  exclaims.  I 
dare  swear  that  wa^  a  wish  often  on 
the  Swan's  lips  in  the  privacy  of  his 
domestic  life!" 

My  heart  was  softened,  not  by  the 
pathos  of  the  much  profaned  and  de- 
secrated Swan,  but  by  MrPeacock's  un- 
adorned repetition  of  Vivian's  words; 
I  turned  my  face  from  the  sharp  eyes 
of  my  companion— the  cab  nowstopped 
at  the  foot  of  London  Bridge. 

I  had  no  more  to  ask,  yet  still  there 
was  some  uneasy  curiosity  in  my  mind, 
which  I  could  hardly  define  to  myself, 
— was  it  not  jealousy?  Vivian,  so 
handsome  and  so  daring — he  at  least 
might  see  the  great  heiress;  Lady 
Ellinor  perhaps  Uiought  of  no  danger 
there.  But — ^I — ^I  was  a  lover  still, 
and — ^nay,  such  thoughts  were  folly 
indeed ! 

"My  man,"  said  I  to  the  ex-come- 
dian, "  I  neither  wish  to  harm  Mr 
Vivian  (if  I  am  so  to  call  him,)  nor 
you  who  imitate  him  in  the  variety  of 
your  names.  But  I  tell  you,  fairly, 
that  I  do  not  like  your  being  in  Mr 
Trevanion's  employment,  and  I  advise 
you  to  get  out  of  it  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. I  say  nothing  more  as  yet, 
for  I  shall  take  time  to  consider  well 
what  you  have  told  me." 

With  that  I  hastened  away,  and 
Mr  Peacock  continued  his  solitary 
journey  over  London  Bridge. 


CHAPTER  LXXVIII. 


Amidst  all  that  lacerated  my  heart, 
or  tormented  my  thoughts,  that  event- 
ful day,  I  felt  at  least  one  joyous 
emotion,  when,  on  entering  our  little 
drawing-room,  I  found  my  uncle  seat- 
ed there. 

The  Captain  had  placed  before  him 
on  the  tame  a  large  Bible,  borrowed 
from  the  landlady.    He  never  travel- 


led, to  be  sure,  without  his  own  Bible, 
but  the  print  of  that  was  small,  and 
the  Captain's  eyes  began  to  fail  hun 
at  night.  So  this  was  a  Bible  with 
large  type ;  and  a  candle  was  placed 
on  either  side  of  it ;  and  the  Captain 
leant  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
both  his  hands  were  tightly  clasped 
upon  his  forehead—- tightly,  as  if  to 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Caxtons.-^Part  XIIL 


661 


shut  out  the  tempter,  and  farce  his 
whole  soul  upon  the  page. 

He  sate,  the  image  of  iron  conrage ; 
in  every  line  of  that  rigid  form  there 
was  resolution.  **  I  wul  not  listen  to 
my  heart;  I  irtff  read  the  Book,  and 
learn  to  snffer  as  becomes  a  Christian 
man.*' 

There  was  snch  a  pathos  in  the 
stem  sufferer's  attitude,  that  it  spoke 
those  words  as  plainly  as  if  his  lips 
had  said  them. 

Old  soldier  1  thou  hast  done  a  soU 
dier*s  part  in  many  a  bloody  field; 
but  if  I  could  maice  visible  to  the 


world  thy  brave  soldier's  soul,  I  would 
paint  thee  as  I  saw  thee  then ! — Out 
on  this  tyro's  hand  I 

At  the  movement  I  made,  the  Cap- 
tain looked  up,  and  the  strife  he  had 
gone  through  was  written  upon  his 
face. 

'^It  has  done  me  good,"  said  he 
simply,  and  he  closed  the  book. 

I  drew  my  chair  near  to  him,  and 
hung  my  arm  over  his  shoulder. 

'' jS'o  cheering  news  then?"  asked 
I  in  a  whisper. 

Roland  shook  his  head,  and  gently 
laid  his  finger  on  his  lips. 


CHAPTUl  LXXIX. 


It  was  impossible  for  me  to  intrude 
upon  Boland's  thoughts,  whatever 
their  nature,  with  a  detail  of  those 
circumstances  which  had  roused  in 
me  a  keen  and  anxious  interest  in 
things  apart  from  his  sorrow. 

Yet,  as  *^  restless  I  roU'd  around  my 
weaiy  bed,"  and  revolved  the  renewal 
of  Vivian's  connexion  with  a  man  of 
character  so  equivocal  as  Peacock,  the 
establishment  of  an  able  and  unscrupu- 
lous tool  of  his  own  in  the  service  of 
Trevanion,  the  care  with  which  he 
had  concealed  from  me  his  change  of 
name,  and  his  intimacy  at  the  very 
house  to  which  I  had  frankly  offered 
to  present  him ;  the  familiarity  which 
his  creature  had  contrived  to  effect 
with  Miss  Trevanion's  maid,  the 
words  that  had  passed  between  them — 
plausibly  accounted  for,  it  is  true,  yet 
still  suspicious— and,  above  all,  my 
painful  recollections  of  Vivian's  reck- 
less ambition,  and  unprincipled  senti- 
ments— nay,  the  effect  that  a  few 
random  words  upon  Fanny's  fortune, 
and  the  luck  of  winning  an  heiress, 
had  sufficed  to  produce  upon  his  heat- 
ed fancy  and  audacious  temper :  when 
all  these  thouffhts  came  upon  me, 
strong  and  vivid,  in  the  darimess  of 
night,  I  longed  for  some  confidant, 
more  experienced  in  the  world  than 
myself,  to  advise  me  as  to  the  course 
I  ought  to  pursue.  Should  I  warn 
Lady  EUinor  ?  But  of  what  ?— the 
character  of  a  servant,  or  the  designs 
of  the  fictitious  Gower  ?  Against  the 
first  I  could  say,  if  nothing  very  posi- 
tive, still  enough  to  make  it  prudent 
io  dismiss  him.    But  of  Gower  or 


Vivian,  what  could  I  say  without,  not 
indeed  betraying  his  confidence— for 
that  he  had  never  given  me — but  with- 
out belyteg  the  professions  of  friend- 
ship that  I  myself  had  lavishly  made 
to  him  ?  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  might 
have  disclosed  whatever  were  his  real 
secrets  to  Trevanion ;  and,  if  not,  I 
might  indeed  ruin  his  prospects  by 
revealing  the  aliases  he  assumed. 
But  wherefore  reveal,  and  wherefore 
warn?  Because  of  suspicions  that 
I  could  not  myself  analyse — suspi- 
cions founded  on  circumstances  most 
of  which  had  already  been  seemingly 
explained  away  ?  Still,  when  morning 
came,  I  was  irresolute  t^hat  to  do ; 
and  after  watching  Boland's  counte- 
nance, and  seeing  on  his  brow  so  great 
a  weight  of  care,  that  I  had  no  option 
but  to  postpone  the  confidence  I  pined 
to  place  in  his  strong  understanding 
and  unerring  sense  of  honour,  I  wan- 
dered out,  hoping  that  in  the  fresh  air 
I  might  re-collect  my  thoughts,  and 
solve  the  problem  that  perplexed  me. 
I  had  enough  to  do  in  sundry  small 
orders  for  my  voyage,  and  commis- 
sions for  Boloing,  to  occupy  me  some 
hours.  And,  this  business  done,  I 
found  myself  moving  westward ;  me- 
chanically, as  it  were,  I  had  come  to 
a  kind  of  half-and-half  resolution  to 
call  upon  Lady  Ellinor,  and  question 
her,  carelessly  and  incidentally,  both 
about  Gower  and  the  new  servant 
admitted  to  the  household. 

Thuslfound  myself  in  Regent  Street, 
when  a  carriage,  borne  by  post-horses, 
whirled  rapidly  over  the  pavement — 
scattering  to  the  right  and  left  all 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  CQxtwu.-^PaH  XIIL 


[Jane, 


humbler  eqoipageB — and  hnrried,  as  if 
on  an  errand  of  life  and  deiUiif  op  the 
broad  thoroughfare  leading  into  Port- 
land Phice.  Bat,  n^;udly  as  the  wheels 
dashed  by,  I  had  seen  distinctly  the 
face  oi  Fanny  Trevanion  in  the  car- 
riage, and  that  face  wore  a  strange 
exi»eBsion,  which  seemed  to  me  to 
speak  of  anxiety  and  grief;  and,  by 
her  side — ^was  not  that  the  woman  I 
had  seen  with  Peacock?  Ididnotsee 
the  lace  of  the;  woman,  bat  I  thought 
I  recognised  the  cloak,  the  bonnet, 
and  pecaliar  tarn  of  the  head.  If 
I  conld  be  mistaken  there,  I  was  not 
mistaken  at  least  as  to  tiie  servant  on 
the  seat  behind.  Looking  back  at  a 
batcher^s  boy,  who  had  jost  esci^ped 
being  ran  over,  and  was  revenging 
himself  by  all  the  imprecations  the 
Diras  of  London  slang  conld  suggest, 
the  face  of  Mr  Peacc^  was  exposed 
in  foil  to  my  gaze. 

My  first  impulse,  on  recovering  my 
surprise,  was  to  spring  after  the  car- 
riage ;  in  the  haste  of  that  impulse,  I 
cried  ''  Stop !"  But  the  carriage  was 
out  of  sight  in  a  moment,  and  my  word 
was  lost  in  air.  After  pausing  for  a 
moment,  full  of  presentiments  of  some 
evil — ^I  knew  not  what — ^Ithen  altered 
my  course,  and  stopped  not  till  I  found 
myself,  panting  and  out  of  breath,  in 
St  James's  Square— at  the  door  of 
Trevanion's  house— -in  the  hall.  The 
porter  had  a  newspaper  in  his  hand  as 
ne  admitted  me. 

"  Where  is  Lady  EUinor  ?  I  must 
see  her  instantly." 

*^  No  worse  news  of  master,  I  hope, 
sbr?*' 

"  Worse  news  of  what  ?— of  whom  ? 
—of  Mr  Trevanion?" 

'^Did  yon  not  know  he  was  sud- 
denly taken  ill,  sir;  that  a  servant 
came  express  to  say  so  last  night. 
laAj  Eilinor  went  off  at  ten  o'clock 
to  join  him." 

'« At  ten  o'clock  last  night  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  the  servant's  account 
alarmed  her  ladyship  so  much." 

"  The  new  servant,  who  had  been 
recommended  by  Mr  Gower?" 

**  Yes,  sir— Henry,"  answered  the 

Eortor  staring  at  me.  "  Please,  sir, 
ere  is  an  account  of  master's  attack 
in  the  paper.  I  suppose  Hairy  took 
it  to  the  office  before  he  came  here, 
which  was  very  wrong  in  him ;  but  I 
am  afraid  he's  a  very  foolish  fellow." 


"  Never  mind  thai,  Miss  Trevaaioo 
— I  saw  her  jost  now — $he  did  not  go 
with  her  Biu>ther;  Where  was  she 
goinff,  then?" 

^^  Why,  sir— but  pray  step  into  tlie 
parlour.^ 

"No,  no— speak." 

"  Why,  sir,  before  Lady  Eilinor  aei 
out,  she  was  afraid  that  there  might 
be  something  in  the  papers  to  alacm 
Miss  Trevanion,  and  so  she  sent  Henxy 
down  to  Lady  Castleton's,  to  beg  her 
ladyship  to  inake  as  light  of  it  as  she 
coold;  but  it  seems  that  Heorj 
blabbed  the  worst  to  Mrs  Mole,—" 

"Who  is  Mrs  Mole?" 

"Miss  Trevanion's  nudd,  sir — a 
new  maid;  and  Mrs  Mole  blabbed 
to  my  young  lady,  and  so  she  took 
fright,  and  insisted  on  coming  to- 
town.  And  Lady  Castleton,  who  is 
ill  herself  in  bed,  could  not  keq[^ 
her,  I  suppose— e^)eciaUv  as  Heniy 
said,  though  he  ought  to  have  known 
better,  ^^at  she  would  be  in  time 
to  arrive  before  my  lady  set  o^* 
Poor  Miss  TrevanioaL  was  so  disap- 
pointed when  she  fbund  hor  mam- 
ma gone.  And  then  she  would  order 
fr'esh  horses,  and  would  go  on^ 
thooffh  Mrs  Bates  (the  housekeeper^ 
you  know,  sLr)  was  very  angiy  with 
Mrs  Mole,  who  encouraged  Miss; 
and—" 

"Good  heavoisl  Why  did  not 
Mrs  Bates  ^  with  her  ?" 

"  Why,  SIT,  you  know  how  old  Mis- 
Bates  is,  and  my  young  lady  is  always 
so  kind  that  she  would  not  hear  of  it^ 
as  she  is  going. to  travd  night  and 
day;  and  Mrs  Mole  said  she  had 
gone  all  over  the  worid  with  her  last 
lady,  and  that — ^" 

"I  see  it  all  Where  is  Mr 
Gower?" 

"Mr  Gower,  sir!" 

"Yes !    Can't  you  answer?  " 

"Why,  with  Mr  Trevamkm,  I  be- 
lieve, sir." 

"In  the  north— what  is  the  ad- 
dress ?" 

"Lord  N ,  C Hall,  near 

W ^" 

I  heard  no  more. 

The  conviction  of  some  villanous 
snare  struck  me  as  vrith  the  swiftness 
and  force  of  Ughtnin^^.  Why,  if  Tre- 
vanicm  were  really  ill,  had  the  fiilse 
servant  concealed  it  from  me?  Why 
suffered  me  to  waste  bis  time,  instead 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


nu  Caxtam.^^art  XIII. 


668 


of  hastening  to  Lady  Ellinor  ?  How, 
if  Mr  Treyfuiion's  sudden  illness  had 
brought  the  man  to  London— how- 
had  he  known  so  long  beforehand  (as 
he  himself  told  me,  and  his  ai^lnt- 
ment  with  the  waiting  w<Hnan  proyed) 
the  day  he  shotdd  arrive?  Why  now, 
if  there  were  no  design  of  whidiMlss 
Trevanion  was  the  olgect — why  so 
finistrate  the  piOTident  foresight  <^ 
her  mother,  and  take  advantage  of 
the  natoral  yearning  of  affection,  the 
quick  impulse  of  youth,  to  hurry  off 
a  girl  whose  very  station  forbade  her 
to  take  such  a  journey  without  suit- 
able protection— against  what  must  be 
the  wish,  and  what  cleariy  were  the 
iostmctions,  of  Lady  Ellinor;?  Alone, 
— ^worse  than  alone  I  Fanny  Tre* 
vanion  was  then  in  the  hands  of  two 
servants,  who  were  the  histruments 
and  confidants  of  an  adventurer  like 
Vivian;  and  that  oonferenee  between 
tiiose  savants — those  bnAuai  refer- 
ences to  the  morrow,  coupled  with  the 
name  Vivian  had  assumed— needed 
the  unerring  instniets  of  love  more 
cause  for  terror— terror  the  darker, 
becaose  the  exact  shape  it  should 
assume  was  obscure  and  indistinct  ? 

I  sprang  from  the  house. 

I  hastened  into  the  HaymariLCt, 
summoned  a  tabriolei,  drove  home  as 
Cast  as  I  could  (for  I  had  no  money 
about  me  for  the  journey  I  meditat- 
ed ;)  sent  the  servant  of  the  lodg- 
ing to  engage  a  chaise-aad-four, 
rushed  into  the  room,  where  Boland 
fortunate^  still  was,  and  exclaimed— 
*^  Uncle,  come  with  me  1— take  iMMiey, 
plenty  of  money  I— ^Some  villany  I 
know,  though  I  cannot  exj^ahi  it,  has 
been  practised  on  the  Trevanions. 
We  may  defeat  it  yet.  I  will  teU 
you  all  by  the  way — come,  come  1" 

''CertaiBlv.  But  villany  1— and 
to  people  of  sudi  a  station— pooh— 
eoUect  yourself.  Who  is  the  villain?*' 

''  Oh,  the  man  I  have  loved  as  a 
Mend — the  man  whom  I  myself 
hdped  to  make  known  to  Trevanion 
—Mviin— Vivian!" 

""Vivianl— ah,  the  yesthl  have 


heard  you  speak  of.  But  how? — 
villany  to  whom — to  Trevanion?" 

**  xou  torture  me  with  your  ques- 
tions. Listen— this  Vivian  (I  know 
him) — ^be  has  introduced  into  the 
house,  as  a  servant,  an  agent  capable 
of  any  trick  and  fnnd ;  that  servant 
has  aided  him  to  win  over  her  maid- 
Fanny's — Miss  Trevanion's.  Miss 
Trevanion  is  an  heiress,  Vivian  an 
adventurer.  My  head  swims  round, 
I  cannot  explain  now.  Ha  I  I  will 
write  a  line  to  Lord  Castleton— tell 
him  my  foars  and  suspicions— he  will 
follow  us,  I  know,  or  do  what  ie 
best" 

I  drew  ink  and  paper  towards  me, 
and  wrote  hastily.  My  undo  came 
round  and  locked  over  my  shoulder. 

Suddenly  he  exclaimed,  seising  my 
arm,  ^^  Gower,  Gower.  What  name 
is  this  ?    You  said  '  Vivian.' " 

"  Vivian  or  Gower— the  same  per- 
son." 

My  uncle  hurried  out  of  the 
room.  It  was  natural  that  he  should 
leave  me  to  make  our  joint  and  brief 
preparations  for  departure. 

I  finished  my  letter,  sealed  it,  and 
when,  five  minutes  afterwards,  the 
chaise  came  to  the  door,  I  gave  it  to 
the  ostler  who  accompanied  the  horses, 
with  injunctions  to  deliver  it  forthwith 
to  Lord  Castleton  himself. 

My  uncle  now  descended,  and 
walked  firom  the  threshold  with  a 
firm  stride.  ^^  Comfort  yourself,"  he 
said,  as  he  entered  the  chaise,  into 
which  I  had  already  thrown  myself. 
"  We  may  be  mistaken  yet." 

(^  Mistaken  I  You  do  not  know  this 
young  man.  He  has  every  quality  that 
could  entangle  a  girl  iike  Fanny,  and 
not,  I  fear,  one  sentiment  of  honour 
that  would  stand  in  the  way  of  hla 
ambition.  I  judge  him  now  as  bv 
a  revelation— too  late— oh  Heavens,  if 
it  be  too  later 

A  groan  broke  from  Boland's  Ups. 
I  heard  in  it  a  proof  of  his  sympathy 
with  my  emotion,  and  grasped  his 
hand ;  it  was  as  cold  as  the  hand  of 
the  dead. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


<>64 


The  JRamance  ofRntaiaM  Histaty. 


[Jane, 


THE  BOBCAKCE  OF  RUSSIAN  HI6TOST. 


Professor  Shaw,  in  the  preface  to 
fais  translation  of  Lajetchnikoifs  strik- 
ing and  interestingromance,  The  Here- 
tic, notices  the  shyness  of  English  no- 
velists in  approaching  Bossian  ground. 
^^How  happens  it,"  he  says,  ''that 
Bnssia,  with  her  reminiscences  of  two 
centnriesand  a  half  oCTartar  dominion 
— of  her  long  and  bloody  struggles 
with  the  Ottoman  and  the  Pole,  whose 
territories  stretch  almost  from  the 
arctic  ice  to  the  eqnator,  and  whose 
«emi-oriental  diadem  bears  inscribed 
npon  it  snch  names  as  Peter  and 
Catherine— should  have  been  passed 
over  as  incapable  of  supplying  rich 
materials  for  fiction  and  romance?*' 
The  question  is  hard  to  answer,  and 
appears  dQubly  so  after  reading  the 
third  volume  of  Monsieur  A.  Blanc*s 
recent  work  on  political  conspiracies 
and  executions, — a  volume  sufficient 
of  itself  to  set  those  romance-writing 
who  never  wrote  romance  before.  It 
is  a  trite  remark,  that  romances,  having 
history  for  their  groundwork,  derive 
their  attraction  and  interest  far  more 
from  the  skill  and  genius  of  their 
authors  than  from  the  importance  of 
the  period  selected,  and  from  the  his- 
torical prominence  of  the  characters 
introduced.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
name  writers  in  whose  handis  a 
Bayard  or  a  Duguesdin,  a  Cromwell 
or  a  Charles  of  Sweden,  would  ap- 
pear tame  and  commonplace.  Our 
readers  need  not  to  be  reminded  of 
others  of  adifferent  stamp,— and  of  one, 
great  amongst  all,  the  rays  of  whose 
ffenius  have  formed  a  halo  of  gran- 
deur, glory,  or  fascination  around  per- 
sons to  whom  history  accords  scarcely 
a  word.  But  such  genius  is  not  of 
every-day  growth ;  and  to  historical 
romance- writers  of  the  calibre  of  most 
of  those  with  whom  the  British  pub- 
lic is  now  fain  to  cry  content,  the 
mere  devising  of  a  plot,  uniting  toler- 
able historical  fidelity  with  some 
claim  to  originality,  is  an  undertaking 
in  which  they  are  by  no  means  uni- 


formly successful.  To  snch  we  re- 
commend, as  useful  auxiliaries,  M. 
Blanc's  octavos,  and  especially  the 
one  that  suggests  the  present  article. 
English  and  Scottish  histories,  if  not 
used  up,  have  at  least  been  very 
handsomely  worked,  and  have  fabiy 
earned  a  little  tranquillity  upon  their 
shelves :  the  wars  of  the  Stuarts,  in 
particular,  have  contributed  more 
than  their  quota  to  the  literary  fund. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  the  history 
of  France,  so  fertile  in  striking  events, 
and  so  largely  made  use  of  by  purvey* 
ors  to  the  circulating  libraries.  Italy 
and  l^ain,  and  even  Pdand,  have 
not  escaped ;  whilst  the  East  has  been 
disported  over  in  every  directicm  by 
the  accomplished  Morier,  and  a  swarm 
of  imitators  and  inferiors.  But  what 
Englishman  has  tried  his  hand  at  a 
Bussian  historical  romance?  We 
strive  in  vain  to  call  to  mind  an  origi- 
nal novel  in  our  language  founded  on 
incidents  ofBussian  history — although 
the  history  of  scarcely  any  nation  in 
the  world  includes,  in  the  same  space 
of  time,  a  greater  number  of  strange 
and  extraordkiary  events. 

M.  Blanc's  book,  notwithstanding 
a  certain  ahr  of  pretension  in  the  style 
of  its  getting  up,  in  the  very  mediocre 
illustrations,  and  in  the  tone  of  the 
introductoiy  pages,  is  substantially 
an  unassuming  performance.  It  is  a 
compilation,  and  contains  little  that 
is  not  to  be  found  printed  elsewhere 
At  the  same  time,  perhaps  in  no  other 
work  are  the  same  events  and  details 
thrown  together  in  so  compact  and 
entertaining  a  f<Nrm.  The  author 
troubles  us  with  few  comments  of  his 
own,  and  his  reserve  in  this  respect 
enhances  the  merit  of  hb  book,  for 
when  he  departs  from  it  his  views  are 
somewhat  strained  and  ultra-French. 
But  his  murative  is  spiritedly  put 
together;  and  although  it  ¥^11  be 
found,  upon  comparison,  that  he  has, 
for  the  most  part,  futhfully  adhered 
to  high  historical  authorities,  to  the 


HiiUnre  dti  Contpiratiam  et  dti  Exeeutiom  PolUiquei,  ccmprenant  VHittolre  dit 
SoeUth  8eerHe$  depuU  let  Umpt  le$plu$  nculh  ju$qu^h  nosjoun.  Par  A.  Blakc. 
4  Volt.    Volume  the  Third :   Kussia. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


JTie  Romance  of  Russian  History, 


exdadon  of  mere  traditioDaiy  matter 
and  of  ima^ative  embellishmenty  yet 
the  dramatic  interest  of  the  subject  is 
itself  so  vivid,  that  the  book  reads 
like  a  romance. 

The  Bossian  history,  even  to  onr 
own  day,  is  a  sanguinary  and  cmel 
chronicle.  Its  brevity  is  its  best  ex- 
cuse. The  yonth  of  the  connfiy  ex- 
tenuates the  crimes  of  its  children. 
For  if  the  strides  of  Bossia  have  been 
vast  and  rapid  in  the  paths  of  civili- 
sation, we  most  bear  in  mind  that  it 
is  but  very  recently  the  progress  be- 
gan. '•^  At  the  commencement  of  the 
eighteenth  century,"  says  M.  Blanc, 
'4t  had  certainly  been  very  difficult  to 
foresee  that  fifty  years  later  a  magni- 
ficent and  polite  court  would  be  es- 
tablished on  the  Gulf  of  Finland; 
that  soldiers  raised  on  the  banks  of 
the  Wolga  and  the  Don  would  rank 
with  the  best  disciplined  troops ;  and 
that  an  empire,  of  itself  larger  than 
all  the  rest  of  Europe,  wodd  have 
passed  from  a  state  of  barbarism  to 
one  of  civilisation  as  advanced  as 
that  of  the  most  favoured  European 
states."  This  is  overshooting  the 
mark,  and  is  an  exaggeration  even  a 
hundred  years  after  the  date  assigned. 
If  the  civilisation  of  St  Petersburg 
has  for  some  time  vied  with  that  of 
London  or  Paris,  Bussia,  as  a  country, 
has  even  now  much  to  do  before  she 
can  be  placed  on  a  footing  with  Eng- 
land or  France  in  refitment  and 
intellectual  cultivation.  It  is  difficult 
to  institute  a  comparison  in  a  case 
where  the  nature  of  the  countries,  the 
characters  of  the  nations,  and  the 
circumstances  of  their  rise,  are,  and 
have  been,  so  dissimilar.  The  inves- 
tigation might  easily  entail  a  disqui- 
sition of  a  length  that  would  leave 
very  little  room  for  an  examination 
of  the  book  in  hand.  And  all  that 
we  seek  in  the  present  instance  to 
establish  will  be  readily  conceded — 
namely,  that  in  the  throes  of  a  country 
accomplishing  with  unprecedented  ra- 
pidity the  passage,  usually  so  gradual, 
from  barbarism  to  civilisation,  some 
palliation  is  to  be  found  for  the  faults 
and  vices  of  her  nobles  and  rulers, 
and  for  the  blood-stains  disfiguring 
her  annals. 

The  early  history  of  Bussia,  from 
the  foundation  of  the  empire  by 
Bnrik  to  the  reign  of  Ivan  IV.— that  is 


665 

to  say  from  the  middle  of  the  ninth  to 
the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century — 
is  a  chaos  of  traditions  and  uncertain- 
ties, which  M.  Blanc  has  deemed  un- 
favourable to  the  project  of  his  book, 
and  which  he  accordingly  passes  over 
in  an  introductory  chapter.  His  busi- 
ness, as  may  be  gathered  from  his 
title-page,  is  with  the  internal  con- 
vulsions of  the  countiy  ;  and  these 
are  difficult  to  trace,  until  Ivan  Vas- 
slUvitch  threw  off  the  Tartar  yoke, 
and  his  grandson  Ivan  IV.,  sumamed 
the  Tyrant,  or  the  Terrible,  began, 
with  an  iron  hand,  it  is  true,  to 
labour  at  the  regeneration  of  his 
country.  A  bloodthirsty  despot, 
Bussia  yet  owes  him  much.  The 
people,  demoralised  bv  Tartar  rule, 
needed  rigid  laws  and  severe  treat- 
ment Ivan  promulgated  a  code  far 
superior  to  any  previously  in  use. 
He  invited  to  Bussia  foreign  me- 
chanics, artists,  and  men  of  science  ; 
established  the  first  printing-press 
seen  in  the  country;  and  liad  the 
foundation  of  Bussian  trade,  by  a 
treaty  of  commerce  with  our  own 
Elizabeth.  By  the  conquest  of  Kazan, 
of  the  kingdom  of  Astracan,  and  of 
districts  adjacent  to  the  Caucasus,  he 
extended  the  limits  of  the  Bussian 
empire.  But  his  wise  enactments 
and  warlike  successes  were  sullied  by 
atrocious  acts  of  cruelty.  In  Novo- 
gorod,  which  had  ofiended  him  by  its 
desires  for  increased  liberty,  he  raged 
for  six  weeks  like  an  incensed  tiger. 
Sixty  thousand  human  beings,  accord- 
ing to  some  historians,  fell  victims  on 
that  occasion.  Similar  scenes  of 
butchery  were  enacted  in  Tver,  Mos- 
cow, and  other  cities.  His  cruel  dis- 
position was  evident  at  a  very  early 
age.  He  was  but  thirteen  years  old 
^en  he  assembled  his.  boyarins  to 
inform  them  that  he  needed  not  their 
guidance,  and  would  no  longer  submit 
to  thehr  encroachments  on  his  royal 
prerogative.  '^  I  ought  to  punish  you 
all,"  he  said,  "  for  all  of  you  have 
been  guilty  of  offences  against  my 
person ;  but  I  will  be  indulgent,  and 
the  weight  of  my  anger  shall  fall  only 
on  Andrew  Schusky,  who  is  the  worst 
amongst  you."  Schusky,  the  head  of 
a  family  which  had  seized  the  reins 
of  ffovemment  during  the  Czar's  mi- 
nority, endeavoured  to  justify  himself. 
Ivan  would  not  hear  him.  ^^  Seise  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


666 

bind  him,"  cried  tlie  l)oj-deapot, 
<(  and  throw  liiin  to  my  dogs.  Thej 
liaye  a  right  to  the  repast."  A  padk 
of  ferocious  homids,  which  Ivan  took 
pleasure  in  rearing,  were  brought 
under  the  window,  and  irritated  hy 
every  possible  means.  When  they 
were  sufficiently  exasperated,  Andrew 
Schusky  was  thrown  amongst  them. 
His  cries  increased  their  fury,  and 
his  body  was  torn  to  shreds  and  de- 
voured. 

Ivan  dead,  his  son  Feodor,  who 
should  have  been  sumamedthe  Feeble, 
as  his  fietther  was  the  Terrible,  as- 
cended the  Russian  throne.  He  was 
the  last  of  Burik*s  descendants  who 
occupied  it.  Even  during  his  rdgn 
he  recognised  as  reg^t  of  the  empire 
his  brother-in-lawy  the  insolent  and 
ambitious  Boris  Godunof.  Possessed 
of  the  real  power,  this  man  coveted 
the  external  pomp  of  royalty.  The 
crown  was  his  aim,  and  to  its  posses- 
sion after  the  death  of  Feodor^  who, 
as  weak  of  body  as  of  mind,  was  not 
likely  to  be  long-lived,  only  one  ob- 
stacle existed.  This  was  a  younger 
son  of  Ivan  IV . ,  a  child  of  a  few  years 
old,  named  Dmitri  or  Demetrius. 
The  existence  of  tiiis  infant  was  a 
slight  bar  to  one  so  unscrupulous  as 
G^unof,  a  bar  which  a  poniard  iBOon 
removed.  Feodor  died,  and  his  bro- 
ther-in-law accepted,  with  much  show 
of  reluctance,  the  throne  he  had  so 
long  desired  to  filL  For  the  first 
thne  for  many  years  he  breathed 
freely ;  his  end  was  attained ;  he 
thought  not  of  the  many  crimes  that 
had  led  to  it,  of  the  spilt  l^ood  of  his 
child-victim,  or  of  that  of  two  hun- 
dred of  the  inhabitants  of  Ouglitch, 
judicially  murdered  by  his  orders  in 
revenue  of  the  death  of  Demetrius' 
assasfflns,  whom  the  people  had  risen 
upon  and  slain ;  the  tears  of  Ivan's 
widow,  now  childless  and  confined  in 
a  convent,  and  of  her  whole  family, 
condemned  to  a  horrible  captivity, 
troubled  not  his  repose  or  his  cbeuns 
of  future  prosperi^.  But  whilst  he 
exulted  in  security  and  splendour,  his 
joy  was  suddenly  troubled  by  a  strange 
retribution.  Demetrius  was  dead;  of 
that  there  could  be  no  doubt ;  his  emis- 
sary's dagger  had  done  the  work  too 
surely^but  the  name  of  ^e  rightfhl 
heir  survived  to  make  the  usurper 
tremUe.    It  is  curious  to  observe  in 


The  Romance  o/RuaiaM  Histary, 


[Jma, 


how  many  details  GodnnoTs  own 
crimes  contributed  to  his  paniahmeot. 
His  maacBuvTes  to  suppress  the  fiKU 
of  Demetrius'  deatii,  by  rtopphig 
couriers  and  falsifying  degmtcfaes,  so 
as  to  make  it  appear  that  the  jovBg 
prince  had  killed  himself  with  ft  koife 
m  a  fit  of  epilepsy,  had  thrown  a  eort 
of  my^ary  and  ambiguity  orer  Ae 
^Hiole  transaction,  fiivounU>le  to  Ae 
designs  and  pretensions  of  impoeton. 
One  of  the  maar  dark  deeds  l^  whidi 
he  had  paved  his  way  to  the  aupieme 
power  was  the  removal  of  the  melro- 
p(^tan  of  the  Russian  church,  irtio 
was  deposed  and  shot  up  in  a  ooDvvot, 
where  it  was  pretly  generalW' bettered 
he  met  a  violent  death.  In  liea  of 
this  dignitary,  previoualy  the  eole 
chief  of  tiie  RussUm  church,  (SodaBof 
created  a  patriarchate,  and  Jeraniak 
of  Constantinople  went  to  Moecow  to 
instal  the  first  patriarch,  whose  name 
was  Job.  This  prelatCL  whilst  Tkit- 
ingtheoonvent  or  Tchudo^  was  sCrod 
by  the  intelligence  of  a  voong  monk 
named  Gregory  Otrepief  ot  Airepiei; 
who  could  read,  then  a  rare  aceom- 

aihrnent,  and  who  diowed  great  rea- 
essofwit.  The  patriarch  took  this 
youth  into  his  service  as  secietaiy, 
and  often  carried  him  with  him  wImb 
he  went  to  visit  the  Caar.  Denied 
by  the  briUlanoy  of  the  court,  and 
perceiving  the  ignoraace  and  incapa- 
city of  many  high  personages,  Otre- 
pief  conceived  the  audadons  destn  of 
elevating  himsetf  above  tiiose  to  vniom 
he  felt  hims^  already  fhr  sepeika  in 
ability.  He  was  acquainted  wiHi  the 
details  of  the  death  of  young  Deme- 
trius:  and  firom  some  old  servantsof  the 
Caanna  Mary  he  obtained  particulan 
of  the  character,  qualities,  and  tastes 
of  the  deceased  prince,  all  of  wldok 
he  careftdly  noted  down,  as  well  as 
the  names  and  tides  of  the  officers  and 
attendants  who  had  been  attached  to 
his  person.  Having  prepired  aad 
studied  his  part,  he  asked  leave  to 
return  to  his  convent.  Hiis  was 
granted.  His  feUow-monks  wondered 
to  see  him  thus  abandon  the  adran* 
tageous  prospects  held  out  to  him  by 
the  fiftvour  of  ihe  patriarch. 

**  What  should  I  become  by  ranala* 

ing  at  court?"  replied  Otrqii^  witk 

a  laugh:  ^^a  bisnop  at  most,   and 

I  mean  to  be  Caar  <n  Moscow.** 

At  first  this  passed  as  a  Joke ;  bat 


Digitized  by 


Gor 


1849.] 


The  Exmumce  of  BuBtUm  Histanf, 


667 


Otrepief,  either  throngli  bravado,  or 
because  it  formed  part  of  his  scheme, 
repeated  it  so  often,  that  it  at  last 
came  to  the  ears  of  the  Czar  himself, 
who  said  the  monk  most  be  mad.  At 
the  same  time,  as  he  knew  bj  experi- 
ence that  the  nsorpation  of  the  throne 
was  not  an  impossible  thing,  he  order- 
ed, as  an  excessiye  precaation,  that 
the  boaster  should  be  sent  to  a  remote 
convent.  Otrepief  set  out,  but  on  the 
road  he  seduced  his  escort,  consisting 
of  two  monks.  By  large  promises  he 
prevailed  with  them  to  acoompanj 
nim  to  Lithuania,  where  many  enemies 
of  Godunof  had  taken  refuge.  Ac- 
ccntiing  to  the  custom  of  the  times, 
the  travellers  passed  the  nights  in 
roadside  monasteries,  and  in  every  cell 
that  he  occupied  Otrepief  wrote  upon 
the  walls — *^  I  am  Demetrius,  son  of 
Ivan  IV.  Although  believed  to  be 
dead,  I  escaped  firom  my  assassins. 
When  I  am  upon  my  fiither's  throne 
I  will  recompense  the  generous  men 
who  now  show  me  hospitality.''  Soon 
the  report  spread  hi  and  wide  that 
the  Caarowita  Demetrius  lived,  and 
had  arrived  in  Lithuania.  Otr^ief 
assumed  a  layman's  dress,  left  his 
monkish  adherents— one  of  whom 
agreed  to  bear  the  name  his  leader 
now  renounced— and  loesented  him- 
self as  the  son  of  Ivan  IV.  to  the 
Zi^KMrian  Cossacks,  amongst  whom  he 
soon  acquired  the  military  habits  and 
knowledge  idiich  he  deemed  essential 
to  the  success  of  his  darinff  sdiemes. 
After  a  campaign  or  two,  which,  judg- 
ing fipom  the  character  of  hiis  new 
associates,  were  probaUy  mere  bri- 
gand-like expeditions  in  quest  of  pil- 
age,  Otepiet  resumed  the  cowl,  and 
entered  tne  service  of  a  powerM 
noble  named  Vichnevetski,  whom  he 
knew  to  have  been  ffreatly  attadied  to 
Ivan  IV.  Preten&ff  to  be  danger- 
ously ill,  he  asked  for  a  confessor. 
After  receiving  absdution :  "  I  am 
about  to  die,"  he  said  to  the  piest ; 
'*  and  I  entreat  you,  holy  &ther,  to 
have  me  buried  with  the  honours  due 
to  the  son  of  the  Caar."  The  priest, 
a  Jesuit,  (the  Jesuits  were  then  all- 
powerful  in  Pdand,)  asked  the  mean- 
ing of  these  strange  words,  which 
O^ief  decUned  telling,  but  said  th^ 
would  be  explained  after  his  death  by 
a  letter  beneath  his  jhIIow.  This 
letter  the  astonished  Jesuit  to<A  an 


opportunity  to  purloin,  and  at  the 
same  time  he  perceived  on  the  sick 
man's  breast  a  gold  cross  studded  with 
diamonds  —  a  present  received  by 
Otrepief  when  secretary  to  the  patri- 
arch. In  all  haste  the  Jesuit  went  to 
Vichnevetski;  they  opened  the  letter, 
and  gathered  from  its  contents  that 
he  who  had  presented  himself  to  them 
as  a  poor  monk  was  no  other  than 
Demetrius,  son  of  Ivan  IV.  Vich- 
nevetski had  in  his  service  two  Rus- 
sians who  had  been  soldiers  of  Ivan. 
Led  to  the  sick  man's  bedside,  these 
declared  that  they  perfectly  recognised 
in  him  the  Csarowits  Demetrius; 
first,  by  his  features— although  they 
had  not  seen  him  since  his  childhood 
— and  afterwards  by  two  warts  upon 
his  face,  and  by  an  inequality  in  the 
length  of  his  arms. 

The  Jesuits,  never  negligent  of  op- 
portunities to  increase  their  power, 
saw  in  the  pretender  to  the  caardom 
a  fit  instrument  fbr  the  propagation 
of  Romanism  in  Russia.  They  en- 
listed Sigismund  king  of  Poland  in 
the  cause  of  the  false  Demetrius,  who 
was  treated  as  a  prince,  and  lodged  in 
a  palaoe.  Thence  he  negotiated  with 
the  pope's  nuncio,  who  gave  him  as- 
surance  of  the  support  of  all  Catholio 
Europe  in  exchange  for  his  promise  to 
unite  Russia  to  the  Latin  church.  An 
army  of  Poles  and  Russian  reftigees 
was  raised,  and  the  southern  provinces 
of  Russia  were  inundated  with  florid 
proclamations,  in  which  the  Joys  of  an 
earthly  paradise  were  offered  to  all 
who  espoused  the  cause  of  their  In- 
timate sovereign,  Demetrius.  The 
Don  Cossad^s,  whose  robberies  had 
been  recently  checked  bv  Godunof, 
flocked  to  the  pretender's  banner,  and 
so  formidable  was  the  army  thus  col- 
lected, that  the  Cear  began  heartily 
to  regret  having  paid  such  small  at- 
tention to  the  words  of  the  monk 
Otrepief.  The  Ukraine  declared  for 
the  self-styled  son  of  Ivan  IV. ;  the 
voev6da  of  Sandomlr,  whose  daugh- 
ter he  had  promised  to  marry,  ac- 
knowledged him  as  his  prince ;  towns 
submitted,  and  fortresses  opened  their 
gates  to  the  impostor,  now  hi  full 
march  upon  Moscow.  Blinded  by 
success,  Otrepief  fancied  himself  invin- 
cible; and,  with  scarcely  fifteen  thou- 
sand soldiers,  he  hurried  to  meet  the 
Muscovite  army,  fifty  thousand  strongi 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TTie  Bimance  of  Russian  History. 


6G8 

and  provided  with  a  formidable  artil- 
lery. Beaten,  his  undisciplined  forces 
dispersed,  and  he  himself  escaped 
death  by  a  nuracle ;  bat  his  courage 
was  still  undaunted.  After  a  few 
days,  daring  which  he  slept  upon  the 
snow,  and  subsisted  upon  a  few  gndns 
of  barley,  he  succeeded  i|i  rallying  his 
scattered  bands.  These  became  the 
nucleus  of  a  new  army ;  and  at  the 
very  moment  that  Grodunof,  rejoicing 
at  his  victory,  prepared  to  chastise 
the  nobles  compromised  in  the  rebel- 
lion, he  heard  that  his  enemy  was 
agahi  afoot,  more  formidable  than 
ever.  Farious  at  the  news,  the  Czar 
addressed  reproaches  and  menaces  to 
his  generals,  whom  he  thus  completely 
alienated;  and  thenceforth  he  was 
surrounded  by  enemies.  A  sudden 
illness  soon  afterwards  carried  him 
off,  giving  him  scarcely  time  to  pro- 
claim his  son  Feodor  his  successor. 
Court  and  clergy,  people  and  army, 
ptud  homage  to  the  young  Czar. 
Amongst  others,  the  general-in-chief 
of  the  army  took  the  oath  of  fidelitv ; 
but  no  sooner  was  he  again  at  the 
head  of  his  troops,  than  he  negotiated 
with  Otrepief,  and  went  over  to  him 
with  all  his  forces.  A  few  days  after- 
wards the  pretender  was  in  Moscow. 
He  strangled  Feodor,  and  proclaimed 
himself  Czar.  Never  had  an  impostor 
played  his  part  with  greater  skill  and 
such  complete  success.  He  had  the 
art  even  to  obtain  his  recognition 
from  Ivan's  widow.  He  recalled  her 
relations,  exiled  since  Godunofs  usur- 
pation, restored  them  their  property 
and  loaded  them  with  honours,  and 
then  sent  word  to  Mary  that  he  would 
be  to  her  a  good  son  or  a  severe  mas- 
ter, as  she  chose.  The  Czarina  ac- 
knowledged him  as  her  son,  and  was 
present  at  his  coronation. 

Notwithstanding  the  strength  of 
this  evidence,  a  noble,  named  Basil 
Shusky  or  Zuiski,  —  of  the  familpr 
whose  chief  IvanlV.  had  thrown  to  his 
bounds, — still  contended  against  the 
usurper.  He  had  himself  seen  the 
corpse  of  Ivan's  son  Demetrius,  and 
he  declared  as  much  to  his  friends  and 
partisans,  whom  he  offered  to  head 
and  lead  against  the  impostor.  Be- 
fore his  plans  were  ripe,  however,  ho 
was  arrested  and  brought  to  trial. 
Otrepief  offered  to  pardon  him  if  he 
would    name   his    accomplices,  and 


Pme. 


publicly  admit  that  he  had  lied  is 
stating  that  he  had  seen  the  dead 
body  of  the  son  of  Ivan  IV. 

^^  I  will  retract  nothing,**  was 
Shusky's  firm  reply;  "for  I  have 
spoken  the  truth :  the  man  who  now 
wears  the  crown  of  the  Czar  Is  a  rile 
impostor.  I  know  the  fate  reserved 
for  me ;  but  those  you  uselessly  urge 
me  to  betray  will  revenge  my  death, 
and  the  usurpj^  shall  fall." 

As  he  persisted  in  his  courageous 
assertions,  the  judges  ordered  him  to 
be  put  to  the  torture.  The  execu- 
tioner tied  his  hands  behind  him 
and  placed  upon  his  head  an  iron 
crown,  bristling  internally  with  sharp 
points;  then,  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  he  struck  the  top  of  the 
crown,  and  blood  streamed  over  the 
victim's  face. 

Confloss  your  guilt!"   said  the 


^he  intrepid  Shusl^  repeated  his 
asseveration  of  OtrepieTs  imposture. 
The  jud^  signed  to  the  executioner, 
who  agam  clapped  a  heavy  hand  upon 
the  iron  diadem.  But  si^ering  only 
augmented  the  energy  of  the  heroic 
Muscovite,  who  continued,  as  long  as 
consciousness  remained  in  his  tortured 
head,  to  denounce  the  false  Czar.  At 
last,  when  the  whole  of  the  forehead 
and  the  greater  part  of  the  skull  were 
bared  to  the  bone,  he  fainted  and  was 
removed.  The  terrible  crown  had 
been  pressed  down  to  his  eyes.  He  was 
condemned  to  decapitation;  but  Otre- 
pief pardoned  him  upon  the  scaffold, 
and,  some  time  afterwards,  was  impru- 
dent enough  to  take  him  into  favour  and 
make  him  his  privy  counsellor.  Shusky 
had  vowed  revenge,  and  waited  only 
for  an  opportunity.  This  was  accele- 
rated by  Otrepief's  fancied  security. 
One  morning  tiie  false  Demetrius  was 
roused  by  alarm-bells,  and,  on  looking 
from  a  window,  he  beheld  the  palace 
surrounded  by  a  host  of  armed  con- 
spirators. The  doors  were  speedily 
forced;  pursued  from  room  to  room 
by  overwhelming  numbers,  his  clothes 
and  the  doors  through  which  he  fled 
riddled  with  balls,  the  Czar  at  last 
leaped  from  a  window,  and,  notwith- 
standing serious  injuries  received  in 
falling,  he  reached  a  guardhouse  occu- 
pied by  the  Strelitz.  The  post  was 
soon  surrounded  by  an  armed  and 
menacing  crowd ;  but  the  officer  com- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Romance  of  Russian  History. 


mandiDg  declared  he  would  defend  his 
soyereigQ  with  his  life.     ^ 

"  He  whom  you  call  your  sovereign 
is  a  monk  who  has  usurped  the 
crown,''  said  Shusky  to  the  officer. 

^'  He  is  the  son  of  the  CzarinaMary,'* 
was  the  reply. 

^^  The  Czarina  herself  declares  him 
an  impostor.*' 

'^  Show -me  her  written  declaration 
to  that  e£fect,  and  I  will  give  him  up ; 
but  only  on  that  condition." 

Shudky  ran  to  the  convent  where 
Mary  lived  in  a  kind  of  semi-captivity, 
told  her  what  was  passing, — that  the 
capital  was  in  his  power,  and  that  she 
could  not  now  refuse  to  proclaim  the 
imposture  of  the  wretch  who  had  com- 
pelled her  to  recognise  him  as  her  son. 
Hary  yielded  the  more  easily  that  her 
timorous  conscience  reproached  her 
with  the  falsehood  by.  which  she  had 
confirmed  an  adventurer  in  the  im- 
perial dignity ;  she  signed  and  sealed 
the  declaration  demanded,  and  Shusky 
hastened  with  it  to  the  officer  of  Stre- 
litz.  Otrepiefwas  given  up.  Shusky 
assembled  some  bovarins  and  formed 
a  tribunal,  of  which  he  himself  was 
president,  and  before  which  the  Czar, 
thus  rapidly  cast  down  from  the 
throne  to  which  his  address  and 
courage  had  elevated  him,  was  forth- 
with arraigned. 

^^  The  hour  of  expiation  is  come," 
said  Shusky.  '^  The  head  you  so  bar- 
barously mutilated  has  never  ceased 
to  ponder  vengeance.  Monk  Otrepief, 
confess  yourself  an  impostor,  that 
God,  before  whom  you  are  about  to 
appear,  may  have  pity  on  your  soul." 

**  I  am  the  Czar  Demetrius,**  replied 
Otrepief,  with  much  assurance:  "  it  is 
not  the  first  time  that  rebellious  sub- 
jects, led  astray  by  traitors,  have 
dared  lay  hands  on  the  sacred  person 
of  their  sovereign;  but  sudi  crimes 
never  remain  unpunished." 

^^  Ton  would  gain  time,"  replied 
Shusky ;  "  but  you  will  not  succeed ; 


G69 

tion,  was  there  abandoned  with  out- 
rage and  mutilation.  His  death  was 
the  signal  for  the  massacre  of  the 
Poles,  whom  Otrepief  had  always  fa- 
voured, affecting  their  manners,  and 
selecting  them  for  his  body-guard. 
Moscow  just  then  contained  a  great 
number  of  those  foreigners ;  for  Ma- 
rina, daughter  of  the  voev6da  of  San- 
domir,  hi^  arrived  a  few  days  before 
for  her  nuptials  with  the  Cfzar,  and 
had  been  closely  followed  by  the  King 
of  Poland's  ambassadors,  with  an 
armed  and  numerous  suite.  After  an 
orgie  at  the  palace,  the  Poles  had 
committed  vanous  excesses,  beating 
peaceable  citizens  and  outraging 
women,  which  had  greatly  exasperated 
the  people.  Besides  this,  their  reli- 
g^onrendered  them  odious;  andscarcely 
had  the  false  Demetrius  fallen  when 
the  Russian  priests  and  monks  raised 
the  cry  of  massacre.  With  shouts  of 
"  Down  with  the  Pope ! "  and  "  Death 
to  the  heretics  I"  they  spread  through  * 
the  city,  pointhig  out  to  the  people 
the  dwelliuffs  of  the  Poles,  whose  doors 
were  already  marked  by  the  conspira- 
tors. It  was  a  St  Bartholomew  on  a 
small  scale.  Blood  flowed  for  six 
hours  in  the  streets  of  Moscow:  more 
than  a  thousand  Poles  were  slaugh- 
tered ;  and,  when  the  work  was  done, 
the  murderers  repaired  to  the  churches 
to  thank  Ood  for  the  success  of  theur 
enterprise.  Shusky  was  proclaimed 
Czar  by  the  will  of  the  people,  which, 
at  that  moment)  it  would  not  have 
been  safe  to  thwart. 

The  brilliant  success  of  one  im- 
postor, temporary  though  it  had 
proved,  soon  raised  up  others.  Shus- 
ky was  no  sooner  on  the  throne  than 
the  report  spread  that  Czaf  Demetrius 
had  not  been  shot — that  a  faithful  ad- 
herent had  suffered  death  in  his  stead. 
And  a  runaway  serf,  Ivan  Bolotnikof  by 
name,  undertook  to  personate  the  de- 
funct impostor.  But  although  he  col- 
lected a  sort  of  army  of  Strelitz, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


670 


The 


^Utttmm  Bmioqf. 


Pn 


battle,  in  wWch  T^Uaterflki  WM  kiUed, 
and  beai^^ed  Tonia,  in  wfakk  Bolot- 
nikof  and  the  otiier  chiefii  of  Ibt  revolt 
kad  lAat  themseivea  ip.  ^'The  be* 
iieged,"  sagrs  M.  BbuK,  "^  defionded 
themselrea  yigarowiy ;  bat  Shultf, 
bj  the  adfioe  ef  a  ebild^  wba  was 
aasaraay  btm  wiik  tiM  genhu  ef  de- 
Btraetkmt  alepped  the  eeiffse  of  tbe 
Ovpa,  1^  seant  of  a  dike  made 
bdow  the  ^mrxL,  tbrongh  which  tte 
liTer  lk>wed.  The  tapographioal 
poBitkm  of  the  town  was  iich  that  fai 
a  few  boors  it  was  completely  imder 
water.  Many  of  the  inhabitants  were 
drowned;  defence  became impoeaible; 
and  Bokbilkof;  seiaed  by  his  mati- 
noitt  fdllowens  waa  even  np  to 
Shisky.  Tbifl  second  ftOse  Demetrios 
was  fidrthwith  sbot ;  bnt  bis  fiOa  did  net 
discQforage  a  third  impostor,  wbos  fike 
hispredece88or,oommandedarmies,  but 
never  nacbed  the  throne.  Fromfirst 
to  last,  no  kss  than  aeven  candidates 
'  appeared  for  the  name  and  Inrtbiighit 
oflyan's  murdered  son.  Three  of  thiun 
were  promptly  enuhed;  tiie  aerenth 
andacionsly  asserted  that  he  miited  in 
his  person  not  only  the  tme  Demetrins, 
whom  Godimof  had  assassinated,  bnt 
also  the  one  whom  Shnricy  had  dragged 
from  the  dirone,  and  two  of  the  ral>- 
seqoent  impostors.  This  was  radier 
a  strong  dose  eren  for  Cossacks  to 
swallow;  bnt  these  gentlemen  rejo&eed 
at  the  prospect  of  booty,  afifectod  to 
credit  uie  tale,  sod  bore  the  preten- 
der's banner  to  within  a  short  distance 
of  Moscow.  There  his  caicer  termi- 
nated. ACk>ssackdiie(wbokadoften 
aeen  Otrepief;  findins  himaelf  in  the 
presence  of  the  sevenui  Demetrins,  de- 
dared  akrad  that  he  was  not  tbe  Czar 
he  had  served,  arrested  tiie  impostor 
with  his  own  hand,  and  lumg  kim  en 
a  neigkbonring  tree. 

Tke  annals  of  this  period  of  Bnssbn 
history  are  pamftd  from  the  atrocities 
they  record ;  and  M.  Btenc  is  pro* 
di^  of  horrors.  The  intenral  of  a 
quarter  of  a  centuy  between  the  ex- 
tiDcdMi  of  the  Une  of  Borik  and  the 
aoooesion  of  the  Romanoff  dynasty,  still 
paramonnt  in  Russia,  WIS  oecnpied  by 
omstant  straggles  between  nsvpen 
and  pretenders,  none  of  whom  drenied 
of  a  mQder  fate  than  death  for  liie 
foe  who  foil  into  thefar  luuids.  And 
happy  was  the  yanqnished  drief  who 
asaqpied  with  a  prompt  andmerafid 


dei^  by  axe  or  bnllet  Tbe  neat 
hideous  toitnres  were  pstt  in  praetfea, 
eitber  for  tbe  extortfon  of  confesrionsy 
erforifae  gratification  of  nmMoe.  Svem 
Shusky,  whom  we  have  shown  endnr- 
big  with  noUe  foiliinds  tiw  agonising^ 
pressure  of  the  iron  crown,  leaned  aoa 
mnccy  from  sufiering.  Hia  treateient 
of  an  enthusiastic  boyaxin,  sent  by 
thethkdfolse  Denralrniato  snnmm 
him  to  vacate  the  throse,  wm  sndi  as 
Red  Indians  or  Spanish  inqaWtaa 
might  have  shadderad  to  witnsss.  It 
is  recorded,  hi  all  its  horribie  detaiiB, 
at  page  ^  ef  the  ifMlkpm  ifat  OPMpi- 
rafioMi,  <&c.  The  tertnre  of  indM- 
dnals,  whidi  was  of  frequent  oeeor- 
rence,  was  varied  from  tune  to  tune 
by  the  massacre  fd  nndtitades.  We 
have  mentioned  that  of  the  Poles,  b 
1611,  after  Skn^s  dethronement,  it 
wasthetnmoftheMnseovitea.  Tbe 
Poles  haviag  seised  Moscow,  iiiHtfid 
that  Vbdisians,  son  of  die  King  of 
Pdand,  should  be  eleoted  Czac  Tbe 
nobles  consented,  but  tbe  patriaacb 
steadily  refused  his  consent;  and,  by 
the  law  of  tiie  land,  his  oppeabkm 
mdHfied  the  election.  Thereupon  tiia 
Poles  ran  riot  m  tim  city,  plimderiogv 
mnrdevfaig,  and  ravishiag;  and  at 
kst,  unsheathing  the  sword  liar  a  gen^ 
end  daughter,  twenty  thonaand  men, 
women,  and  children  fdl  in  one  day 
boneaih  the  mnrderous  staeL  A  Mus- 
covite anny  tiien  closely  blockaded 
the  pbu^ :  and  tbe  Poios  were  rednoed 
to  llie  greatest  extremity  of  fkmine. 
Th^  at  last  surrendered  on  condition 
of  thdr  lives  bemg  spared,  notwMi- 
standing  which  oompiaet  many  were 
massacred  l^tbe  Coesadok  ^And 
yet,"  says  M.  Blanc,  **  tiie  aspect  of 
tiie  town  was  wdl  cakmlated  to  exdte 
oompaadon  rather  than  hatred.  In 
tiie  streets  the  cadaverous  and  ema- 
ciated inhabitants  kx^ed  like  spec- 
tres ;  in  the  honses  were  the  remains 
of  tuidean  anhnals,  fragments  of  re- 
pasts horriUe  to  imagine ;  and  what 
IS  still  more  frightful,  pertiiq>s  niq)re- 
cedented,  salting  tubs  were  founds 
JiUtd  with  mtnuxH^ptmL 

It  was  nnder  the  rdgn  of  Alexis, 
the  second  Romanoff  and  father  of 
Peter  the  Qreat,  timt  there  appeared 
in  Russia  ike  saost  extraorainary 
robber tfaeworM  oversaw.  Hedaimed 
not  to  be  a  Caar  or  tkesen  of  a  Caar ; 
the  Demetdus  mask  wsB  oat  of  data^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


Idid.] 


7%e  BomamcB  iff  Rnsntm  J^itwf^ 


671 


ni  one  real  aad  aaotiier  pretended 
son  of  Otrquef  md  Maiina  had 
been  executed  bj  order  of  Alexis.  The 
sew  adyentnrer  ww  a  connnon  Cos- 
sack from  the  Don,  who  went  by  his 
own  name  of  Stenka.  Rasfai,  and  to 
whom  M.  I^anc  attributes,  perhaps 
with  a  Ihde  exaggeration,  the  ambi- 
ti(m,  conrage,  and  ftrocity  of  a  Ta- 
merlane, fii  tiioee  days  the  Rnssiaa 
territory  was  by  no  means  fiee  fiDm 
robbers,  who  pillaged  canmms  of 
merchandise,  but  generally  respected 
the  property  of  the  Czar  and  the  prin- 
cipal nobles,  lest  they  should  make 
themselyes  poweiM  enemies.  Bazin's 
first  act  was^to  throw  down  the  glove . 
to  his  sovereign.  He  seized  a  con- 
voy belongisg  to  tiie  court,  aad  hmig 
some  g«itiemen  who  endeavoured  to 
detodit.  The  fame  of  his  intrepidity 
and  success  brought  him  many  fbl- 
lowers,  and  soom  he  was  at  the  head 
of  an  army.  ''  He  embaiked  on  the 
Caspian  Sea,  and  cruised  along  its 
]Gtoes,  frequently  landing  and  sdzing 
hnmenae  booty.  At  the  mout^  of  the 
Yaik  he  was  met  by  an  ofllcer  of  the 
Cui%  seat  by  the  voev6da  of  As- 
trachan  to  offer  him  and  his  coanpa- 
nions  a  free  pardon  on  condition  of 
tfaehr  discontinuinff  thehr  robberies. 
Baafair^ilied  that  he  wasno  robber, 
but  a  conqueror ;  that  he  made  war, 
and  ssifered  none  tofldi  inrospect 
towards  him.  And  to  prove  his  words, 
he  hung.the  officer,  and  drowned  the 
men  of  his  escort  A  numerous  body 
of  Strelita  was  then  mat  against  him. 
Barin  beat  1^  Strelitz,  seised  the 
town  of  Tatskoi,  massacred  the  garri- 
son and  the  inhabitaiits,  and  passed 
tiie  whrter  Itore  unmolested.  In  the 
ming  he  marched  into  Per^.** 
^ere  he  accumulated  immense  booty, 
but  was  at  hi^  expelled  by  a  general 
rising  of  the  popmation.  On  his  re- 
turn to  Russia  he  was  soon  surrounded 
by  troops ;  but  even  then,  such  was 
the  terror  of  his  name,  the  Rus- 
sian ffenend  granted  him  a  capitida- 
tion,  by  which  he  and  his  men  were 
permitted  to  retke  to  their  native 
provinces,  taking  their  plunder  with 
tiiem;  and  their  security  was  guaran- 
teed so  long  as  they  abstain^  fKmi 
aggression.  This  scandalous  convoi- 
tion  was  ratified  by  Alexis,  but  was 
m>t  long  adhered  to  by  the  bandit 
With  vHiom  the  Czar  thus  meanly 


condeseended  to  treat  as  an  equal. 
Btenka*s  next  campaign  was  even 
more  successftil  than  the  previous  one. 
Bodies  of  troqn  deserted  to  him,  and 
several  towns  ibU  into  his  power; 
amongst  others,  that  of  Astracan, 
where  frightftd  scenes  <tf  violence  and 
murder  were  enacted — ^Razin  himself 
parading  the  streets,  intoxicated  with 
brandy,  and  stabl^  all  he  met.  He 
was  mardiing  upon  Moscow,  with  the 
avowed  iiMaitiim  of  dethroning  the 
Czar,  when  he  sustained  a  reverse, 
and,  after  fighting  like  a  lion,  was 
made  prisoner,  and  sent  in  f(Btter9  to 
the  city  he  had  expected  to  enter  in 
triumph.  TakBTL  before  Alexis,  he 
replied  boldly  and  hau^tily  to  the 
Czar's  reproaches  and  threats.  The 
only  anxiety  he  showed  was  to  know 
what  manner  of  deatii  he  was  to  suf- 
fer. He  had  heard  that,  in  the  previous 
year,  an  obscure  robber  and  amassin, 
who  pillaged  convents  and  churehes, 
had  been  cut  into  pieces  of  half  a 
fiuRcr^  breadth,  beginning  at  the  toes. 
This  baibarous  pu^i^ment,  of  which 
several  instances  are  cited  in  M. 
Blanc's  bo(^,  was  known  as  the  "  tor- 
tureof  the  ten  thousand  pieces.''  ^But,'' 
exdaimed  Stenka  Razin,  with  a  sort 
of  terror,  so  horrible  did  this  death 
appear  to  hhn,  ^  I  am  no  robber  of 
monks  1  I  have  conmianded  armies. 
I  have  made  peace  with  the  Czar, 
tiierefore  I  Itad  a  right  to  make  war 
upon  him.  Is  there  not  a  man 
amongst  you  Ixrave  enough  to  split 
my  head  with  a  hatchet?  "  The  Stre- 
litz  guards,  to  wltom  these  words 
were  addressed,  refhsed  the  .friendly 
oflke,  and  Rasin  heard  himself  con- 
demned to  be  quartered  alive.  He 
seemed  resigned,  as  if  he  considered 
this  deaft  an  endund}le  medium  be- 
tween the  decapitation  he  had  im- 
plored of  his  judges  and  the  barbarous 
mindog  he  had  been  led  to  expect. 
But  his  eneigy  forsook  him  on  the 
scafiold,  and  the  man  who  had  so 
often  confhmted  and  inflicted  death, 
received  it  in  a  swooning  state. 

The  characters  of  few  sovereigns 
admit  of  beingjudged  more  variously 
tiian  that  of  Peter  I.  of  Russi%  sur- 
named  the  Qreat.  According  to  the 
point  of  view  whence  we  contemplate 
him,  we  behold thehero  orthe  savage; 
tiie  wise  legislator  or  the  lawless  ty- 
rant ;  the  patient  pursuer  of  sdenoe 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Ramtmee  o/Rutsian  Histarp. 


-672 

•or  the  dissolnte  and  heartless  de-^ 
banchee.  In  the  long  chapter  given' 
to  his  romantic  and  eventfnl  reign,  M. 
Blanc  shows  him  little  fkvonr.  In  a 
work  treating  of  conspiracies  and  ex- 
ecutions, the  characters  of  the  sove- 
reigns introduced  are  naturally  not 
exhibited  under  their  most  amiable 
aspect,  especially  when  those  sove- 
reigns are  Russian  czars  and  czarinas, 
to  whom  lenity  has  generally  been 
less  familiar  than  severity,  and  pardon 
than  punishment.  The  pen  of  Vol- 
taire has  done  much  for  the  reputa- 
tion of  Peter  the  Great,  who  to  us  has 
always  appeared  an  overrated  person- 
age. Historians  have  vaunted  his 
exploits  and  good  deeds,  till  his  crimes 
and  barbarities  have  been  lost  sight 
of  in  the  glitter  of  panegyric.  The 
monarch  who  could  debase  himself  to 
the  level  of  an  executioner,  beheading 
his  rebel  subjects  with  his  own  hand, 
and  feasting  his  eyes  with  the  spec- 
tacle of  death  when  he  himself  was 
weary  of  slaying ;  who  could  condemn 
his  wife,  repudiated  without  cause,  to 
the  frightful  torture  of  the  knout,  and 
sign  the  order,  which  it  is  more  than 
suspected  he  himself  executed,  for  the 
death  of  his  own  son — may  have  been 
great  as  a  warrior  and  a  legislator, 
but  must  ever  be  execrated  as  a  man. 
Peter  was  certainly  an  extraordinary 
compound  of  vices  and  virtues.  His 
domestic  life  will  not  bear  even  the 
most  superficial  investigation,  and  M. 
Blanc  has  ripped  it  up  unmercifully. 
The  great  reformer— we  might  almost 
say  the  founder— of  the  mighty  em- 
pire of.  Russia,  the  conqueror  of 
Charles  of  Sweden,  was  a  drunkard 
and  gross  sensualist,  a  bad  father,  a 
cruel  and  unfaithful  husband.  Indeed 
some  of  his  acts  seem  inexplicable 
otherwise  than  by  that  ferocious  insa- 
nity manifest  in  more  than  one  of  his 
descendants.  Even  his  rare  impulses 
of  mercy  were  apt  to  come  too  late  to 
save  the  victim.  As  illustrating  one 
of  them,  an  incident,  nearly  the  last 
event  of  Peter's  life,  is  given  by  M. 
Blanc,  in  more  minute  detail  than  we 
ever  before  met  with  it.  Peter's 
whole  life  was  a  romance ;  but  this 
is  assuredly  one  of  its  most  romantic 
episodes.  A  short  time  before  his 
death,  according  to  M.  Blanc,  although 
other  writers  fix  the  date  some  years 
earlier,  Peter  was  violently  smitten  by 


[June, 


the  charms  of  a  young  girl  named 
Ivanowa.  Although  tenderly  attach- 
ed, and  about  to  be  married  to  an 
officer  of  the  regiment  of  Schonvaloff, 
she  dared  not  oppose  the  Czar's 
wishes,  but  became  his  mistress. 
Peter,  who  took  her  repugnance  f<nr 
timidity,  fancied  himself  beloved,  and 
passed  much  of  his  time  in  her  society, 
in  a  charming  cottage  in  which  he  had 
installed  her  at  one  of  the  extremities 
of  St  Petersburg.  He  had  enriched 
her  family,  who  were  ignorant,  how- 
ever, of  her  retreat.  Her  betrothed, 
whose  name  was  Demetrius  Daniloff, 
was  in  despair  at  her  disappearance^ 
and  made  unceasing  efforts  to  discover 
her,  but  all  in  vain,  until  Ivanowa, 
having  made  a  confidant  of  a  Livonian 
slave,  had  him  conducted  to  her  pre- 
sence. The  lovers'  meetings  were 
then  fi^quent,  so  much  so,  that  Peter 
received  intelligence  of  them.  "  His 
anger  was  terrible;  he  roared  like  a 
tiger. 

"'Betrayed!  betrayed  everywhere 
and  always  1'  cried  he,  striding  wildly 
about  the  room,  and  striking  his  brow 
with  his  clenched  fist.  '  OhT  revenge  I 
revenge ! ' 

"  Before  the  close  of  day  he  left 
the  palace,  alone,  wrapped  in  a  coarse 
cloak,  his  feet  in  nailed  shoes  whose 
patches  attested  thek*  long  services, 
his  head  covered  with  a  fox-ekin  cap 
which  came  down  over  his  eyebrows 
and  half  concealed  his  ejes.  He 
soon  reached  Ivanowa's  house,  where 
the  lovers  deemed  themselves  per- 
fectly secure,  for  the  Caar  had  spread 
a  report  of  his  departure  for  Moscow. 
Moreover,  the  faithftil  Livonian  slave 
kept  watch  in  the  antechamber,  to 
give  an  alarm  at  the  least  noise. 
Peter  knew  all  this,  and  had  taken 
his  measures  accordingly.  Open- 
ing an  outer  door  with  a  key  of 
his  own,  he  bounded  into  the  ante- 
room, upset  the  slave,  and,  with  a 
kick  of  his  powerful  foot,  burst  the 
door  that  separated  him  from  the 
lovers.  All  this  occurred  with  the 
speed  of  liffhtning.  Daniloff  and 
Ivanowa  had  scarce  tune  to  rise  from 
thehr  seats,  before  the  Czar  stood  over 
them  with  his  drawn  sword  in  his 
hand.  Ivanowa  uttered  a  cry  of 
terror,  fell  on  her  knees,  and  fainted. 
Prompt  as  the  Czar,  Daniloff  bared 
his  sabre  and  threw  himself  between 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


The  Romance  of  Russian  History, 


bis  mistress  and  Peter.  The  latter 
lowered  his  weapon.  ' 

"  *  No,*  he  said,  *  the  revenge  were 
too  brief.' 

"He  opened  a  window  and  cried 
hourra!  At  the  signal,  a  hundred 
soldiers  crowded  into  the  house. 
Mastering  his  fnrj,  the  Czar  ordered 
the  yonng  officer  to  be  taken  to 
prison,  there  to  receive  one  hundred 
blows  of  the  haitogues  or  sticks. 
Ivanowa  was  also  confined  until  the 
senate  should  decide  on  her  fate. 
The  next  day  Daniloff  received  his 
terrible  punishment.  Before  half  of 
it  had  been  inflicted,  his  back,  from 
the  loins  to  the  shoulders,  was  one 
hideous  wound,"  &c.  «S:c.  We  omit 
the  revolting  detail3.  "  Nevertheless 
the  executioners  continued  to*strike, 
and  the  hundred  blows  were  counted, 
without  a  complaint  from  the  sufferer. 
The  unfortunate  Daniloff  had  not  even 
fainted;  he  got  up  alone,*  when  un- 
tied, and  asked  to  have  his  wounds 
carefully  dressed. 

"  '  I  have  need  to  live  a  short  time 
longer,'  he  added." 

Meanwhile  Ivanowa  was  brought 
before  the  senate,  and  accused  of 
high  treason  and  of  trying  to  dis- 
cover state  secrets  —  a  charge  of 
Peter's  invention.  The  supple  senate, 
created  by  the  Czar,  condemned  her 
to  receive  twenty- two  blows  of  the 
knout  in  the  presence  of  her  accom- 
plice Daniloff,  already  punished  by 
the  emperor's  order.  On  the  day 
appointed  for  the  execution,  Peter 
stood  upon  the  bdcony  of  his  winter 
palace.  Several  battalions  of  infantry 
marched  past,  escorting  the  unfortiv;; 
nate  Demetrius,  who,  in  spite  of  the 
frightful  sufferings  he  still  endured, 
walked  with  a  steady  step,  and  with 
a  firm  and  even  joyful  countenance. 
Surrounded  by  another  escort,  was 
seen  the  young  and  lovely  Ivanowa, 
half  dead  with  terror,  supported  on 
one  side  by  a  priest  and  on  the  other 
by  a  soldier,  and  letting  her  beautiful 
head  fall  firom  one  shoulder  to  the 
other,  according  to  the  impulse  given 
it  by  her  painful  progress.  Even 
Peter's  heart  melted  at  the  sight. 
Re-entering  his  apartment,  he  put  on 


673 

the  ribbon  of  the  order  of  St  Andrew, 
threw  a  cloak  over  his  shoulders,  left 
the  palace,  sprang  into  a  boat,  and 
reached  the  opposite  side  of  the  river 
at  the  same  time  as  tiie  mournful 
procession  which  had  crossed  the 
bridge.  Making  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  he  dropped  his  doak,  took 
Ivanowa  in  his  arms,  and  imprinted 
a  kiss  upon  her  brow.  A  murmur 
arose  amongst  the  people,  and  sud- 
denly cries  of  "  pardon  "  were  heard. 

"  The  knights  of  St  Andrew  their 
enjoyed  the  singular  privilege  that  a 
kiss  given  by  them  to  a  condenmed 
person,  deprived  the  executioner  of 
his  victim.  This  privilege  has  en- 
dured even  to  our  day,  but  not  with- 
out some  modification. 

^^  Daniloff  had  recognised  Peter. 
He  approached  the  Czar,  whose  evexy 
movement  he  had  anxiously  watchedf, 
stripped  off  his  coat,  and  rent  the 
blooay  shirt  that  covered  his  shoul- 
ders. 

'^  ^  The  man  who  could  suffer  thus,^ 
he  said,  *  knows  how  to  die.  Czar, 
thy  repentance  comes  too  late  ! 
Ivanowa,  I  go  to  wait  for  thee  !' 
And  drawing  a  concealed  poniard^ 
he  stabbed  himself  twice.  His  death 
was  instantaneous.  Peter  hurried 
bade  to  his  palace,  and  the  stupified 
crowd  slowly  dispersed.  Ivanowa 
died  shortly  afterwards  in  the  con- 
vent to  which  she  had  been  permitted 
to  retire." 

If  we  are  frequently  shocked,  in  the 
course  of  M.  Blanc's  third  volume,  by 
the  tyrannical  and  brutal  cruelty  of 
the  Russian  sovereigns,  we  are  also 
repeatedly  disgusted  by  the  servility 
and  patient  meanness  of  those  who 
suffered  from  it.  We  behold  Mus- 
covite nobles  of  high  rank  and  de- 
scent, cringing  under  the  wanton  tor- 
ments inflict^  on  them  by  their 
oppressor,  and  submitting  to  degra- 
dations to  which  death,  one  would 
imagine,  were,  to  any  free-spirited 
man,  fifty  times  preferable.  As  an 
example,  we  will  dte  the  conduct 
of  a  Prince  Galitzin,  who,  after  long 
exile  in  Germany,  ^here  he  had 
become  a  convert  to  the  Romish 
church,  solidted  and  obtained  per- 


•  The  victim 
poBiiion)  lo 
'knottlb 


down  60  that  he  cannot  change  hfs 
in   seTerity  hiferior   only  to  the 


igitized  by 


Google 


67i 


The 


€^  Bumtm  Hitiory. 


[Joe, 


misMon  to  return  to  his  country. 
This  was  in  1740,  under  the  reign  of* 
the  dissolute  and  cruel  Czarina  Anne. 
The  paramours  and  flatterers  who 
copaposed  the  court  of  that  licentious 
princess,  urged  her  to  inflict  on  the 
new-made  papist  the  same  punish- 
ment that  had  been  suffered  by  a 
noble  named  YonitziD,  who  had 
turned  Jew,  and  had  been  burned 
alive,  or  rather  roasted  at  a  slow  fire. 
Anne  refused,  but  promised  the  cour- 
tiers they  should  not  be  deprived  of 
their  sport. 

**  The  same  day,  Galitzin,  although 
upwards  of  forty  years  old,  was 
ordered  to  take  his  place  amongst  the 
pages:  a  few  days  later  he  received 
a  notification  that  the  empress,  con- 
tented with  his  services,  had  been 
pleased  to  raise  him  to  the  dignity  of 
her  third  buffoon.  ^The  custom  of 
buffoons,'  says  an  histonaa,  ^  was 
then  in  full  force  in  Russia ;  the 
empress  had  six,  three  of  whom  were 
of  very  high  birth^  and  when  they 
aid  not  lend  themselves  with  a  good 
grace  to  the  tomfooleries  required  of 
&em  by  her  or  her  favourites,  she 
had  them  punished  with  the  baiioguei.^ 
The  empress  appeared  well  satisfied 
with  the  manner  in  which  the  prince 
fulfilled  his  new  duties;  uid,  as  he 
was  a  widower,  die  declared  she 
would  find  him  a  wife,  that  so  valu- 
able a  sulject  might  not  die  without 
posterity.  They  selected,  for  the 
poor  wretch's  bride,  the  most  hideous 
and  disgusting  creature  that  could  be 
found  in  the  lowest  ranks  of  the 
populace.  Anne  herself  amu^red  the 
ceremonial  of  the  wedding.  It  was 
in  the  depth  of  one  of  the  severest 
winters  of  the  century ;  and,  at  great 
expense,  the  empress  had  a  palace 
built  of  ice.  Not  only  was  the  build- 
ing entirely  constructed  of  that  mate- 
rial, but  all  the  furniture,  including 
the  nuptial  bed,  was  also  of  ice.  In 
front  of  the  palace  were  ice  canaone, 
mounted  on  ice  carriages. 

'*  Anne  and  all  her  court  conducted 
the  newly-married  pair  to  this  palace, 
their  destined  habitatioa.  The  guests 
were  in  sledges  drawn  by  dogs  and 
reindeer  ;  the  husband  and  wifa, 
enclosed  in  a  c^e,  were  carried  on 
an  elephant.  When  the  procession 
arrived  near  the  palace,  the  ice 
cannons  were  fired,  and  not  one  of 


them  burst,  so  intense  was  the  cold. 
Several  of  them  were  even  loaded 
with  bullets,  wfaieh  pierced  thick 
planks  at  a  considerable  dlatance. 
When  everybody  had  entered  the 
singular  edifice,  the  baU  begaa.  It 
pr(H)ably  did  not  last  long.  On  its 
condusion,  Anne  insisted  on  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  being  put  to  bed  in 
her  presence:  they  were  undressedf 
with  the  exceptimi  of  their  under 

Garments,  and  were  compelled  to  He 
own  i^n  the  bed  of  ice,  without 
oovmng  of  any  kind.  Then  the 
company  went  away,  and  sMitiaels 
were  placed  at  tiie  door  of  the  naptial 
chamber,  to  prevent  the  oouple  fitnt 
leaving  it  before  the  next  day !  But 
when  the  next  da^  came,  they  had  to 
be  carried  out ;  the  poor  creatures 
were  in  a  deplorable  state,  and  sur- 
vived their  torture  but  a  few  days." 

This  patient  submission  to  a  loi^ 
series  of  indignities  on  the  part  of 
a  man  of  GaUtzin's  rank  and  blood 
is  incomprehensible,  and  pity  for  his 
cruel  death  is  mingled  with  con- 
tempt for  the  elderly  prince  who  could 
tamely  play  the  page,  and  caper  in 
the  garb  of  a  court  jester.  But  the 
Russian  noUe  of  that  day — and  evoi 
of  a  later  period — united  the  soul  of 
a  slave  with  the  heart  of  a  tyrant. 
To  the  feeble  a  relentless  tiger,  before 
the  despot  or  the  depot's  favourite 
he  grovelled  like  a  spiritless  cur. 
The  memoirs  of  the  ^hteenth  cen- 
tury abound  in  exampl^  of  his  base 
servility.  We  cite  one,  out  of  many 
which  we  find  recorded  in  an  inte- 
resting Life  of  Catherine  11.  of 
Ruuim,  published  at  Paris  in  1797. 
^lato  Zouboff,  one  of  Catherine's 
fiivourite  lovers,  had  a  little  monkey, 
a  restless,  troublesome  beast,  which 
everybody  detested,  but  which  every- 
body caressed,  by  way  of  paying  eourt 
to  its  Buister.  Amongst  the  host  of 
ministers,  military  men,  and  ambaa- 
sadors,  who  sedidously  attended  the 
levees  of  the  powerfUf  favourite,  was 
a  general  (&cer,  remarkal^e  fiar 
the  perfection  and  care  wiA  which 
his  hair  was  dressed.  One  day  the 
monkey  dimbed  wpom  his  head,  and, 
after  completely  destroying  the  sym- 
metry of  his  hyacinthine  locks,  de- 
liberately defiled  them.  The  officer 
dared  not  show  the  slightest  discon- 
tent.   There  are  not  wanting,  ' 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


The  Eaoumee  tfRnanan  History. 


675 


eTer,  in  the  hktory  of  the  ei|^iteeiith 
centory,  InettnoeB  of  herotsm  and 
eevage  to  contrast  with  the  fur  more 
nnmercns  onee  of  vilenees  afforded  by 
the  aristocrat  of  Bnsaia.  The  dig* 
sitj  and  fortitude  of  Menzikoff — 
that  paatr^cook^s  boj  who  became  a 
great  mbueter  —  dnraig  his  terrible 
exile  in  Siberia,  are  an  oft-told  tale. 
Prince  Dolgoroiiki,  the  same  to  whom 
Anne  owed  her  crown,  and  whom 
she  reqnited  by  a  barbarons  death, 
beheld  his  son,  brother,  and  nephew 
brokea  on  the  wheeL  When  his 
tarn  came,  and  the  exeoationers  were 
4UTanging  him  sottably  upon  the  instm- 
nent  of  tortore :  ^^  I>o  as  jovl  please 
widi  me,"  he  said,  "  and  without  fear 
<^  loading  yonr  consciences,  for  it  is 
not  m  hamaa  power  to  increase  my 
anflerings."  And  he  died  widiont 
ottering  a  compkdat.  Bat  periutps 
tiM  most  extraordhiary  instance  of 
coolness  and  sdf-comaMmd,  at  the 
moment  of  a  Tident  and  crnel  death, 
io  be  foottd  in  the  annals  of  execn- 
tions,  is  that  of  Pngatsdieff,  who, 
however,  was  ne  nobleman,  but  a  Ck>s- 
Mck  ef  himble  birth,  who  deserted 
from  the  Kvssian  army  after  ihe  siege 
«nd  capture  of  Bender  by  General 
Panim,  and  fled  to  Poland,  where  he 
was  concealed  for  a  time  by  hermits 
<if  the  Greek  chnrob«  ^'  Con¥er^g 
<MM  day  with  his  protectors,"  says  a 
French  writer  abready  refoned  to, 
**'  he  told  them,  that  once,  dnmig  his 
serfioe  in  General  Panim's  army,  a 
Roisian  officer  said  to  bim,  after  star- 
ing him  very  hard  in  the  foce,  ^  If 
the  emperor  Peter  m.,  my  master, 
were  not  dead,  I  shouki  think  I  now 
•lood  before  him.'  Hie  hermits  paid 
little  attention  to  this  ti^;  but  some 
time  afterwards  ene  of  their  number, 
who  had  not  yet  met  Pugatschefl^  ex- 
etaimed,  on  beholding  him,  *  Is  not 
that  the  emperor,  Peter  HL?'  Hie 
menks  then  indwed  Mm  to  attemf^ 
an  imposture  they  had  planned."  M. 
Blanc's  aooount  dtffors  from  this,  hi- 
atmnch  as  it  asserts  the  resemblance 
to  the  defunct  Guar  to  hare  been  Tery 
alight.  Whatever  the  degree  of  like- 
ness, Pugatseheff  dedared  himself  the 
husband  of  Catherine  II.  (murdered 
some  time  preyionsly,  by  Prinee  Ba- 
rintinski  and  hw  Alexis  Orioff,  the 
brother  of  Cathvine's  lover),  and 
thousands  credited  his  mtensiQna. 
The  Cosneks  of  the  river  Yaik  (after- 


wards changed  to  the  Ural  by  Cathe- 
rine, who  desired  to  obliterate  the 
meniory  of  this  revolt^  were  Just  then 
in  exceedingly  bad  numonr.  After 
patiently  submitting  to  a  great  deal 
of  oppression  and  ill  usage,  they  had 
received  orders  to  cut  off  their  beards. 
Hiis  they  would  not  do.  They  had 
relinquished,  grumbUng  but  passive, 
many  a  fair  acre  of  pasturage  ;  they 
had  fionlshed  men  for  a  new  regiment 
of  hussars ;  bat  they  rebelled  outright 
when  ordered  to  use  a  raaor.  The 
Livottian  general,  Traubenberg,  re* 
paired  to  XaitdL  with  a  strong  staff 
of  barbers,  and  began  shaving  the  re- 
fractory CossadLS  on  the  public  mar- 
ket-place. The  patients  rose  in  arms, 
massacred  general,  barbers,  and  aide- 
de-camps;  recognked  Pugatscheffas 
Peter  lU.,  and  swore  to  replace  him 
on  his  throne,  and  to  die  in  his  de- 
fonoe.  The  adventurer  was  near  being 
as  snecesafid  as  the  monk  Otrepien 
Catiierine  herself  was  very  uneasy, 
although  she  published  contemptnouB 
proclamations,  and  jested,  in  her  let- 
ten  to  Yoltahre,  on  the  Marquis  of 
Pugatscheff,  as  she  called  him.  It 
was  rather  a  serious  subject  to  joke 
i^NMit.  The  impostor  defeated  Rus- 
sian armies,  and  slew  their  generals; 
took  towns,  whose  governors  he  im- 
paled; burned  upwutls  of  two  hun- 
dred and  fi%  viUages ;  destroyed  the 
commerce  of  Siberia;  stopped  the 
working  of  the  Orenberff  mmes;  and 
poured  out  the  blood  of  t^urty  thousand 
kussian  rab^ecta.  At  last  he  was 
taken.  On  his  trial  he  showed  great 
firmness;  and,  although  unable  to 
read  or  write,  he  answered  the  ques- 
tions of  the  tribunal  with  wonderful 
aboHty  and  intelligcnee.  He  was  con- 
denmed  to  death.  According  to  the 
sentence,  his  hands  were  to  be  cut  off 
first,  then  his  foot,  then  his  head,  and 
finally  the  trunk  was  to  be  quartered. 
When  brou^  upon  the  scaffold,  and 
whilst  the  impoial  ukase  ennme- 
ratkig  his  crimes  was  read,  he  un- 
dressed qui^y  and  in  sileaee;  but 
when  they  began  to  read  the  sen- 
tence, he  dexterously  prevented  the 
exeentionar  from  attending  to  it,  by 
addnghim  all  manner  of  qnestieM — 
whether  his  axe  was  in  good  order, 
idtether  the  block  was  not  of  a  less 
siae  than  prescribed  by  law,  and 
whether  he,  tiM  executioner,  had  not, 
by  dmnce,  drank  more  brandy,  than 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Romance  o/Eusiian  History, 


676 

usual,  which  might  make  hia  hand 
unsteady. 

^'The  sentence  read,  the  magis- 
trate  and  his  assistant  lefl  the  scaf- 
fold. 

"  *  Now,  then,'  said  Pngatscheflf  to 
the  executioner,  '  let  us  have  no  mis- 
takes ;  the  prescribed  order  most  be 
strictly  observed.  So  you  will  first 
cut  off  my  head ^ 

"'The  headfirst!'  cried  the  exe- 
cutioner. 

"  *  So  runs  the  sentence.  Haye  a 
care!  I  have  friends  who  would 
make  you  dearly  expiate  an  error  to 
my  prejudice.' 

"  It  was  too  late  to  call  back  the 
magistrate;  and  the  executioner,  who 
doubted,  at  last  said  to  himself  that 
the  important  affair,  after  all,  was  the 
death  of  the  criminal,  and  that  there 
was  little  difference  whether  it  took 
place  rather  sooner  or  rather  later. 
He  grasped  his  axe ;  Pngatscheff  laid 
his  head  on  the  block,  and  the  next 
moment  it  rebounded  upon  the  scaf- 
fold. The  feet  and  hands  were  cut 
off  after  death ;  the  culprit  escaping 
torture  by  his  great  presence  of 
mhid." 

It  has  been  asserted  that  an  order 
from  the  empress  thus  humanised  the 
cruel  sentence ;  but  this  is  exceeding- 
ly improbable,  for  she  was  bitter 
against  Pngatscheff,  who,  ignorant 
Cossack  as  he  was,  had  made  the 
modem  Semiramis  tremble  on  her 
throne ;  besides,  it  is  matter  of  his- 
tory that,  after  his  execution,  the 
headsman  had  his  tongue  cut  out,  and 
was  sent  to  Siberia.  Catherine,  who 
had  affected  to  laugh  at  Pngatscheff 
during  his  life,  was  so  ungenerous  as 
to  calumniate  him  after  death.  "  This 
brigand,"  she  said,  in  one  of  her  letters 
quoted  by  M.  Blanc,  "showed  himself 
so  pusillanimous  in  his  prison,  that  it 
was  necessary  to  prepare  him  with 
caution  to  hear  his  sentence  read,  lest 
he  should  die  of  fear."  It  is  quite 
certain,  M.  Blanc  observes,  that  to 
his  dying  hour  Pngatscheff  inspired 
more  fear  than  he  felt. 

The  misfortunes  of  the  unhappy 
young  Princess  Tarrakanoff  supplv  M. 
Blanc  with  materials  for  the  most  mte- 
resting  chapter  in  this  volume  of  his 
work.  The  Empress  Elizabeth,  daugh- 
ter of  Peter  the  Great»  and  predecessor 
of  Peter  UL — whose  marriage  with  the 
Princess  of  Anhalt  Zerbest,  afterward 


[J, 


Catherine  the  Great,  wttbronghtabos^ 
by  her— had  had  three  children  by  her 
secret  marriage  with  Alexis  Rasom* 
ofiski.  The  youngest  of  these  was  a 
daughter,  who  was  brought  up  iir 
Russia  under  the  name  of  the  Prin- 
cess Tarrakanoff.  When  Catherine 
trampled  the  rights  of  Poland  under 
foot,  the  Polish  prince,  Charles  Rad- 
zivil,  carried  off  the  young  princess, 
and  took  her  to  Italy,  thinking  to  set 
her  up  at  some  fature  day  as  a  pre- 
tender to  the  Russian  throne.  In- 
foitned  of  this,  Catherine  confiscated 
his  estates;  and  in  order  to  live,  he 
was  compelled  to  sell  the  diamonds 
and  other  valuables  he  had  taken  with* 
him  to  Italy.  These  resources  ex- 
hausted, Radzivil  set  out  for  Poland 
to  seek  others,  leaving  the  young 
princess,  then  in  her  sixteenth  year, 
at  Rome,  under  the  care  of  a  s<»t  of 
governess  or  duenna.  On  reaching 
his  native  country  he  was  offered  the 
restoration  of  his  property  if  he  would 
bring  back  his  ward  to  Russia.  He 
refused;  but  he  was  so  base  as  to 
promise  that  he  would  take  no  fur- 
ther trouble  about  her,  and  leave  her 
to  her  fate.  Catherine  pardcmed  him,, 
and  forthwith  put  Alexis  Orloff  oa 
the  scent  He  was  a  keen  blood* 
hound,  she  well  knew,  capable  of  any 
villany  that  might  serve  his  ambition. 
Gold  unlimited  was  placed  at  his  dis- 
posal, and  promise  of  high  reward  if  he 
discovered  the  retreat  of  the  princess, 
and  lured  her  within  Catherine's 
reacli.  Orloff  set  out  for  Ita^;  and 
on  arrivmg  there  ho  took  into  his  em- 
ploy a  Neapolitan  named  Ribas,  a 
sort  of  spy,  styling  himself  a  naval 
officer,  who  pledg^  himself  to  find 
out  the  princess,  but  stipnlated  for 
rank  in  the  Russian  navy  as  his  to- 
ward. M.  Blanc  asserts  that  he  de- 
manded to  be  made  adnural  at  once; 
and  that  Orloff,  afraid,  notwithstand- 
ing the  extensive  powers  given  him, 
to  bestow  so  high  a  grade,  or  com- 
pelled by  the  suspicions  of  Ribas  te 
produce  the  commission  itself^  wrote 
to  Catherine,  who  at  once  sent  the 
required  document.  Whether  this  be 
exact  or  not,  more  than  one  historian 
mentions  that  Ribas  subsequently 
commanded  in  the  Black  Sea  as  a 
Russian  vice-admiraL  When  certam 
of  his  reward,  Bibas,  who  then  had 
spent  two  months  in  researches,  re* 
vealed  the  retreat  of  the  nnfiMrtnnale 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


ne  Romance  of  Russian  History, 


677 


princess.  With  some  abridgment  we 
will  follow  M.  Blanc,  whose  narrative 
agrees,  in  all  the  main  points,  with 
the  most  authentic  versions  of  this 
tonchlng  and  romantic  history. 

The  princess  was  at  Rome.  Aban  - 
doned  by  Radzivil,  she  was  reduced 
to  the  greatest  penniy,  existing  only 
by  the  aid  of  a  woman  who  had  been 
her  servant,  and  who  now  served 
other  masters.  Alexis  Orloff  visited 
her  in  her  miserable  abode,  and  spoke 
at  first  in  the  tone  of  a  devoted  slave 
addressing  his  sovereign ;  he  told  her 
she  was  the  legitimate  empress  of 
Bnssia ;  that  the  entire  popnlation  of 
that  great  empire  anxiously  longed 
for  her  accession ;  that  if  Catherine 
still  bccnpied  the  throne,  it  was  only 
becanse  nobody  knew  where  she  (the 
princess)  was  hidden;  and  that  her 
appearance  amongst  her  faithful  sub- 
jects, would  be  a  signal  for  the  instant 
downfall  of  the  usurper.  Notwith- 
standing her  youth,  the  princess  mis- 
trusted these  dazzling  assurances; 
she  was  even  alarmed  by  them,  and 
held  herself  upon  her  guard.  Then 
Orioff,  one  of  the  handsomest  men  of 
his  time,  jcHued  the  seductions  of  love 
to  those  of  ambition ;  he  feigned  a 
violent  passion  for  the  young  girl,  and 
swore  that  his  life  depended  on  his 
obtdning  her  heart  and  hand.  The 
poor  isolated  giri  fell  unresistingly 
into  the  infamous  snare  spread  for  her 
inexperience :  she  believed  and  loved 
him.  The  infamous  Orlofi*  persuaded 
her  that  their  marriage  must  be 
strictly  private,  lest  Catherine  should 
hear  of  it  and  take  precautions.  In 
the  night  he  Immght  to  her  house  a 
party  of  mercenaries,  some  wearmg 
the  costumes  of  priests  of  the  Gre^ 
cbufcb,  others  magnificently  attired 
to  act  as  witnesses.  The  mockery  of 
a  marriage  enacted,  the  princess  wil- 
lin^y  accompanied  Alexis  Oriofi", 
whom  she  believed  her  husband,  to 
Leghorn,  whore  entertainments  of  all 
sorts  were  given  to  her.  The  Russian 
squadron,  at  anchor  off  the  port,  was 
commanded  by  the  English  Admiral 
Gf«lg.  This  ofllcer,  either  the  dupe 
or  the  accomplice  of  Orioff,  invited 
the  princess  to  visit  the  vessels  that 
were  soon  to  be  commanded  in  her 
name.  She  accepted,  and  embarked 
after  a  banquet,  amidst  the  acclama- 
tions of  an  immense  crowd :  the  can- 
non thundered,  the  sky  was  bright. 


every  circumstance  conspired  to  give 
her  visit  the  appearance  of  a  brilliant 
festival.  From  her  flag-bedecked 
galley  she  was  hoisted  in  a  splendid 
arm-chair  on  board  the  admiral's  ves- 
sel, where  she  was  received  with  the 
honours  due  to  a  crowned  head.  Un- 
til then  Orloff  had  never  left  her 
side  for  an  instant.  Suddenly  the 
scene  changed.  Orloff  disappeared: 
in  place  of  the  gay  and  smiling  officers 
who  an  instant  previously  had  obse- 
quiously bowed  before  her,  the  unfor- 
tunate victim  saw  herself  surrounded 
by  men  of  sinister  aspect,  one  of 
whom  announced  to  her  that  she  was 
prisoner  by  order  of  the  Empress  Ca- 
therine, and  that  soon  she  would  be 
brought  to  trial  for  the  treason  she 
had  attempted.  The  princess  thought 
herself  in  a  dream.  With  loud  cries 
she  summoned  her  husband  to  her 
aid;  her  guardians  laaghed  in  her 
face,  and  told  her  she  had  had  a 
lover,  but  no  husband,  and  that  her 
marriage  was  a  farce.  Her  despair 
at  these  terrible  revelations  amount- 
ed to  frenzy;  she  burst  into  sobs 
and  reproaches,  and  at  last  swooned 
away.  They  took  advantage  of  her 
insensibility  to  put  fetters  on  her  feet 
and  hands,  and  lower  her  into  the 
hold.  A  few  hours  later  the  squadron 
sailed  for  Russia.  Notwithstanding 
her  helplessness  and  entreaties,  the 
poor  girl  was  kept  in  irons  until  her 
arrival  at  St  Petersburg,  when  she 
was  taken  before  the  empress,  who 
wished  to  see  and  question  her. 

Catherine  was  old;  the  Princess 
Tarrakanoff  was  but  sixteen,  and  of 
surpassing  beautv ;  the  disparity  de- 
stroyed her  last  chance  of  mercy.  But 
as  there  was  in  reidity  no  charge 
against  her,  and  as  her  trial  might 
have  made  too  mudi  noise,  Catherine^ 
after  a  long  and  secret  interview  with 
her  unfortunate  prisoner,  gave  orders 
she  should  be  kept  in  the  most  rigor- 
ous captivity.  She  was  confined  in 
one  of  the  dungeons  of  a  prison  near 
the  Neva. 

Five  years  elapsed.  The  victim  of 
the  heartless  Catherine,  and  of  the 
villain  Orloff,  awaited  death  as  the 
only  relief  she  could  expect;  but 
youth,  and  a  good  constitution, 
struggled  energetically  against  torture 
and  privations.  One  night,  recUning 
on  the  straw  that  served  her  as  a 
bed,  she  prayed  to  God  to  terminate 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


678 


Tk€ 


wfRMuitmHktoty. 


[Juae, 


her  sofferiagB  by  takmg  her  to  him- 
iielf^  when  her  attentkn  was  attracted 
bj  a  low  mmbling  im^  like  the 
roll  of  distant  thmder.  She  list- 
ened. The  noise  redoabled:  it  became 
an  inoessant  roar,  which  each  Bioment 
augmented  in  power.  The  poor  cap- 
tive desired  death,  and  yet  shefdt 
terror;  she  called  ahmd,  and  implored 
not  to  be  left  alone.  A  jailer  came  at 
her  cries ;  she  asked  the  caase  of  the 
aiHse  she  heard. 

»« Tis  aothmg,"  replied  the  stnpid 
slave ;  "  the  Neva  overflowing." 

^*  Bat  cmmot  the  water  reach  ns 
here?" 

'at  is  here  already." 

At  that  DMrnent  the  flood,  makmg 
tks  way  nnder  the  door,  ponred  isfto 
the  dmgeon,  and  in  an  instant  ci^ 
tive  and  jailer  were  over  the  ankles  m 
water. 

"For  heaven^s  sake,  let  ns  leave 
this  1"  cried  the  yomig  princess. 

'^  Not  witiioQt  orders;  and  I  haive 
recdved  none." 

''Bnt  we  shaU  be  drowned !" 

"That  is  pretty  certain.  B«t 
witbont  qMciai  orders  I  am  not  to 
let  yon  leave  tins  dangeon,  underpain 
of  death.  1m  ease  of  imforeseen  dan- 
ger I  am  to  remain  with  yon,  and 
to  kill  yon  should  rescue  be  at- 
tempted." 

"Good  GodI  the  water  rises.  I 
cannot  sustain  mysdf." 

The  Neva,  overflowhkg  its  banks, 
floated  enormous  blocks  of  ice,  upset- 
ting everything  in  its  passage,  and  in- 
vmdating  the  ac^aoent  country.  The 
water  now  plashed  fhrioisly  against 
the  prison  doors:  the  sentmels  had 
teen  canned  away  by  the  torreood^  and 
the  other  soldiers  on  guard  had  taken 
refoge  on  the  upper  floors.  Lifted  off 
ber  feet  by  the  icy  flood  wfaiofa  still 
rose  higher,  the  nnlbrtmiate  captive 
#bI1  and  disappeared ;  tiie  jmler,  who 
had^water  to  his  lureast,  hung  his 
iarap  agamst  tiie  wall,  and  iiM  to 
mneour  his  prisonor;  but  when  he 
succeeded  in  raising  her  up,  riM  was 
dead !  The  possAIMty  antieipaled  by 
his  employers  was  realised;  there  had 
been  stress  of  dreamstaBoes,  and  the 
princess  being  dead,  hewas  at  fiber^io 
leave  the  dangeon.  Bearing  the  corpse 
ta  his  aims,  he  sooeeeded  inreaelikg 
the  upper  part  of  the  prison. 

If  we  may  ofiier  a  hint  to  an- 


thers, it  is  our  <qaiaioa  flwt  tUs  tra- 
gical anecdote  will  be  a  godsend  to 
some  roHumoe-wxiter  of  costive  in- 
vention, andcmtheondooklbraptot. 
Very  little  ingenuity  will  anfioe  to 
spread  over  the  prescribed  quantity 
of  toiscap  tiie  incidents  we  havo 
packed  mto  a  page.  Ihey  will  dilnte 
very  handsomely  into  teee  vo- 
hams.  As  to  characters,  the  novel- 
ist's woi^  is  done  to  his  hand.  Hen 
we  have  the  Empress  CatheriBe, 
vindictive  and  diesolnte,  persecoting 
that  "  €ur  giri"  the  Frineess  Tar- 
rakanoff,  with  tiie  assistance  of  Or- 
\»fSy  the  smooth  villain,  and  of  the 
Bidlen  ruffian  Bibas.  The  latter  win 
work  up  into  a  sort  <tf  Italian  Yamey, 
and  mny  be  dispersed  to  the  ejenmrta 
by  an  intentional  accident,  on  banrd 
the  eMp  blown  up  by  OrloflTs  order, 
for  the  enlightenment  of  the  painter 
Hackert.  With  the  exception  of 
the  dungeon-scene,  we  have  given  but 
a  meagre  outline  ojf  M.  ^mus's  naixa- 
tive;  imd  them  are  a  number  of  ndaor 
characters  that  may  be  advantage- 
ously brought  in  and  erpanded. 
"  This  event,"  says  M.  Bkmc,  reftr- 
ring  to  the  kidnapping  of  the  Prin- 
cess, "caused  a  strong  sensation  at 
Legbcnn.  Prince  Leopcdd,  Grand- 
duke  of  Tuscany,  complained  bitterij 
of  it,  and  woald  have  had  AkaJs 
Orkff  arrested ;  but  this  vile  assassin 
of  Peter  m.  maintained  that  he  had 
only  executed  liie  Mders  of  his  sove- 
reign, who  would  well  know  how  to 
justify  him.  He  was  supported,  in 
this  cireumstance,  by  te  Enf^ish 
consul,  who  was  his  aooompiice;  and 
the  Grand-duke,  seemg  he  was  net 
likefyto  be  the  strongeet,  suffered  tim 
matter  to  dr^"  "Some  ikgUrth- 
men^"  anether^Freneh  irwLier  asnerts, 
*^  had  been  so  base  as  to  participate 
in  Alexis  Orloff's  piet;  but  others 
were  far  from  approving  iL  Thfijy 
even  blniAed  to  serve  under  him,  and 
sent  in  thdr  Basignations.  Admiad 
Elphinstone  wasoneof^Qse.  Greig 
was  promoted  in  his  place."  Am 
Italian  prince,  indignant,  bat  timid ; 
a  ibreign  cenanl,  soM  to  Bnssian  inte- 
rests ;  a  British  sailor,  spnffning  Ae 
service  of  a  tyrant.  Weneedaayno 
more;  for  we  am  quite  sure  that  be- 
fore they  get  thus  te,  the  corps  of 
faistesieal  nev«llst9  ^riE  be  handttag 
thek' goose-quitts. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


ZaOeri  |0  Ifcc  ibv.  CSbrlii  JW«NM. 


679 


LBITIBft  TO  nOB  SET.  OHARL1CB  FUSTIAK, 


UETTBB  FIBflBE. 


Ton  object  to  beiag  called  a  Pnsej- 
ifee,  or  a  Traetartan ;  asd  as  I  beUeve 
Jim  never  read  any  (tftlie  Tracts,  nor 
were  lodcy  eaoogh  to  comprehend 
may  ei  Dr  PnseT's  writings,  yoa  are 
right  to  decline  the  names.  But  it  k 
«asy  to  perceive,  even  from  your  o«t- 
ward  man,  that  some  great  change 
has  taken  place  npon  yon.  It  is  not 
fo  nothing  that  yon  wear  so  very 
ti^t  a  neckdoth,  and  so  very  low- 
coUared  a  coat ;  your  buttons  also 
axe  pecvliarly  placed,  and  there  is  a 
solenuHty  in  yow  manner  of  reteing 
an  invitation  to  paUfaick  on  a  Friday 
whidk  it  is  edifying  to  behold.  Bnt 
«U  this  sorely  mnst  have  a  name. 
Yon  were  intended  by  yonr  fisther  to 
be  a  clergyman  of  the  Chnrch  (tf 
England  —  that  worthy  gentleman 
toasted  chnith  and  king,  tU  a  female 
reign  and  premonitory  symptoms  of 
a|K>plexy  rednoed  him  to  silenoe  and 
water-gShiel ;  bnt  he  is  as  trae  adeted- 
«r  ti  the  &itii,  in  his  easy  gown  and 
slippers,  as  ever,  and  laoks  witii  stiM 
inereaoing  sarprise  at  the  ^ypesrance 
«f  his  eldeat  sen,  as  often  as  occasional 
htUp  in  your  ennu^  enables  yon  to 
ran  home.  Bnt  don't  hjkcj^  for  a 
moment,  tiiat  I  attribute  tiMoe  fiw- 
<|Qettt  visits  to  yonr  regard  ibr  fte 
fifth  oomaumdment  alone:  no,  dear 
Choriee ;  Imt  thongh  I  grant  yon  are 
an  exeettent  sea  and  praiseworUnr 
brotiier,  I  eonttder  yom  riiine  with 
still  prater  histie  m  the  character  of 
a  netghbonr,  especially  to  the  family 
at  HeUdbora  Park.  Gradaally  I  have 
aeon  a  change  limiat  equal  to  yonr 
own  in  the  seven  fafar  daaghters  of 
that  house;  and  it  is  very  evident 
that,  with  this  change,  In  some  way 
or  other,  yon  are  very  intimatdy  cum" 
nected.  The  five  daaghters  of  onr 
neighbour  in  the  Lodge  are  also  very 
^iflferent  from  what  they  were ;  and 
e«riy  Mias  Lathpine— who  is  fifty  years 
old,  and  believes  good  works  to  be 
fiudi  filthy  rags  that  she  would  be  qaite 
ashamed  if  die  were  seoi  pnttaig 
half-srorown  into  the  plate,  or  send- 


ing coal  and  flannel  to  the  poor, 
and  therefore  never  does  it — con- 
tinnes  the  even  tenor  of  her  way, 
and  sighs  for  a  gospel  ministry  to  tell 
her  how  few  wiU  achieve  the  king- 
dom of  heaven.  Eveiy  otiier  hoise 
in  the  parish  feels  the  ^Bscts  of  your 
visits.  We  must  have  a  new  ahnanac 
if  you  come  among  us  much  more; 
£or  the  very  days  of  the  week  are  no 
k»ger  to  be  reeogmsed.  Tuesday, 
instead  of  being  the  lineal  descendant 
of  Monday,  is  now  known  as  the  heir 
presumptive  of  Wednesday,  and  does 
duty  as  the  eve  of  smnething  else. 
The  wife  of  our  ^ysician  invfied  us 
to  dinner  on  the  Feast  of  6t  OUapod, 
which,  after  great  inqubry,  we  found 
meant  Monday  the  22d.  The  months 
wiU  not  long  escape — the  weeks  are 
already  doomed — and,  in  a  few  years, 
onr  parii^  registers  will  be  as  diffi- 
cult reading  as  the  inscriptions  of 
Nemrood.  Have  yon  taken  Mb 
result  of  yonr  cmsade  agaast  the 
High  and  Dry  into  your  considera- 
tion ?  Is  it  right  to  leave  a  worthy 
man  like  onr  rector— who  omdncted 
his  little  ecclesiastical  boat  with  great 
comfort  to  himself  aad  others,  keeping 
a  careful  middle  channel  between  the 
shoals  of  Dissent  aad  the  mudbanks 
of  contented  Orthodoxy— to  stra^^ 
in  his  old  age  against  rocks  whnk 
vou  and  yonr  female  alMes  have  rolled 
into  the  water;  with  feet-days  rear^ 
lug  their  sharp  points  where  there 
need  to  be  sach  safe  navigation,  and 
saint's  days  and  festivals  so  blockhig 
up  the  passage  that  he  cant  set  his 
skiff  near  enongh  the  share,  to  enable 
him  to  visit  his  panriiioners  when 
they  are  sick  or  hungry  ?  You  would 
pin  the  poor  M  fellow  for  ever  into 
his  pulpit  or  reading-desk,  and  he 
never  would  have  time  to  fo  to  tin 
extremity  of  his  parish, ' 
remember,  is  five  adles 
chnrch;  and,  at  the 
riding,  oconpies  him 
the  day. 
Boti 


5le 


680 


Letters  to  the  Eev,  Clarke  Fuetim. 


[J«iie, 


occurs  as  soon  as  your  stay  Is  over, 
and  we  see  the  skirts  of  your  depart- 
ing sortont  disappear  over  Hither- 
stone  HIU.  Immediately  the  whole 
coterie  (which,  in  this  instance,  is  an 
nndilated  petticoatery)  assembles  for 
consultation.  Pretty  young  girls, 
who  would  have  been  engaged  ten 
years  ago  in  the  arrangements  of  a 
pic-nic,  now  lay  theur  graceful  and 
busy  heads  together,  to  enect  an  alter- 
ation in  the  height  of  the  pews.  My 
dear  Charles,  young  ladies  are  by 
nature  carpenters ;  they  know  sSl 
about  hinges,  and  pannellings,  and 
glue,  by  a  sort  of  intuition :  and  it  is 
clear  to  me  that,  before  you  return  to 
ns  again,  the  backs  of  the  seats  will 
be  lowered  at  least  a  foot,  and  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  whole 
extent  of  Tom  Holiday's  back,  and 
the  undulations  of  the  three  Miss 
Holiday's  figures  during  the  whole  of 
the  lessons.  The  rector  can't  hold 
out  long — as  indeed  who  could,  against 
such  petitioners?  And,  after  all,  it 
is  only  so  much  wood ;  and  his.  wife, 
who  has  retained  her  shape  with  very 
little  aid  from  padding,  has  no  objec- 
tion to  stand  up  during  the  psalms, 
nor  any  inclination  to  put  her  light 
under  a  bushel  at  any  time;  and 
some  of  the  younger  people,  who  have 
not  attained  the  stature  of  the  Venus 
de  Medici,  complain  that  the  present 
elevation  of  the  backs,  if  it  doesn't 
make  dints  in  their  bonnets,  at  all 
events  cuts  them  off  in  the  very 
middle  ;  and  my  opposition,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  ever  since  I  fell  asleep 
at  your  sermon  on  the  holiness  of 
celibacy,  is  attributed  to  interested 
motives,  and  therefore  you  may  fiajriy 
expect  to  find  our  pews  reduced  to 
the  height  and  appearance  of  a  row 
of  rabbit-hutches,  when  you  come 
back.  This  point  they  seem  to  con- 
sider ahready  gained,  and  now  they 
have  advanced  their  parallels  against 
the  Doctor  on  another  side  of  his 
defences. 

The  Doctor,  even  in  his  youth,  can 
never  have  run  much  risk  of  being 
mistaken  for  Apollo — his  nose  was 
probably  never  of  a  Grecian  pattern, 
as  that  ingenious  people  would  cer- 
tainly have  rounded  the  pohit  with  a 
little  more  skill,  and  have  placed  the 
nostrils  more  out  of  sight.  I  have 
heard  his  front  teeth  were  far  from 


symmetrical,  and  reminded  old  Major 
M'Turk  of  the  charge  of  Mahratta 
irregular  horse,  by  which  that  herok? 
genueman  lost  his  eye;  but  as  he  has 
got  quit  of  those  spirited,  though  stra^- 
gluig  defenders,  and  supplied  their 
place  with  a  straight-dressed  militia 
of  enamel  or  bone,  which  do  duty  re- 
maiiuibly  well,  in  spite  of  the  bri^ 
yellow  uniform  they  have  lately  as- 
sumed, I  conclude  that  he  has  been  a 
gainer  by  the  exchange.  And,  on  the 
whole,  I  have  no  doubt,  if  there  are 
some  handsomerfellows  in  the  Guards, 
and  at  the  universities,  there  are  seve- 
ral much  uglier  people  to  be  se^  in 
this  very  parish.  It  can't,  therefore, 
be  for  the  express  purpose  of  escaping 
the  sight  of  his  face  that  they  have 
begun  their  operations  to  force  him  to 
turn  his  back  on  them  during  the 
prayers.  But  this  they  are  thoroughly 
resolved  on  achieving.  They  have  al- 
ready once  placed  the  Bible  surrepti- 
tiou^y  on  the  side  of  the  reading 
desk,  towards  the  people,  leaving  the 
Prayer-Book  on  the  side  towards  the 
south ;  and  as  the  Doctor,  in  the  sur- 
prise of  the  moment,  began  with  his 
face  in  that  direction,  his  elocution 
was  wasted  on  the  blank  wall  of  the 
chancel  and  the  empty  pulpit;  and 
we  had  the  pleasure  of  an  uninter- 
rupted view  of  his  profile,  and  a  side- 
hearing  also  of  his  words,  which  gave 
us  as  complete  a  silhouette  of  the 
prayers  as  of  the  rector.  When  we 
come  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  full- 
face  reversed,  and  can  leisurely  con- 
template his  ocdput,  and  the  nape  of 
his  neck—in  which,  I  am  sorry  to  see 
number  one  so  powerfully  devdoped — 
we  shall  have  the  farther  advantage 
of  not  having  our  own  meditations  in- 
terrupted by  hearing  a  syllabic  he 
says.  He  resists,  indeed,  at  present ; 
and  even  told  a  deputation  of  ladies 
that  he  would  consult  common  sense 
on  the  occasion,  and  read  so  that  the 
poor  folks  under  the  west  gallery 
could  jom  in  every  petition.  Miss 
Araminta— your  Araminta,  Charles — 
lifted  her  beautiful  eyes  to  the  Doctor 
in  suiprise,  and  asked  ^''if  he  really 
prayed  to  John  Simpkins  and  Peter 
Bolt,  for  surely  he  could  pray  /or 
them,  and  with  them  better,  with  his 
face  to  the  altar;"  and  the  Doctor  said 
something  about  ^^  girls  minding  their- 
own  business,  and  leavmg  him  to  hls,**^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.] 


Lei^n  to  tke  lUo.  Charla  Fmtkm. 


681 


whicli  would  haye  led  to  veiy  un- 
pleasant conaeqiftncest  if  the  rest  of 
the  ambassadors  had  not  interfered, 
and  smoothed  the  rayen  down  of  the 
Doctor*s  temper  by  some  iudidons 
declarations  of  respect  for  his  <^Bce, 
and  contempt  for  some  nnfortonate 
evangelical  brethren  in  the  neigbbonr- 
hood ;  till  at  last  the  old  man  took  Ara- 
minta  by  the  hand,  and  told  her,  with 
great  truth,  that  she  was  one  of  the 
nicest  giils  in  the  world,  and  that  he 
would  ride  fifty  miles  at  a  moment's 
warning,  to  save  her  an  instant's  dis- 
comfort.  So  they  rethred  for  that  time, 
hinting  that  they  were  rather  surprised 
that  their  rector  should  have  used  the 
same  argument  which  had  been  em- 
ployed by  the  Hot.  Ebenezer  Snuffle, 
the  low  church  yicar  of  the  adjoining 
Tillage.  A  telling  blow  this,  Charles, 
as  you  are  well  aware ;  for  I  rerily 
believe  the  Doctor  would  soften  to- 
wards the  Koran,  if  his  neighbour 
made  an  attack  on  Mahommed ;  so  I 
wait  the  issue  without  much  uncer- 
tainty as  to  what  it  will  be.  For  all 
this,  I  can't  help  hdding  you,  in  a 
jp'eat  measure,  responsible ;  for  there 
IS  no  shutting  one^s  eyes  to  the  fact, 
that  a  decided  step  in  advance  is 
taken  after  every  one  of  your  runs 
into  our  parish.  Tour  father,  and 
Major  M^Turic,  and  I,  sink  lower  and 
lower  in  the  estimation  of  vour  fol- 
lowers eveiy  day.  Instead  of  the  nice 
little  parties  we  used  to  have,  where  the 
girls,  most  of  whom  we  remember  as 
inftots,  used  to  sing  **  Liaaie  Lindsay" 
for  the  amusement  of  the  old  ones',  or 
play  magic  music,  or  games  at  forfeits, 
to  please  themselves,  they  now  hnd- 
^e  up  in  a  comer — if,  perchance, 
no  eve  or  fiut  prevents  them  fhnn 
coming  out  to  tea — and  hold  deep 
consultations  on  the  state  and  pros- 

ritB  of  the  Church.  And  yet  there 
something  so  innocent  and  pretty 
in  the  way  they  manace  their  plots, 
and  such  a  charming  fdcling  of  triumph 
fills  their  hearts,  when  they  have 
achieved'  a  victory  over  the  habits 
and  customs  of  the  village,  that  I 
hardly  wonder  they  never  pause  in 
their  career,  or  aive  ear  to  the  warn- 
ings of  stupid  old  people  like  the  tirio 
I  have  named,  ii  tne  mean  time, 
tlMy  certainly  have  it  all  their  own 
wi^,— in  the  injunctions  they  have 
laid  on  the  poor  people^  to  turn  round 


at  some  parts  of  the  service,  stand  up 
at  others,  and  join  in  the  most  won- 
derfhl  responses,  in  a  set  key,  which 
they  call  entoning;  and  thev  have 
tormented  the  band  so  much  with 
practising  anthems,  that  half  the 
population  have  turned  dissenters  in 
self-defence;  and  while  the  firont  seats 
are  filled  with  sadn  bonnets  and  India 
shawls,  and  the  rustle  of  silks  is  like 
the  flight  of  a  thousand  doves  when 
the  altitude  needs  to  be  changed,  there 
isn't  a  poor  person  to  be  seen  in  the 
church  except  John  Simpkins  and 
Peter  Bolt,  and  they,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  are  far  from  being  the  same  quiet 
humble  paupers  they  used  to  be;  for 
our  fominine  apostles  have  been  telling 
them  of  the  honour  and  dignity  of  the 
poor,  till  there  is  no  bearing  their 
pride  and  sdf-conceit.  Sometimes, 
out  of  respect  to  the  Doctor,  and  a 
reverence  for  the  old  church,  the 
grocer,  the  carpenter,  and  a  Usy  of 
tiie  shopkeepers,  still  make  their  ap« 
pearance  in  the  afternoon,  but  they 
are  like  children  the  first  time  they  go 
to  Astley's,  and  stare  with  wonder  at 
all  the  changes  thev  see ;  and  eveirour 
rector  himself  has  become  so  confused, 
that  he  doesn't  feel  altogether  sure 
that  he  hasn't  turned  a  dissenter,  for 
the  mode,  if  not  of  conducting,  at  least 
of  joining  in  the  service,  is  something 
qmte  different  firom  what  he  has  been 
used  to. 

Now  dissent,  as  you  know,  has  been 
the  bugbear  of  the  Doctor  through  life. 
The  veiT  name  carries  with  it  some* 
thing  inexpressibly  dreadful,  and 
among  the  most  terrifying  to  him  of 
all  the  forms  of  dissent  was  that  of 
Rome.  But  lately,  a  vast  number  of 
bright  eyes  have  been  lifted  to  the 
ceilmgy  and  a  great  many  beautifhl 
lips  opened>  and  a  great  many  sweet 
voices  raised  in  opposition  to  any 
hostile  allusion  to  the  objects  of  his 
abhorrence.  '*  The  church  of  Fenelon,'* 
says  one  in  a  reverential  tone,  ''  can 
surely  not  be  altogether  apostate.'* 
"The  church  of  the  two  Gregories, 
the  church  of  A'Beckett  and  Dunstaa, 
of  St  Senanus,  St  Januarius,  and  the 
Seven  Champions  of  Christendom,  can 
never  have  fidlen  away  from  the 
fidth,"  exclaims  Miss  TindereUa 
Swainlove  In  a  very  contemptuous 
tone,  when  the  Doctor  contrasts  the 
great  and  ambitious  names  of  Bome 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


XflMmtoliejBBr.  Ckadm 


P-ar 


with  tbe  hwBBoBlkf  nquked  in  a  Ghria- 
tian  pMfanr.  ^^  In  akort,  Dr  SoJier, 
we  wish  to  knaw^"  she  said  not  a 
week  ago,  when  she  had  gone  np  to 
tiie  parsonage  to  practise  a  Gregorian 
diant  on  Christina  Smiter's  oonoer- 
tina— ^we  wish  to  know.  Doctor 
SmilerY  wliether  rriigion  consists  in 
bare  plaster  walls  and  a  cassock?" 
^  Certainly  not,  my  dear  Underdla, 
bat  yon  will  observe'' — 

"  Oh,  we  only  want  an  answer  to 
that  qnestion,"  said  the  yovog  lady, 
intermpting ;  "  for,  allow  me  to  iiiEL 
yon,  we  feel  our  devotion  greatly  ex- 
cited by  the  noble  solenmitr  of  a  ser- 
floe  decently  conducted  with  albe  and 
diasnble,  in  a  building  fitted  for  its 
high  destinaHon  by  the  ridiest  oom- 
bination  of  aicMtectnre  and  the  arts." 

Tinderella  is  nineteen  years  of  age, 
and  as  decided  in  her  manner  as  a 
field-maishal.  ^  May  I  ask,  my  dear, 
who  the  *  we '  are  in  wiiOBe  name  yon 
speak?"  inquired  tiie  rector. 

^Not  Mr  Bngg^  the  grocer,  nor 
Chipper  the  carpenter,  bat  all  who 
are  qnalified  by  their  fortune,  and 
position  in  life,  to  judge  <m  tiie  sub- 
ject," was  TindenfiltaJs  spirited  re- 
joinder. 

""BeaUy,"  said  the  Doctor,  ""yoa 
young  ladies  are  very  much  changed 
from  wliat  you  were.  Two  years  ago, 
I  used  to  have  great  difficulty  in 
keeping  yon  from  balls  and  uxheries, 
and  had  frequent  occasion  to  lecture 
Tou  for  inattentioa  in  diurdi.  What, 
in  the  name  of  wonder,  has  come  over 
you  all?" 

'^Do  you  find  &alt  with  us  for 
having  given  up  firivolities,  and  turned 
reverent  and  attentive  during  tiie 
service  ?"  inquired  his  questioner  with 
a  sneer. 

"  Par  from  it,  my  deary— ^very  fu 
from  it ;  bat  I  should  like  very  much 
to  know  what  is  the  cause  <tf  the 
diange.  I  trust,  my  dear  Tinderella, 
it  isn*t  connected  with  themaniage 
of  Lieutenant  Polker,  with  whom  I 
remember  von  danced  every  night 
last  winter.^ 

''  lieutenant  Polker,"  redded  Tin- 
derella, ^«  has  married  a  dissenter,  or 
a  person  cf  low  church  prindides,  and 
that  is  as  bad,  and  he  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  our  duty  to  the 
Ho^atholicChnrehl  assureyou,  sir." 

'*  Then  it  most  be  that  silly,  igno- 


rant eaxcombf  Clmiin 
own  godson,  my 
yevthh-HmezoeUaniftileflr,  belt  s.  4 
ceited  asB-4  widL  he  hadaerwi 
into  tiM  diocese  at  Vezer." 

This  is  tiie  timte  war  i> 
yon  an  spoken  of;  mnr< 
and  I  fori  sure  yon  will  liiiatnlaUi  tfaa 
oompUment  paid  to  yon  by  tfca  Doctor, 
losing  his  teaser,  bat  ifilaiBing  hto 
affidction. 

There  was  a  binii  on  TfaBdenBa*^ 
cheek  as  she  oatared  into  a  defence  ef 
''the  Rovennd  Charies 
pricBt  of  our  cbarcfa ;"  and  ahe  i 
curtsied  in  leverenee  for  ^ 
and  office ;  and  I  advise  AraniBtato 
keep  watch  over  her  frtad'a  procieei 
ings,  t(ff  I  dont  thmk  TtedereOa  is  so 
d^dy  attached  to  tlM  doetrine  of  cdl- 
baey  as  she  pretanda.  And  I  take 
thbm>portanity  d80,mydear  Cbniki. 
to  tell  yon  <3wt  I  rimfi  ^anp 
Ofv  TCfV ;  and  If  I  ted  you 
vov  smttesat  Tinderella,  aad 
her  by  the  faanl,  and 
her  to  enter  kto  the  priyfhigBs  ef 
confession,  in  ihe  samuier-banse  la 
her  fother's  garden— and  boidiiig  foith 
all  the  time  on  the  Mesafaigi  of  a  < 
ventual  lifo  and  penance,  and 
ahhts  and  a  cat-V-nine-tafla — 1 1 
be  greatly  insUned  to  raonr  to  tbt 
disdplme  that  used  to  improve  year 
manners  greatly  when  yon  were  a 
Uttie  boy,  md  «e  the  seooiKe  wtt 
more  eflbet  than  when  yen  apply  it  ta 
your  shoulders  with  your  own  htaad. 

The  Doctor  has  jiBt  been  tere,  nod 
as  I  know  yon  will  be  nMoed  tofaor 
the  news  he  gave  me^  I  wfli  traoe- 
mit  it  to  you  at  once. 

''Buddie,"  he  said  to  me,  «*yoa 
have  perhaps  seen  how  vainly  I  hare 
tried  to  resist  the  parish,  at  leass  the 
young  ladies  of  tiie  parish;  te*  I  sm 
sorry  to  say,  that,  with  tbe  e  ir  cnj|ilii 
of  yourself  and  two  or  three  ntherscf 
the  semors,  tiie  paxMi  has  kit  ore  te 
fight  tbe  battie  tfooe.** 

"My  dear  Smtov**  I  lefOSed, 
"iriiat  can  wedot  Sorely,  if  vre  fie 
quiet  on  our  oars,  the  fan^  te*  tint 
sort  of  thing  wiU  go  off." 

"Not  stall;  as  they  get  older  it 
will  get  worse.  There  is  some  hope  isr 
them  when  they  an  veiy  yonng,  tat 
in  a  few  years  there  is  no  dnaee  ef 
escwing  a  universal  passing  eivirea 
the  Pope  ;  and  between  ooxeetw^^ — 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


lSiB.2 


L§mntoABMa.  Okofim 


68S 


SDd  here  tbe  Dodor  lodod  at  the 
door,  aa  iflM  wished  to  bait  it  with  a 
twist  of  his  eye— "^I  an  in  great 
anxietT  af  aund  lest  tfaay  cany  ne 
with  them.    " 


Yes,  my  good 
itwmdd  not  anrprisa  me  if  I  awoke 
same  morain;  and  foond  myaelf  a 
moidL" 

''How?  Haven't  jan  sipnd  the 
artidea  and  repeated  tbe  creed,  and 
the  oath  of  abjoratkn,  and  all  that?'' 

^^That  is  nodflteoe.  Those  girh 
go  to  worlc  so  scieotiicaUy,  < 
one  otifeot  first,  and  then  another ;  < 
they  are  so  good,  and  aetire,  and  i 
able,  and  so  nseM  in  tiie  parish,  and 
so  dever,  and  defer  so  req>ectftdly  to 
my  judgment  hi  all  things,  that  Ifiad 
mre  is  not  an  alteration  which  haa 
taken  place  in  the  parish  that  I  did 
not  at  first  expose,  and  end  in  a  very 
short  time  hy  osdeiinff  on  my  own 
anthority.  les,  my  dear  fitaid,  I 
fiMl  that,  if  not  soppocted  by  some 
person  of  stout  vncompmniafaigdiiirch 
prindi^es,  I  shall  probably  ioi  my- 
self eating  ish  on  Fddagra,  and  ad- 
ministering castiigation  to  myself  in  my 
old  age,  and  listening  to  yoong  ladies' 
conf^ons,  and  flogghig  Aramintaor 
Tinderella  in  atonement  £m>  their  tast- 
ing a  natton-chop  on  afaat-day." 

''  It  would  do  them  both  a  great 
deal  of  good." 


''No  doidbt  of  it,  my  dear  Bvddle^ 
and  if  they  were  five  or  six  yttn 
yoonger,  saeh  things  would  soon  be 
put  oat  of  their  heads."  And  here  he 
clenched  his  hand  on  his  riding  switch, 
and  looked  like  the  picture  of  Dockur 
Busby.  '^Bnt,aaitis,ltbinklhare 
stolen  a  march  on  them,  hook  ai 
that." 

So  saying,  he  pointed  to  an  ad?er- 
tbement  in  the  Record  newiq>aper, 
which  stated  that  ^  a  curate  was 
wanted  for  a  oountiy  parish ;  he  must 
be  under  thhrty,  an  etoquent  preacher 
andreader;  and, finally, that  noTrao- 
tarian  need  apply." 

*'  And  he's  cconing,  rir ;  tiie  Reve- 
rend Algernon  Sidney  Mount  Hux- 
table;  amanof goodfunily, tderaUe 
fortune,  and  highly  orthodox  prin- 
dfrfes,  is  coming  I  X  expect  him  next 
week,  uid  as  he  is  omj  ei^t-and- 
twenty,  and  uranarried,  I  think  he 
will  be  an  exeettent  assistant  m  re- 
these  atta^LSon  our  admirable 


So,  with  this  piece  of  iaformation, 
my  dear  Charies,  I  conclude,  as  I  am 
anxkms  to  go  1lirou|^  the  honses  in 
the  village,  and  see  the  etifoct  of  the 
announcement  on  the  charming  little 
amy  which  Mi^  MTurk  inever- 
ently  cdls  St  Ursula's  dragoons. 


On  Mmday  last,  oar  new  enrate 
came:  a  most  gentleauBdy-mannered 
flood-looking  yoang  man,  with  very 
dark  eyes  and  very  white  teeth ;  and 
I  was  pleased  to  observe,  when  I 
dined  witii  hhn  the  fimt  day  at  the 
parsonage,  that  he  did  not  oonsider 
these  advantages  as  merely  oma* 
mental,  bat  made  eaceeilent  use  ef 
both.  He  did  yeoman's  service  upon 
the  fish  and  mMan,  and  cast  glances 
on  MisB  Chriatfaia  SasMer  that  made 
her  at  once  give  up  tin  oppositai  she 
had  made  to  herfiither's  proposal  of 
keeping  a  earate,  and  provea,  to  his 
entire  satis&ction,  that  it  waa  the 
best  arrangement  in  the  wnrid.  A 
pleasant  good-bomoared  conq;>anion,  a 
man  of  the  werid.  and  an  unfiinching 
son  and  servant orthe€bursh,  gainhic 
the  rector's  eonfidenoe  by  an  attack 
on  Popery,  and  wining  the  ladies* 


affection  by  a  spirited  tirade  on  the 
vulgarity  of  dissent 

'«The  fhct  K,"  said  the  Doctor, 
after  the  ladies  had  withdrawn,  and 
we  had  filled  our  glasses  with  the  first 
bunmr  of  port, — *'*'  the  fact  is,  my 
dear  mount  Uuxtable,  that  our  parish 
is  in  a  very  corioas  oondition.  We 
arealldevotod  members  of  tiie  Church, 
and  yet  we  are  very  susfddous  of 
eac^otiier.  Theinhabitants,e8peciaUy 
the  yonng  lacty  part  of  them,  have 
taken  sudi  an  interest  lately  in  the 
afiiurs  of  the  parish,  and  are  so  unani- 
mous in  enforcing  their  own  wishes, 
both  on  me  and  die  chnrdiwardens — 
not  to  mention  my  stanch  and  kind 
Mends  Mijor  M'Turk  and  Mr  Buddie 
—that  we  feel  as  if  tiie  revolotionaiy 
si^it  had  extended  to  this  village,  and 
the  regular  an&oritiea  had  been  depos - 
ed  by  a  Committee  of  PubUoSaioty." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


684 


Letters  to  the  Rev.  Charles  Fmtktn. 


[Jone, 


"Do  they  enforce  their  wishes?" 
inquired  the  new  curate,  with  a  frown, 
and  laying  great  emphasis  on  the 
word  enforce. 

"  Well,"  replied  the  Eector,  a  little 
puzzled,  "  that's  rather  a  strong 
word.  Do  70a  think  we  can  call  it 
enforce,  Major  M'Turk?" 

"They  say  they'll  do  it,  and  it's 
done,"  was  the  reply  of  the  military 
commander. 

"And yon,  Buddie?" 

"No;  you  can't  call  it  enforce," 
said  I;  "for  they  are  the  meekest, 
sweetest,  and  most  submissiye  people 
I  ever  met  with." 

"That's  right;  Tm  glad  to  hear  it," 
said  Mount  Huxtable.  "  And  do 
they  really  succeed  in  all  the  efforts 
they  make?" 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  sud  the  Rec- 
tor, looking  rather  confused.  "The 
church  is  entirely  different  from  what 
it  was  a  year  ago ;  eyen  the  service, 
by  some  means  or  other,  has  got  into 
quite  a  different  order ;  I  find  myself 
walking  about  in  my  surplice,  and 
standing  up  at  doxologies,  and  some- 
times attempting  to  sing  the  Jubilate 
after  the  second  lesson,  though  I  never 
had  a  voice,  and  it  does  not  seem  to 
be  set  to  any  particular  tune.  And, 
in  confidence  between  ourselves,  I 
think  they  could  make  me  of  any  re- 
ligion they  chose." 

"  They're  the  fittest  missionaries  for 
the  Mahommedan  faith,"  said  Major 
M'Turk ;  "  such  Houris  may  always 
count  on  me  for  a  convert." 

The  Curate  sank  into  silence. 

"  You're  not  afraid  of  such  antago- 
nists, Mount  Huxtable?"  inquired 
the  Rector. 

"  I  don't  think  they  are  at  all  to  be 
feared  as  antagonists,"  he  replied,  with 
a  smile,  as  if  assured  of  the  victory. 

And  when  we  looked  at  his  hand- 
some face,  and  the  glow  of  true  ortho- 
dox determination  that  brightened  in 
his  eyes,  we  were  all  of  the  same 
opinion. 

"  But  we  won't  let  them  see  the 
battery  we  have  prepared  against 
them,"  continued  the  jubilant  Itostor, 
"  till  we  are  in  a  position  to  take  the 
field.  I  have  i4>plied  to  the  bishop 
for  a  license  for  you  for  two  years,  so 
that,  whatever  complaints  they  make 
against  your  proceedings,  nothmg  can 
get  you  removed  from  the  parish ;  the 


whole  onus  of  the  fight  wHl  be  Uuown 
on  yonr  shoulders ;  and  all  I  can  say 
to  them,  when  they  come  to  me  wiu 
their  grievances,  will  be,  my  dear 
Araminta,  my  dear  Sophronia,  my 
charming  little  Anastasia,  Mr  Mount 
Huxtable  is  in  the  entire  chai^  of 
the  parish,  and  from  his  decision 
there  is  ao  i4)peal." 

The  happiest  man  in  England  that 
night  was  the  Reverend  Doctor  Smiler 
of  Great  Yawnham,  for  he  had  now 
the  assurance  of  preserving  the  ortho- 
doxy of  his  parish,  without  the  pain  of 
quarreling  with  his  parishioners. 

"  Good  night,  goodnight,"  he  said, 
as  M^Turk  and  I  walked  away,  while 
Mount  Huxtable  got  into  his  phaeton 
and  whisked  his  greys  veryshowOy 
down  the  avenue,  "I  think  that 
ewe-necked  donkey,  Charles  Fustian, 
won't  be  quite  so  popular  with  the 
BUzers  at  Hellebore  Park,  in  spite  of 
Araminta's  admiradon  of  his  long 
back  and  white  neckcloth." 

"  Mount  Huxtable  will  cut  him  out 
in  every  house  in  the  parish,"  replied 
M^jor  M^Turk ;  and  I  said, 

"  I  know  Charles  very  well,  and 
like  him  immensely ;  he  won't  yield 
without  a  struggle,  and,  in  fact,  I  have 
no  doubt  he  will  proceed  to  excom- 
munication." 

Pardon  us  all,  my  dear  Charies,  for 
the  free-and-easy  way  we  speak  of 
you.  I  don't  believe  three  old  fellows 
in  England  are  fonder  of  you  than  we ; 
and  no  wonder— for  haven't  we  all 
known  you  from  your  cradle,  and 
traced  you  through  all  your  career 
since  you  were  hopelessly  the  booby 
of  the  dame's  school,  till  you  were 
twice  plucked  at  Oxford,  and  proved 
how  absurdly  the  dons  of  that  univer- 
sity behaved,  by  obtaining  your  de- 
gree from  Dublin  by  a  special  favour. 
Would  a  learned  body  have  treated  a 
very  decided  fool  with  special  favour? 
No ;  and  therefore  I  thmk  Dr  Smiler 
and  M^Turk  are  sometimes  a  great 
deal  too  strong  in  their  lan^age ;  but 
you  must  forgive  them,  font  proceeds 
from  the  frOness  of  their  hearts. 

The  license  arrived  next  day,  and 
a  mighty  tea-drinking  was  held  last 
night  at  the  parsonage,  to  enable  the 
Doctor  to  present  his  curate  to  the 
parish.  The  Blazers  came  in  frt)m 
Hellebore  Park,  Araminta  looking 
beautiful  in  a  plain  nun-like  white 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


iMiitn  to  the  Rev.  Charkt  Fuatitm. 


686 


flown,  with  a  cross  and  rosaiy  ofjet 
nUing  tastefiillj  over  her  breast.  The 
Swaimoves  came  from  the  Lodge,  the 
spirited  Tinderella  labouring  nnder 
two  prodigious  folios  of  Gregorian 
chants.  S)plironia  and  her  grand- 
mamma came  np  from  the  vale ;  and, 
in  short,  the  whole  rank  and  beauty 
of  the  yillaffe  assembled.  The  manly 
dignity  of  that  charming  district  was 
represented  by  myself  and  Major 
M'Tnrk ;  yonr  father,  who  came  down 
in  his  wheel-chair ;  Dr  Falser  and  his 
son  Arthur,  who  has  lately  settled 
down  here,  with  a  brass  plate  on  the 
surgery  door,  announcing  that  he  is 
attomey-at-law.  Arthur,  you  remem- 
ber, has  a  beautiful  voice,  and  he  en- 
tones  the  responses  like  a  nightingale. 

We  were  all  assembled  before  the 
guest  of  the  evening  arrived.  For  the 
thousandth  time  we  admired  the  gar- 
den and  lawn,  and  heard  how  the 
Doctor  had  altered  the  house,  and 
levelled  the  grounds,  and  thrown  out 
bow-windows,  and  made  the  whole 
thins  the  perfect  biiou  it  is.  The 
fhschias  were  in  full  bloom,  the 
grass  nicely  mown,  and  the  windows 
being  open,  we  could  saUy  forth  on  to 
the  terrace  walk,  and  admire  the 
pleasure-grounds  as  we  chose.  But 
nobody  moved.  Christina  Smiler  sat 
at  the  piano,  but  did  not  play ;  she 
kept  her  eyes  constantly  fixed  on  the 
door,— as  indeed  did  several  of  the 
other  young  ladies ;  and  when  at  last 
wheels  were  heard  rapidly  approach- 
ing, and  a  loud  knock  resounded 
tfajrou|;h  the  house,  the  amount  of 
blushmg  was  immense ;  the  bloom  of 
80  many  cheeks  would  have  reoEdled 
to  an  original-minded  poet  a  bed  of 
roses,  and  old  M^Turk  kicked  mv 
shins  unobserved,  and  whispered,  '^  We 
shall  get  quit  of  the  female  parliament 
very  soon :  this  is  the  Cromwell  of 
the  petticoats.'* 

Ajb  he  felt  that  he  made  his  appear- 
ance, on  this  occasion,  in  his  profes- 
sional character,  Mr  Mount  Huxtable 
was  arrayed  hi  stdctiy  clerical  cos- 
tume. Your  own  tie,  my  dear  Charles, 
could  not  have  been  more  accurately 
starched,  nor  your  coat  more  episco- 
pally  cut.  There  was  the  apostolic 
succession  clearly  defined  on  the  but- 
tons; and,  between  ourselves,  we 
were  enchanted  with  tiie  fine  taste 
that  showed  that  a  man  might  be  a 

VOL.  Lxv.— NO.  ccocnr. 


good  stout  high  churchman  without 
being  altogether  an  adherent  of  the 
Fatnistics.  His  introduction  was  ez- 
cellentiygot  over,  and  the  charming 
warmth  with  which  he  shook  hands 
with  the  young  people,  after  doing  his 
salutation  to  us  of  the  preterite  gene- 
ration, showed  that  his  attention  was 
not  confined  to  the  study  of  tiie  fathers, 
but  had  a  pretty  considerable  leanhig 
to  the  daufffaters  also. 

"  So  much  the  better,  my  boy," 
said  M'Turk,  ''he*ll  have  them  aU 
back  to  the  good  old  ways  in  atrice ; 
we  shall  have  picnics  again  on  Fridays, 
and  littie  dances  every  dav  in  the 
week.**  Tea  was  soon  finished,  and 
Tinderelhi  Swainlove,  without  being 
asked  bv  anybody,  as  far  as  I  could 
see,  waliied  majestically  to  the  piano, 
and  laying  open  a  huge  book,  gave 
voice  with  the  greatest  impetuosity  to- 
a  Latin  song,  which  she  afterwards 
(turning  round  on  the  music-stool, 
and  looking  up  in  Mr  Mount  Hux- 
table*s  face)  explauied  to  be  a  hymn 
to  the  Virgin.  But  the  gentieman  did 
not  observe  that  the  explanation  was 
addressed  to  him,  and  continued  his 
conversation  with  Christina  Smiler. 
In  a  few  mhiutes  he  accompanied  her 
out  of  the  window  into  the  garden, 
and  the  other  young  ladies  caught  oc- 
casional glimpses  of  the  pair  as  they 
crossed  the  open  spaces  between  the 
shrubs.  The  Doctor  rubbed  his  hands 
with  delight,  and  Mrs  Smiler  could 
scarcely  conceal  her  gratification.  But 
these  feelings  were  not  entertained  by 
the  Swainloves.  Tinderella  looked 
rather  disappomted  to  her  mother ;  and 
that  lady  addressed  Miyor  M'Turk  in 
ratiiera  bitter  tone  of  voice,  and  said 
it  was  a  pity  the  curate  was  so  awk- 
ward, and  asked  how  long  he  had 
been  lame. 

^^  He  la  by  no  means  lame,"  replied 
the  Miyor ;  *'  you'll  learn  that  before- 
long,  by  the  dance  hell  show  you." 

*^Does  he  dance?"  inquired  Mrs 
Swainlove,  anxiously.  *^  As  you're  at 
the  piano,  my  dear  Tinderella,  will 
you  play  us  that  charming  polka  you 
used  to  play  last  year  ?" 

A  polka  l^it  was  the  first  that  had 
been  demanded  for  a  long  time ;  and, 
in  the  suiprise  and  gratification  of  the 
moment,  the  Major  took  her  afiection- 
ately  by  the  hand.  TlndereUa  ph^ed 
as  required ;  and  great  was  the  effect 
2x 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


686 


Ltlkn  $9  Ae  Btv.  Ck&Hm  fWtiwpi. 


[Joae, 


of  her  lotes :  ftnl  one  hir  ladj,  uid 
then  another,  iMind  the  room  too  hoi ; 
and  before  many  miantee  elapeed,  we, 
who  sat  near  the  window,  saw  the 
whole  assemhly,  except  the  performer 
on  the  pianoi,  groaped  reond  the  new 
cnrate,  who  seemed  giving  them  lec- 
tures on  botany,  for  he  held  some 
flowers  in  his  hand,  aad  was  eridently 
very  commnnieatiTe  to  them  att.  Mrs 
Swainlove,  seeing  her  stratagem  of  no 
avail,  told  Xkiderella  to  stop,  and  the 
<9onver8ati<m  was  estirelj  Kmited  to 
the  men  who  stayed  behind.  Yonng 
Pnlser,  the  attorney,  had  joined  the 
party  in  the  garden,  and  the  senior, 
ladies,  with  the  discomfited  mnsidaa, 
800B  also  retired. 

"  He'll  do,**  said  the  Major  confi- 
dentially— ^^  he's  the  very  man  for  oar 
money ;  and  aU  things  considered — 
not  li(»getting  my  friend  Christina 
amon^  the  rest— yon  never  did  a  wiser 
thing  m  yoor  lifo,  my  dear  Smiler." 

'^  He  seems  a  sue  hand  among  the 
ghrls,"  said  yovr  fother,  ^  and  I 
haven't  had  a  ehaaee  of  a  minote's 
talk  with  him.  I  wanted  to  speak- 
to  him  abont  my  son  Charles." 

^*  He'll  give  yon  good  advice  about 
breaking  in  that  Miff-necked  yonnr 
gentleman,"  said  the  Rector,  ^^  and 
we  most  cetttiive  to  get  them  ac- 
qnainted." 

''Bless  ye,"  said  yonr  fother, 
**•  they^'re  very  well  acquainted  abready. 
He  lived  in  Charles's  parish  m  the 
diocese  of  Yexer,  and  was  a  great  fa- 
vourite, I'm  told,  of  the  bishop.'* 

'^  Nonsense,  my  dear  fellow,"  said 
the  Doctor,  taken  a  Utile  aback,  ''he 
can't  possibly  be  a  fovonrite  of  such  a 
firebrand — it  must  be  some  one  else  ; 
and,  besides,  he  never  told  me  he  was 
a  Mend  of  year  son.** 

"You  can  ask  him,"  rej^Lied  your 
fother,  "  for  I'm  quite  sure  I've  often 
heard  Charles  talk  of  his  friend  Mount 
Hnxtable." 

A  dead  silence  fell  upon  us  all. 
Strange,  we  thonaht,  thai  he  should 
never  have  alluded  to  his  acquamtance 
with  you.  Can  he  be  ashamed  of  the 
way  vou  have  been  going  on  ?  Is  he 
afraid  of  being  saspMied  of  the  same 
ludicrous  foa«fcings  nd  fastings  that 
have  given  you  such  a  reputation  hm«? 

'^  Pray,  my  dear  Mount  Hnxtable," 
said  Dr  Skniler,  when  the  new  curate, 
accompanied  by  the  young  ladlee— 


Uke  the  proud-walking,  leog-necked 
leader  of  a  tribe  of  beautifhl  snow- 
white  geese  —  altered  the  room, 
"have  you  ever  met  ovr  exceUent 
friend,  Charles  Fustian?** 

"Fustian— Fustian?"  replied  the 
Cnrate,  trying  to  recollect  '^  There 
are  somany  of  that  name  in  the  Church, 
I  mnky  ought  to  have  met  with  one 
of  them." 

The  Doctor  nodded  his  head,  quite 
satisfied,  to  your  father. 

"  iTou  see,  yon  see^"  he  said,  wkk 
a  chuckle. 

"  I  see  notiiing  of  the  scnrt,"  said 
your  progenitor ;  "  for  though  FusHaa 
IS  common  enough  hi  the  Church,  Pm 
sure  Mount  Hnxtable  isn't." 

"That*B  true,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"Pray,  how  do  you  account  for 
Charles  Fustian  happening  to  know 

TOU?" 

"  Ah,  my  dear  sir,"  answered 
Mount  Hnxtable,  with  a  smile  to  the 
ladies,  "  there  is  an  old  b3rwerd,  which 
says  more  people  know  Tom  Fool  than 
Tom  Fool  knows." 

A  great  laugh  rewarded  this  sally, 
and  the  Doctor's  triumph  over  his 
neighbours  was  complete. 

"  I  toUl  you  what  it  woidd  come 
to,**  he  said ;  "  no  tme  orthodox 
churdnnan  can  have  any  acquaintance 
with  such  a  semi-papist  as  poor 
Charles." 

Hie  conversation  nowwBit  on  in 
the  usual  dlamiel — that  is  to  say,  we 
talked  a  little  politics,  which  was  very 
uninteresting,  for  we  all  agreed;  and 
the  young  ones  attacked  the  Curate  on 
musio  and  painting,  and  church  archi- 
tecture, on  all  which  sutjects  he 
managed  to  give  them  great  satisfac- 
tion, ror  he  was  an  excellent  musician, 
a  tolerable  artist,  and  might  have 
passed  anvwhere  for  a  profteional 
builder.  I  suppose  they  were  as  much 
astonished  as  pleased  to  find  that  a 
man  might  be  an  oppon^t  of  the 
Tracts,  and  yet  be  as  deep  in  church* 
matters  as  themselves.  Encouraged 
by  this,  they  must  have  pushed  their 
advances  rather  for  for  a  first  meet- 
ing; for,  after  an  animated  conversa- 
tion in  the  bow-window,  Araminta 
and  two  or  three  other  voung  ladies 
came  to  the  Doctor's  chair. 

"  Ontj  think,  dear  Doctor  Smiler," 
she  said,  "how  unkmd  Mr  Mount 
Hnxtable  is.     Kext  Thursdi^,  our 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC  | 


id4d.] 


Xtfttsrt  to  <Ae  Beo,  Charki  FtuHam. 


687 


daj  i&  the  draieh,  is  tiie 
Peast  of'boly  SI  Ihgalpos  of  Doncas- 
'  ter,  and  he  won't  give  us  leave  to 
ornament  the  altar  with  flowai9." 

**  And  who  in  the  worid  is  St  Ingol- 
p«  of  Doncaster?**  said  the  Doctor. 

'*^  A  holy  man,  I  don't  in  the  least 
deny,"  said  Mowit  Hnxtable,  kindly 
taking  the  answer  on  himself.  ^'  His 
aets  and  writings  attest  his  yirtnes 
and  power;  but  I  merdy  mentioned 
to  the  yonng  ladies,  as  tiie  easiest  way 
of  settling  the  affair,  that  St  Ingolpos, 
though  most  justly  canonised  by  the 
holy  fiuher  in  the  thirteenth  een- 
tmry,  was  not  elevated  to  the  degree 
of  worship  er  veneration  by  the  sne- 
^seeding  cooncils.*' 

'^And  yon  answered  them  very 
well,  nr,"  said  the  Doctor.  ''  And  as 
to  St  Ingnlpos  of  Donoaster,  I  never 
heard  of  him,  and  believe  him  to  have 
been  an  hnpostor,  like  the  holy  fhther^ 
as  yon  ironicallv  call  Mm,  who  pre- 
tended to  canonise  hbn." 

''Oh,  papar  said  Christfaia,  ad- 
"dressing  her  fother,  bat  looking  all 
the  time  at  ti^  Cmttte,  ^Mrlfoont 
Hnxtable  himself  confesses  he  was  a 
holy  man." 

"  What  ? — do  y&u  join  in  such 
follies  ?  Go  to  bed,  or  learn  to  behave 
less  like  a  child.  Mr  Mount  Huxtable 
accommodates  his  language  to  the 
weakness  of  hb  anditora;  bnt  in  reality 
he  has  as  great  a  contempt  for  this 
ingnlpns>  er  any  otiier  popish  swindler, 
as  I  have." 

The  Doctor  was  now  so  secnre^of 
support  from  his  curate,  tiiat  he  felt 
bold  enough  to  get  into  a  passion.  If 
he  had  fired  a  plitol  at  his  guests,  he 
could  scaroebr  have  created  a  greater 
sensation.  The  eSkct  on  Christina 
wae  such  that  she  clung  for  support  to 
Mount  Huxtable,  and  rested  her  head 
on  his  shoulder. 

''Mr  Mount  Huxtable,"  continued 
^le  Rector,  "has  forbidden  you  to 
disfigure  my  church  with  flowers.  Mr 
Mount  Huxtable  has  the  entire  charge 
of  this  parish,  and  from  his  dedaion 
thttre  is  no  i^peaL" 

This  knock-down  bfow  he  had  kept 
for  the  last ;  and  it  had  all  the  effect 
he  expected.  They  were  silent  for  a 
long  time.  "  That  has  settled  them, 
I  think,"  he  whispered  to  me ;  "they 
know  me  to  be  such  a  ffood-natmred 
old  fool,  and  so  fond  of  dem  all,  that 


in  tise  they  might  have  turned  me 
ronnd  their  thnmbs ;  but  Mount  Hux- 
table is  a  different  man.  At  the  same 
time,  I  must'nt  have  the  darlings  too 
harshly  used.  I  daresay  I  was  a  littie 
too  bitter  in  the  way  I  spoke  :  I  can't 
bear  to  see  any  of  them  unhappy, — 
something  must  be  done  to  amuse 
them." 

If  the  Doctor  had  done  then  all 
some  serious  iiQury,  he  could  not 
have  been  more  anxious  to  atone  for 
it  He  spoke  to  each  of  them,  patted 
them  on  the  head,  told  them  they  were 
good  girls,  and  that  he  loved  them  all 
like  las  own  children ;  and  even  went 
so  far  as  to  say  that,  if  the  matter  was 
entirely  in  his  hands,  he  didn't  know 
bnt  that  he  might  have  allowed  them 
to  make  what  wieatiis  and  posies  they 
liked  on  Thursday.  "  And  as  to  your 
friend  Ingnlpos^"  he  conduded,  "I 
hope  and  trust  he  was  a  good  man 
according^  to  his  lights,  and  probably 
had  no  intentkm  to  deceive.  So,  my 
dear  Mount  Huxtable,  as  your  un- 
comproml^ng  Protestantism  is  the 
cause  of  disappointment  to  my  young 
flock,  I  must  punish  you  by  insisting 
on  your  immediately  singing  them  a 
song." 

"  The  young  ladies,  sir,  shall  find  I 
am  not  so  uncompromising  a  Protes- 
tant as  they  fear,  for  yon  see  I  don't 
even  protest  against  the  j  ustioe  of  your 
sentence;"  and  with  this  he  took  his 
seat  at  Uie  piano.  *^  The  song  I  shall 
attempt  is  not  a  very  new  cme,"  he 
said,  "  for  it  was  written  in  the  year 
a  thousand  and  forty  by  a  monk  of 
Cluny.  The  ^nedictines,  yoa  will 
remember,  have  at  all  times  been  de- 
voted to  music."  So  saying,  he  threw 
his  hand  over  the  keys,  uid  after  a 
prelude,  sang  in  a  fine  sianly  voice — 
^  Hon  aoTiniBia,  U«po»  pMiim*  mat ; 

▼igilMaiM!— 
EdmI  mtnaoitog  imminet  Arbiter  ille  raproi- 


Iinmiiui  I  imnunat  I  ot  miU  teminct,  «^u» 

coronet, 
Recta  remoneret,  anxiA  libeiet,  »then  donet, 

AufBratasperadnraqaeponden  mentis  onustie ; 
SobriAmmuAt,  improbApnniAt,iitrAqae  jtutd.  '* 

Astoniiriiment  and  ddight  kept  the 
company  silent  for  a  while  after  he 
had  finished,  and  then  the  repressed 
feelings  of  the  audieaoe  burst  out  with 
tenfold  fixce.  "  Oh,  Mr  Mount 
HnxtaUe  I"  said  they  all,  "  yoa  must 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


688 


LeUers  to  tkeReo.  Ckarks  F^uiian. 


[Janer 


attend  our  Thnnday  practiaing  in  the 
church.  It  will  be  so  dellghtfal  now, 
f<Mr  all  we  required  was  a  fine  man's 
voice.  How  beautifal  the  words  are, 
and  how  well  adapted  for  singing! 
And  the  music,  how  splendid !— pray 
whose  is  the  music  ?  " 

^^  I  am  afraid  I  must  confess  myself 
the  culprit  in  that  respect,'*  replied 
the  Curate,  very  modestly.  '^  I  have 
been  an  enthusiast  in  music  all  my 
life,  and  have  a  peculiar  delight  in 
composing  melodies  to  the  old  Catholic 
hymns." 

After  this  no  more  was  said  of 
flowers  on  St  Ingulpus's  day ;  and  it 
was  very  evident  that  our  new  ally 
was  canying  the  war  into  the  enemy's 
country,  and,  in  fact,  was  turning 
their  artillery  against  tiiemselves. 

^^  If  yon  are  pleased  with  this  idmple 
song,  I  am  sure  that  you  wiU  all  be 
en<£anted  next  week  with  two  Mends 
who  have  promised  to  visit  me— both 
exquisite  musicians,  and  veiy  clever 

** Clergymen?"  inquired  two  or 
three  of  the  ladies. 

"  Of  course.  I  have  very  few  lay 
acquaintance.  You  perhaps  have 
heard  their  names,  —  the  Keverend 


LanntonSwallowlie6,andtheRever6nd 
Iscariot  Rowdy,  both  of  Oxford." 

"No  we  don't  know  their  namea^ 
but  shall  be  delighted  to  see  anj 
friends  of  yours."  And  so  the  party 
broke  up  with  universal  satisfiiction^ 
There  was  a  brilliant  moon,  and  Mount 
Huxtable  sent  away  his  phaeton  and 
two  beautifiil  gray  ponies,  and  walked 
to  Hdlebore  gate  with  the  Blazers^ 
Christina  Smikr  would  rathw  have- 
had  him  drive  home,  and  looked  a 
little  sad  as  they  went  off:  but  we 
heard  happy  voices  all  the  way  down 
the  avenue ;  snatches  of  psalm-music» 
even,  rose  up  from  the  shrubs  that 
line  the  walk;  and  it  ^>pear8  that 
the  whole  group  had  stopt  short  on 
the  little  knoll  that  rises  just  within 
the  parsonage  gate,  and  sung  the 
Sicilian  Mariner's  Hymn. 

So  I  think,  my  dear  Charles,  yon 
may  give  up  ainr  fruther  attempts  osk 
our  good  old  Cfhurch  principles ;  the^ 
Doctor  is  determined  not  to  turn  round 
to  the  communion-table  even  at  the 
creed,  and  I  will  beat  you  £20  that 
the  congregation  will  all  come  back, 
again,  and  we  shall  once  more  be  a 
happy  and  united  parish. 


USTTEBTBIBD. 


We  look  on  you  now,  my  dear 
Charles,  as  a  fallen  star ;  and,  between 
ourselves,  I  don't  think  you  are  missed 
by  a  single  astronomer  in  Yawnham, 
from  the  sky  where  you  were  once 
enthroned.  No,  sir:  our  curate's 
neckcloth  is  staffer  than  yours,  his 
collar  plainer,  his  tails  longer,  his  know- 
ledge of  saints  and  legends  infinitely 
deeper— and,  besides,  he  sings  like  an 
angel,  and  has  a  phaeton  and  pafar. 
And  he  is  so  gentlemanly,  too.  He 
was  at  Eton,  and  is  intimate  with 
many  lords,  and  has  a  power  of  sneer- 
ing at  low  churchmen  and  dissenters 
that  would  be  mynb  and  incense  to 
the  Pope.  Now  you  will  observe, 
my  unfortunate  young  friend,  that 
when  gentlemanly  manners,  good  looks 
and  accomplishments— not  to  mention 
an  intimacy  with  the  Bed  Book— and 
fourteen  hundred  a-year  are  in  one 
scale,  and  Charies  Fustian  and  a  ton 
weight  of  Tractarians  are  in  the  other, 
the  young  persons  who,  in  our  parish, 
bold  the  beam  will  very  soon  send 


you  and  your  make-weights  half-way 
through  the  roof.  Therefore,  if  yoa 
wish  to  retrieve  your  influence,  either 
with  Araminta  or  the  other  frur  inno- 
vators, now  or  never  is  your  time; 
come  down  and  visit  us.  We  shall 
all  be  delighted  to  see  your  elon> 
gated  visage,  and  are  not  without 
hopes— for  you  are  a  ffood-natured 
excdlent-dii^sitioned  fdlow  after  all 
— that  yoE  will  see  the  error  of  your 
ways,  and  believe  that  humility  and 
charity  are  Christian  graces  as  well 
as  fidth  and  coloured  wmdows.  It  so 
happens  that  there  is  scarcely  a  house 
in  Uie  place  without  a  visitor.  Tom 
Blazer  has  come  down  to  Hellebore 
Park,  and  has  brought  Jones  and 
Smith,  two  of  his  brother  officers  of  the 
Bifles,  with  him;— the  two  Oxford 
men  are  with  Mount  Huxtable,  who 
has  taken  Laburnum  Place,  and  our 
doings  are  likely  to  be  uncommonly 
gay.     Swallowlles  and  Bowdy  are 

rt  friends,  though  they  seem  to  be 
very  antipodes   of  each  other. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1^9.] 


LeUen  to  M«  Rev.  Charles  Fustian, 


Rowdy  won*t  believe  aoythiiijBN  and 
lias  doubts  about  the  battle  of  Water- 
loo ;  and  Swallowlies  believes  every- 
thing, and  thinks  the  American  States 
will  soon  pay  off  mv  bonds.  Rowdy 
says  there  is  no  evidence,  satisfactory 
to  him,  that  there  is  such  a  state  as 
Arkansas  in  the  world,  as  it  is  not  an- 
thoritatively  stated  by  church  or 
council;  and  tries  to  persuade  me 
that  I  have  lent  six  thousand  pounds 
of  real  money  to  an  imaginary  republic 
In  the  mean  time,  the  loss  of  three 
iiundred  a- vear  is  by  no  means  an  ima- 
ginaiy  evil,  and  I  feel  a  little  sore  at 
both  these  Oxford  humourists  for 
laughing  at  my  misfortunes.  However, 
Swallowlies  errs  on  the  right  idde,  and 
Is  decidedly  tiie  favourite  with  us  all. 
You  may  guess,  my  d^ar  Charles, 
how  the  heart  of  MiyorM^Turk  jumped 
for  joy  when  Mount  HuxtaUe  pro- 
posed a  pic-nic  at  the  Holywdl  tree 
«t  the  other  extremity  of  the  parish ; 
and  all  the  voung  ladies,  without  a 
single  exception,  determined  to  be  of 
ihe  party.  Fasting,  mv  good  friend, 
-has  come  to  an  end :  there  were  pies 
enough  made  to  feed  an  army ;  bas- 
kets by  the  dozen  were  packed  up,  con  • 
Gaining  plates,  and  Imives  and  forks; 
crates  filled  with  cold  fowls  and  hams, 
and  others  loaded  with  fruit  and  wine. 
The  Rector  had  out  his  old  coach, 
which  Chipper  managed  to  decapitate 
for  the  occasion,  and  it  did  duty  (like 
St  Denis)  with  its  head  off,  as  an  open 
barouche.  He  took  some  of  the  Pudn- 
stones,  and  two  of  the  Pulsers;  and,  to 
make  room  for  MrsM*Turk,he,  or  rather 
Mrs  Smiler,  asked  the  Curate  to  take 
Christina  beside  him  on  the  driving- 
seat  of  his  phaeton.  I  got  out  my  old 
four-wheel,  which  was  certainly  not 
so  fashionable-looking  as  Mount  Hux- 
table^s  drag,  but  so  commodious  that 
it  appears  inade  of  India-rubber,  and 
stretches  to  any  extent.  Tom  Blazer 
is  an  ostentatious  fool  and  sports  a 
tandem— that  is  to  say,  he  puts  his 
own  horse  and  Jones'  (one  before  the 
other)  in  his  father's  hlsh  gig,  and  in- 
sists on  driving  Tinderella  Swain- 
4ove  all  about  the  country.  On  this 
occasion  she  also  graced  his  side;  and 
Jones  himself,  who  is  as  active  as  one 
of  the  Yoltigeurs  at  Astley's,  fixed  a 
board  on  the  hind  part  of  the  gig  and 
^'•at  with  his  back  to  the  horse,  smok- 


ing cigars  and  calling  it  a  dog-cart. 
At  last  w^  all  got  there;  and,  when 
the  company  was  assembled,  it  cer- 
tainly was  a  goodly  sight  to  see* 
The  little  spring  that  gives  its  name 
to  the  fine  old  elm — now,  alasl  a  stump 
that  might  pass  for  Arthur's  Table 
Round— comes  welling  out  from  a  glo- 
rious old  rock,  which  rises  suddenly, 
you  remember,  from  the  richest  pasture 
field  in  yeoman  Rnffhead's  farm.  I 
never  saw  the  scenery  to  such  advan- 
tage :  the  woods  of  Kindstone  HOI 
dosed  in  the  landscape  on  the  west : 
and  before  us,  to  the  south,  was  roread 
out  the  long  sunny  levd  of  Rich- 
land meads,  at  the  frurther  extremity 
of  which  rose  the  time-honoured  ivy- 
covered  ruins  of  Leeches  Abbey. 
While  the  servants,  who  had  gone  over 
in  a  couple  of  carts,  were  busy  in  ar- 
ranging the  repast,  we  fell  off  into 
parties,  and,  by  mere  accident,  I  joined 
the  Blazer  gins  and  Captain  Smith, 
who  ffatheied  round  the  Holywell, 
and  told  what  little  legends  they  knew 
of  it  to  Swallowlies  and  Rowny. 

^*  They  thought  it  was  good  for  epilep- 
tic fits,'^  said  Araminta, "  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  time.  It  was  blessed  by  St 
Toper  of  Geneva,  who  was  overcome 
by  thirst  one  morning  after  spending 
the  night  with  the  monks  of  Leeches.^' 
"Toper  of  Geneva?"  inquired 
Captain  Smith,— "it's  rather  a  jolly 
name  for  a  saint ;  no  wonder  the  old 
boy  folt  his  coppers  hot  after  a  night 
with  the  monks." 

But  the  remark  was  so  coldly  re- 
ceived that  the  CaptaUi,  who  et^oys  a 
great  reputation  in  the  Rifles  for  wit 
and  pleasantry,  was  for  a  while  struck 
dumb. 

"Who  shall  teU  what  mav  be  the 
eSAcMcy  of  a  good  man's  blessing," 
said  Mr  Swallowlies,  dipping  his  fin- 
gtr  reverently  in  the  cow's  drinking 
trough,  and  touching  his  forehead. 
"  Do  you  know.  Miss  Blazer,  if  it 
stiU  retains  its  virtue?" 

"I  believe  epileptic  patients  are 
still  brought  to  the  spring,"  replied 
Araminta,  "  and  I  have  heard  that 
the  old  woman  in  that  little  hut  on 
the  hill-side  has  seen  several  cures."  : 

"  I  will  make  her  acquaintance  this 
moment,"  exclaimed  Swallowlies.  "I 
think  it  a  privilege  to  look  on  a  matron 
who  has  witnessed  so  remarkable  a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


690 


Leikn  io  ih€  Eev.  C^miet  l^uHam. 


[J«e, 


manifestadoD.  WUl  Tom  go  wkfa  me, 
Bowdy?"  ^ 

^'  No,  I  lunre  no  great  faitk  in  die 
foontaio.** 

"Why  not?" 

"  Bectaae  It  is  a  Bofficient  effort  for 
the  human  mind  to  have  faith  in  one 
or  two  points  of  £ur  greater  import- 
•ance." 

"  But  yon  needn^t  make  oay  effort 
at  jdL  Take  it  on  the  aseoranoe  of 
the  Cfannsfa,'^  said  Swailowlies  per- 
soastvely.  "We  have,  indeed,  cut 
onneives  off  from  a  declaration  <^  onr 
belief  in  the  power  of  saints  like  dw 
holy  Toper;  but  we  can  sareiy  enter- 
tun  the  belief,  thongfa  we  are  debarred 
from  making  pnUic  profession  of  it. 
And,  in  fact,  any  one  who  believes  in 
mlrades  at  all  most  equally  believe 
that  dus  spring  wili  cnre  epileptic 
fits." 

^^  Exactly  as  I  say,"  responded 
Rowdy ;  ^^  all  miraclee  are  equally 
credible." 

"Then  oome  to  the  old  wvmaa," 
said  SwailowHea,  taking  his  arm. 

"No,"  said  Mr  Rowdy,  "I  have 
lately  had  great  donbts  as  to  my  own 
identity,  and  I  am  going  to  tiy  some 
experiments  to  see  whether  I  am  now 
the  same  person  I  was  when  I  signed 
the  articles,  and  4id  dnty  in  my 
parish." 

Mr  Swailowlies,  however,  md  the 
rest  of  ns,  with  the  exoeption  of  Cap- 
tain Smith,  walked  to  old  Janet 
Wheedler's  cottage,  while  Rowdy  en- 
tered on  his  course  of  experimental 
philosophy.  We  (bond  her  nicely 
dressed,  as  if  in  expectataon  of  onr 
coming ;  and  as  the  spring,  with  its 
capabilities  for  apic-nic  and  its  ancient 
assodaitloas,  was  asonroeof  oonsider- 
aMe  revenoe  to  her,  she  evidently  was 
greatly  pleased  with  the  number  of 

§  nests  whom  she  saw  approaching  her 
oor. 

"  Pox  vodMcic«/"said  Mr  Swailow- 
lies, as  we  entered  the  cottage.  "You 
reside  here  in  highly  favoured  ground." 

*^  Yes,  indeed,  shr,"  said  Janet, 
"  the  gentlefolks  be  very  fond  of  it, 
and  very  often  come  here  from  all 
parts  about." 

"  Only  the  gentlefolks  ?  "  inquired 
her  visitor.  "  I  thought  I  heard  that 
others  came  to  avail  ^emselvee  of 
the  holy  q;>ring." 


"  Some  folks  don^  beHeve  in  it  bow, 
sir— -more's  the  pity.  It  was  of  great 
value  in  the  dd  time." 

"  Why  should  it  lose  its  virtue,  Mia 
Wheedler?  If  we  had  still  the  faith, 
it  would  have  still  the  power." 

Janet  looked  towards  Mr  Swallow- 
lies,  to  judge  wiietiMT  he  was  in  jest 
or  earnest ;  but,  on  catching  the  £ue 
of  wonderment  wkh  wUe^  he  gaaed 
at  the  well,  and  the  unmistakable 
ttncerity  with  whidi  he  spoke,  the  old 
woman,  wiK)  had  been  a  foitune-teller 
in  her  yoirth,  invc^nntarUy  winked  her 
blear  eye,  and  enrled  up  the  conMC& 
of  her  mootii. 

"  It  ain*t  quite  fidled  away  yet,  atr^ 
This  here  cat  as  ever  you  sees-— here. 
Tabby  dear,  get  up  and  show  yourself 
to  the  geotl^ — this  here  cat,  sir,  a 
week  ago,  was  took  bo  iU  of  the  pate 
that  it  shook  all  over  like  a  leaf.  I 
thought  it  was  agoang  to  die ;  bnt  at 
last,  tfamks  I,  why  shouldn't  St  Topor 
cure  she,  as  he  cures  so  many  as  have 
fits?  And  so,  sir,  I  goes  and  fotc^efr 
a  little  water,  and  fli^  it  on  Tabby's 
face,  and  the  moment  she  felt  the 
water  she  stops  tiie  shaking,  and  walks 
about  as  well  as  ever." 

"  Had  she  had  any  hf^akfMt  that 
momiag?" 

"No,  sir,  fasting  from  all  bot  air  ; 
I  gave  her  nothing  from  the  night 
before,  when  she  supped  on  a  mouse." 

Mr  Swailowlies  stooped  down  wad 
laid  his  hand  on  the  ca]t,  which  was- 
puning  and  rubbing  its  fur  against  bia- 
leg. 

"  A  strange  instance  this,"  he  said, 
"  of  the  efficacy  of  the  andeot  faith." 

"  Do  you  believe  it,  sir?  "  I  inq«red» 

"  Why  not,  sir?  I  dont  attribate 
this,  of  course,  to  the  direct  operatiea 
of  St  T(^er ;  but  it  certainly  was  en- 
dowed with  this  virtue  to  be  evidenoe 
of  his  hdy  life.  A  wonderful  animal 
this,  Mrs  Wheedler, — ^you  would  not 
probably  wish  to  part  with  it  ?  " 

"I  have  two  or  three  other  cats, 
sir ;  but  I'm  very  poor,  and  a  littlo 
money  is  more  useful  to  me  than  eld 
Tabby." 

"  111  speak  to  y<m  in  a  little  on  the 
subject.  Meanwhile,  have  you  any 
other  instanoes  of  oare  ?  " 

"Not  to  speak  of,  sir,"  replied 
Janet,  delighted  with  the  deference 
she  was  treated  with.   "  That  there 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 

Httie  calf  as  you  sees  among  the  cab- 
bage was  bom  with  five  legs,  aod 
without  erer  a  tail.*^ 

**  R^e  legs  1  bless  me  !^^  exclaimed 
Mr  Swallowiies — **how  yeiy  strange! 
— it  has  only  four  now.'* 

"^ Ah,  sir!  that's  aU  owin^  to  die 
well.  I  takes  it  to  the  spnng,  and 
sprinkles  the  fifth  leg  three  times,  and 
immediately  it  gives  a  jerk,  and  np 
goes  the  leg  into  its  body,  like  the 
winding  np  of  a  jack-chain ;  and  so  I 
goes  to  work  again,  and  flings  a 
bocketfol  on  its  back,  and,  in  a 
minnte  or  two,  out  comes  a  tafl, — and 
there  it  is,  and  not  a  single  mark  left 
of  where  the  additional  leg  had  disap- 
peared.** 

''This  is  most  hiterestlng!**  ex- 
claimed Mr  Swallowiies .  ''  ELave  yon 
got  the  bucket  you  nsed  in  aspersing 
the  calf?  ** 

''There  it  be,  sir,**  said  Janet, 
pointing  to  a  tab  of  some  siae,  that 
was  placed  npright  against  the  wall. 

"A  blessed  instrument,  indeed,*' 
said  the  gentleman,  bowinff  most  re- 
q>ectfiilly,  as  he  sounded  with  his 
knuckles  on  Uie  rim.  "  I  must  have 
some  minutes'  conversation  with  yon, 
Mrs  Wheedle,  for  I  make  a  point  of 
never  taking  any  stories,  which  at 
first  sight  appear  improbable,  without 
sedulous  inquiry  and  anxious  proof." 

"  I  hear  the  dinner-bell,"  I  said  at 
this  moment,  for  I  heard  Captain 
Smith  performing  the  "  Roast  beef  of 
Old  England  "  on  a  key-bug^  which 
was  the  concerted  signal  for  our  as- 
smnblmg  where  the  provender  had 
been  spread ;  and  I  used  a  little  more 
vigour  than  usual  in  drawing  the 
yonnff  ladies  away. 

"What  a  splendid  a>ecimen  of 
Angk>-Catholic  faith  is  Mr  Swallow- 
lies  1"  exclaimed  Araminta  in  atone 
of  rapture;  "and  how  free  from 
Mgotry  in  his  reverence  for  a  Bomish 
saint  like  the  holy  Toper  1 " 

"  Hoki  your  silly  tongue,  this  mo- 
ment 1 "  I  exdaimed,  gettinff  into  a 
passion — "  a  fellow  that  beuevos  in 
paralytic  cats  and  five-footed  calves 
being  cured  by  such  trumpery,  ^ould 
leave  our  diurch." 

"Ton  are  so  bitter,  Mr  Buddie, 
against  the  Holy  CathoUo  Church, 
tbat  I  wonder  you  call  yonrsdf  a 
Christian  at  all." 

"Where   is    the    Holy    Catholic 


Letkn  io  tke  Eev.  Ckarks  RuHtm, 


691 


Church,  you  little  simpleton?  "  I  said, 
softening  a  little,  for  Araminta  is  a 
nice  little  girl. 

"At  Rome,  Chaiies  Fustian  told 
me ;  and  we  are  but  a  distant  branch 
of  it,  bearing  very  little  fruit,  and 
owing  that  little  only  to  the  sap  fur- 
nished to  us  by  the  main  old  trunk. 
And  Mr  Mount  Huxtable  says  the 
same,— only  that  our  branch  bears 
no  fruit,  as  the  continuity  was  cut  off 
at  the  deplorable  Reformation.** 

"Charies  Fustian  I  ^Ir  Mount 
HuxUble  1 "  I  cried :  "  they're  laugh- 
ing at  yon,  my  little  dear :  they  are 
both  ministers  of  onr  church,  and 
have  made  numberless  protestations 
against  the  wickedness  and  errors  of 
^me.  They  are  laughing  at  you, — 
at  least  I  know  Mount  Huxtable  is, 
for,  to  tell  you  a  secret,  my  dear 
Araminta,  he  is  placed  here  for  no 
other  purpose  but  to  defend  our  Pro- 
testant Establishment  against  the 
Tractarian  tendencies  of  the  artists 
and  young  ladies  of  the  day." 

"  Charies  Fustian,  sfr,  I  beg  to  tell 
you,  knows  too  well  to  presume  to 
laugh  at  me,"  said  Araminta,  tossing 
her  head. 

"  He  ought,  my  dear,"  I  TepSed, 
"fbr  he  is  a  remarkably  foolish 
young  man,  and  hasn't  half  the  sense 
in  his  whole  head  which  you  have  in 
your  little  finger." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the 
spring ;  aud  after  placing  the  giris  in 
the  best  seats  still  to  be  found,  I 
called  Dr  Smiler  aside. 

"My  dear  old  fiiend,"  I  said, 
"have  you  made  proper  inquiry 
about  Mount  Huxtable's  church  prin- 
ciple, befbre  you  installed  him  in  fUl 
power  in  the  parish  ?  " 

"No  Tractarian  need  apply,  was 
in  the  advertisement,"  replied  the 
Doctor.  "  He  is  a  stout  opponent  of 
the  dissenters ;  and,  besides,  my  dear 
Buddie,  as  you  are  the  oldest  friend 
I  have  in  the  parish,  I  may  tell  yon 
that  on  the  way  here  he  had  a  long 
conversation  with  Christina,  who  sat 
beside  him  in  his  phaoton,  and  among 
other  things  he  asked  her  if  she 
thought  she  could  be  content  with 
the  humble  condition  of  a  curate's 
wife  ?  She  said  yes,  of  course,— for 
she  has  liked  hhn  ever  sfaice  they 
met ;  and  he  told  her  he  would  wait 
on  me  to-morrow.    I  now  consider 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


€92 


Leiters  to  tkeRev.  Charks  Fuitkm. 


[June, 


him  my  son-in-law.  He  has  great 
expectations,  and  has  akeady  foar« 
teen  hundred  a-year." 

*(  I  donH  like  what  I*  hear  of  his 
chnrchmanship,*'  I  said.  ^'  And  as  to 
Swallowlies,  I  think  he  is  a  bigoted 
fool,  and  a  Papist." 

'^  I  don't  the  least  see,  Mr  Bnddle, 
why  a  man  shonld  be  either  bigoted 
or  a  fool  who  believes  as  two- thirds 
of  the  Christians  thronghont  the 
world  believe." 

So  sajdn^,  the  Doctor  turned  off  in 
a  very  dignified  manner,  and  presided 
over  the  pigeon- pie. 

I  confess  to  you,  my  dear  Charles, 
this  acted  like  a  thunderbolt  on  me. 
Rejoiced  as  I  was  at  Christina's  good 
fortune,  in  attracting  the  affection  of 
so  amiable  and  weidthv  an  admirer 
as  Mount  Huxtable,  I  did  not  feel 
altogether  comfortable  at  the  effect 
which  this  discovery  had  on  the  logi- 
cal powers  of  my  friend  the  Rector  of 
Yawnham.  Because  a  man  admires 
my  daughter,  and  makes  her  an  offer 
of  marriage,  am  I  to  kiss  the  Pope's 
toe  ?  I  made  a  determination  to  in- 
quire into  matters  more  deeply  than  I 
had  hitherto  done,  and,  with  a  view  to 
pick  up  all  the  information  I  could,  I 
watched  the  conversation  in  silence. 

Betsy  Blazer  sat  next  Captain 
Smith  of  the  Rifles,  and,  in  one  of  the 
pauses  which  occasionally  occur  in 
€he  noisiest  assemblages,  her  voice 
was  distinctly  heard. 

*'  Do  you  ever  chant  when  you  are 
all  together  in  barracks.  Captain 
Smith  ?— it  must  be  deUghtfuL" 

''  Well,  I  can't  deny  that  there  is 
occasionally  chanting  after  mess," 
replied  the  soldier,  a  little  amazed. 

"Who  is  the  leader?" 

"  Why,  Jones  and  I  both  pretend 
to  some  renown." 

"Are  they  Gregorian?" 

"  I  should  say  Stentorian  was  a 
better  description,  for,  between  our- 
selves, Jones,  in  the  Nottingham  Ale, 
might  be  mistaken  for  an  angry 
bull." 

What  the  denouement  of  the  con- 
versation was  I  don't  know,  for 
Rowdy's  voice  rose  above  the  din — 

"  Faith  expires"— he  said—"  hope 
grows  dim — but  ceremony,  the  last 
refage  of  religion,  remains.  We  lose 
the  trustingness  that  makes  ns  lay 
ihe  promises  of  holy  writ  to  our 


hearts,->the  chUdlike  simplicity  that 
lifts  us  into  a  world  where  troth  erects 
her  palace  on  gorgeous  clouds,  whidi 
to  us  take  the  semblance  and  solidity 
of  mountains, — ^we  lose  the  thrill,  tho 
dread,  the  love, — ^but  we  can  retaia 
the  surplice,  the  albe,  and  the  stole. 
The  doud  that  seemed  a  mountain 
has  disappeared ;  the  confidence  that 
sustained  us  has  gone, — bnt  we  can 
erect  churches  according  to  the  strict- 
est rules  of  architecture,  cover  the 
table  with  cloth  of  gold, — have  daily 
service,  haveaome  fixed,  irrevocable, 
eternal  rule,  and  feel  ouraelvefl  the 
slaves  of  hours  and  postures  ;^ — a 
slavery  befitting  those  who  are  left 
to  grope  in  the  darkness  of  their  own 
souls  for  a  belief,  and  find  nothing  to 
support,  to  bless,  or  cheer  them." 

"  Do  you  advocate  the  externals  of 
devotion,  Mr  Rowdy,  after  the  reality 
of  religion  has  left  the  heart?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  he  said.  "  If  you 
waited  for  the  internal  religion  yon 
talk  of,  you  would  nevw  enter  a 
church.  And  pray,  sir,  what  is  in- 
ternal, and  what  is  external  ?  Your 
heart  is  a  piece  of  flesh,  your  font  is  a 
piece  of  stone ;  why  shouldn't  holi- 
ness reside  in  the  one  aa  well  as  in 
the  other?" 

"  It  strikes  me,  Mr  Rowdy,  to  be 
rather  hypocritical  to  go  through-ihe 
forms  of  religion  without  the  spuit," 
I  urged  again. 

"  And  what  is  life  but  hypocrisy  ? — 
your  very  clothes  make  you  a  hypo- 
crite: without  them  you  would  re- 
semble a  forked  radish,  but  you  dis- 
figure yourself  in  surtout  and  panta- 
loons. Go  through  the  ceremonies, 
sir — the  feeling  in  time  will  come; 
dig  your  trenches  deep,  and  the  rain 
wills  pour  into  them  and  bum  the 
sacrifice  of  your  altar  with  fire ;  kneel 
when  you  have  no  devotion,  bend 
yoursefr  to  decrees  and  ordinances 
when  you  have  no  humility  and  no 
faith;  and,  entering  on  Uiat  course 
with  the  scoff  of  Voltaire,  yon  wiU 
emerge  from  it  with  the  sanctity  of 
Ymcent  de  PauL" 

"  On  the  contrary,  sir,  I  maintain," 
said  I,  "  that,  if  you  persist  in  these 
miserable  bonds  of  an  outward  obe- 
dience, in  the  expectation  that  they 
will  promote  your  advance  in  good- 
ness, yon  bring  on  yourself  the  oon- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  ' 

•demnatioii  of  the  Pharisee ;  yon  may 
enter  them  with  the  faith  of  yonr 
^iend  Mr  Swallowlies,  but  yon  wiil 
leaye  them  ere  long  with  the  senti- 
ments of  the  infidel  and  apostate 
Stranss.** 

*^  I  call  no  man  an  apostate,"  cried 
Mr  Rowdy,  "  who  traces  the  opa«- 
tions  of  his  own  mfaid  to  their  leffiti- 
mate  results ;  I  call  no  man  an  infidel 
who  belieres  that  he  was  bom,  and 
that  he  shall  die.** 

**  How  good !  how  liberal  1  how 
humane!**  exclaimed  a  ohoros  of 
sweet  voices. 

*^And  what  do  you  say?"  I  en- 
qnired,  addressing  onr  new  curate. 

"For  myself,"  said  Mr  Mount 
Hnxtable,  "I  think  it  sinful  in  any  one 
to  decide  on  such  a  subject,  unless  in 
the  exact  words  of  the  church." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  Doctor; 
"judiciously  answered." 

"  Don't  you  allow  private  judg- 
ment, sir?"  said  J. 

"  No  more,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  than 
I  should  allow  private  execution.  It  is 
for  the  church  to  pass  sentence:  if 
any  presumptuous  individual  inter- 
feres with  her  authority,  he  is  as  much 
out  of  his  sphere  as  if  he  were  to  dis- 
place Baron  Alderson  on  the  bench, 
go  through  the  mockery  of  a  trial, 
and  condemn  an  enemy  of  his  own  to 
be  hanged." 

"  Very  good,  indeed,"  said  the 
Doctor ;  "judiciously  answered." 

"I  have  often  heard  your  fnend, 
Charles^  Fustian,  say  the  same,'*  said 
Araminta. 

"  Is  he  a  friend  of  yours.  Mount 
Hnxtable  ?  **  inqnbred  Dr  Smiler,  in  a 
veiy  bland  tone. 

"  A  most  intimate  friend,  my  dear 
sir,"  replied  Mount  Hnxtable. 

"  Dear  me! — I  thought  yon  tdd  me 
yon  didn't  know  him." 

"  No,  my  dear  sir,  I  didn't  tell  you 
40 :  I  only  gave  you  to  understand 
that  we  weren't  acquainted.*' 

"  That  used  to  be  pretty  much  the 
same  thing,"  I  said,  a  little  chafed 
with  the  putting  down  I  had  already 
experienced,  "  and  I  suspect  you  are 
-a  great  deal  more  intimate  than  you 
were  inclined  to  let  us  know.** 

"Yon  have  exactly  hit  upon  the 
reason,"  he  replied.  "  I  was  not  in- 
clined to  let  von  know ;  and  I  have 
f  et  to  learn  that  a  priest  is  impera- 


Letten  to  ^  22ev.  Charles  Fuiticm. 


693 


tively  required  to  confess  to  a  layman, 
however  mquisitive  or  Ul- mannered  he 
may  be." 

"  Come,  my  dear  Buddie,"  sidd  thQ 
Doctor,  "  I  think  ^ou  will  see  that 
you  ought  to  apologise.'* 

"  For  what  ?"  I  exclaimed. 

"For  speaking  so  irreverently  to 
the  pastor  of  the  parish,'*  replied  Dr 
Smiler.  "  You  should  consider,  sir, 
that  Mr  Mount  Hnxtable  is  your  spi- 
ritual guide." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Araminta ;  and 
Christina  Smiler  grew  first  red  and 
then  pale,  and  looked  at  me  as  if  I 
were  a  heathen. 

I  sipped  a  glass  in  silence ;  and  the 
altercation  had  the  unpleasant  effect 
of  producing  an  awkward  pause. 

When  the  silence  had  endured  for 
upwards  of  a  minute,  it  was  suddenly 
broken  by  Major  M^Turk  q'aculating, 
in  his  most  military  manner,  "  Sharp- 
shooters, to  the  front !"  and  mechani- 
cally Jones  and  Sadth  sprang  up,  and, 
advancing  a  few  paces,  anxiously 
looked  upward  in  the  direction  point- 
ed out  by  the  commander's  hand. 
The  sight  they  saw  might  have  shaken 
less  firm  nerves  than  uieirs ;  for,  toil- 
ing slowly  down  the  hiU,  from  Janet 
Wheedler's  cottage,  we  perceived  a 
nondescript  figure,  yet  evidently  hu- 
man, more  puzzling  than  the  sea- 
serpent.  Some  large  round  substance 
enveloped  its  head,  and  entirely  bu- 
ried the  hat  and  face,  and  covered  the 
whole  of  the  neck  down  to  the  middle 
buttons  of  the  coat.  Tucked  under 
one  arm  we  beheld  a  cat,  secured  by  a 
ribbon  tied  round  its  neck ;  and,  with 
a  large  kitchen  poker  in  the  other 
hand,  the  advancing  stranger  drove 
before  him  a  great  awkward  calf. 
When  he  got  a  little  nearer,  we  recog- 
nised onr  friend  Mr  Swallowlies. 

"In  heaven's  name!"  exclaimed 
the  Rector,  "what  have  you  got 
there,  Mr  Swallowlies?" 

"  It  is  in  heaven's  name,  indeed/* 
replied  Swallowlies,  lifting  up  the 
large  washing-tub  which  we  had  seen 
in  Janet's  cottage.  "  These,  sir,  are 
holy  relics,  which  I  have  luckily  in- 
duced the  venerable  matron  of  the  hut 
to  part  with— partly  by  prayers  and 
supplications,  and  partly  by  payments 
in  money." 

The  Rector  looked  astonished,  for 
he  had  not  been  of  our  party ;  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


LUitn  to  Ifte  Rm.  CXarU$  Fmitimu 


SwaUowlies,  aOowiBg  the  calf  to  feed 
on  tbe  grass  near  the  ^riag,  explained 
his  sentiments  on  the  subject  of  the 
tnb,  and  related  the  mlracnkwa  history 
of  the  animals  his  oompanions. 

^*  And  how  much  did  7011  gire  for 
the  tab,  sir?'  said  Smiier. 

^^Five  pounds  jntxsared  the  ines- 
timable treasure,'*  answered  Swallow- 
lies  in  triumph ;  *^  eight  pounds  pro- 
cured me  the  saored  ti3)by,  and  twelve 
guineas  the  calf.  A  yery  few  pomds 
more  have  obtained  for  me,  if  possible, 
still  more  precious  articles.  Look 
here,  air,"  he  continued,  palling  from 
his  coat-pocket  an  old  quarter-boot, 
with  the  sole  nearly  off,  and  two  or 
three  flat-headed  nails  sticking  out 
from  the  tattered  heel — *^  this  is  one  of 
the  sandals  in  which  the  illustrious 
Toper  used  to  go  his  annual  pilgrimage 
to  the  shrine  of  St  Thomas  of  Canter- 
buiy.  This  instrument  of  iron — 
which,  I  confess,  struck  me  at  flrst  to 
bear  a  great  resemblance  to  a  poker — 
was  his  staff.  And  this,  sir,"  he  said, 
pulliBg  from  ids  bosom  a  piece  of  very 
<M  corduroy,  mended  in  several 
places— **  this  is  the  left  leg  of  tbe 
pantaloons  the  saint  wwe  for  upwards 
of  forty  years,  without  ever  taking 
them  off;  for  he  is  recorded  never  to 
have  changed  his  raiment  but  twice, 
and  never  to  have  washed  either  his 
f»ce  or  hands, — sach  a  true  Christian 
soldier  was  he.** 

''  He  was  a  dirty  brute,  and  no  sol- 
dier,** cried  Captain  Smith,  who  was 
a  great  martinet  m  his  regiment, 
*^  and  I  would  have  had  him  flogged 
every  DK>ming  till  he  learned  to  be 
more  tidy.** 

^*  Sacnlege  1  horror  !*'  exclaimed 
Swallowlies,  croesteg  himself  in  the 
greatest  perturbation,  and  plachig  the 
tub  once  more  on  his  head,  and  re- 
snmmg  his  labonre  in  driving  the  calf 
ODwaiti  with  his  poker. 

''Won*t  you  have  some  pie?**  said 
Dr  Smiier. 

''No,  sir;  I  am  festing  to-day,  and 


am  anxious  to  plaoa  my  treaswes  m 
security.*' 

«'Soch  feilh  is  highly  edifying,'^ 
said  Mount  Huxtable,  *'  and  anfortv- 
nately  too  nncommon  in  the  present 
day.  Ah !  were  all  men  equally  pue, 
and  as  highly  gifted  as  Swallowlies, 
the  Reformation  would  soon  be  blotted 
out,  and  oar  Mother  of  Rome  receive 
her  repentant  children.'* 

''How?  What  did  yo«  say,  my 
dear  sir?"  inquired  the  Rector.  "  Are 
you  not  a  Protestant?'* 

"Assuredly  not,  sir.  I  detest  the 
cold  and  barren  name.  It  is  a  mere 
negation.  I  want  something  positive. 
It  is  the  part  of  a  Christian  to  believe 
—certainly  not  to  deny.*' 

"  To  be  sure,  Doot<»',  wears  none  of 
ns  Protestants ;  we  are  Anglo-Catho- 
lics,** said  Araminta,  answering  for 
the  feminiae  part  of  his  flock. 

'*  I  never  viewed  it  in  that  light  be- 
fore," said  Dr  Smiier,  looking  assur- 
ingly  at  Christina,  who  seemed  greatly 
alarmed  at  what  her  fattier  might  do. 
"Certainly  religion  is  not  a  meie 
denial  <^  error;  it  is  for  more — an 
embracing  of  truth." 

"lliere  is  no  truth  omitted  in  the 
foith  of  the  Catholic  Church,"  said 
Mount  Huxtable  solemnly.  "  Soaae 
are  more  developed  than  they  were  at 
first ;  and  some,  more  recently  plant- 
ed, are  even  now  in  course  of  growth, 
and,  before  many  years  elapse,  will  in- 
fallibly spread  their  branches  all  over 
this  barren  land.  But  I  will  call  on 
yon  to-morrow,"  he  added,  with  a 
smile,  and  a  bend  of  his  head  towards 
Christiua,  which  entirely  barred  up 
all  the  arguments  that  our  Protestant 
champion  might  have  been  inclined  to* 
advance.  And  in  a  short  time  the  pic- 
nic came  to  an  end,  and  we  all  re- 
turned to  Yawnham  in  the  order  we- 
hadcome — always  exoepting  Mr  Swal- 
lowlies, whom  we  oveitook  in  the  first 
half-mile,  still  under  his  umbrageoua 
sombrero,  and  still  gesticulating  with 
the  poker  to  guide  his  emtio  oidf. 


UmOl  VOUBTB. 


I  had  not  sealed  up  the  letter  whkdi 
I  indose  to  you  h^with^  my  dear 
Charles,  and  fortunately,  as  it  turns 
out — ^for  I  have  it  now  in  my  power 
to  toll  yon  the  conclusion  of  your 
machinations  in  this  parish. 


Three  weeks  have  elapmd  shice  tho^ 
expedition  to  Holywell  Tree.  My 
anffer,  I  confess,  with  Dr  Souler  was- 
so  hot  that  I  never  called  at  the  par- 
sonage ;  and  after  the  first  Sunday  I 
did  not  even  go  to  church.    The  oom« 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


hm&n  io  iAf  JRav.  Ckarki  Fmtiam. 


695 


mmdoB-ittble  is  worn  ammouuMi  ty  a 
gigantic  cradfiK— ft  oover  of  bright 
velvet,  with  a  golden  star  in  the 
centre^  faanga  down  to  the  i^ftmnd, 
while  a  vase  of  flowers  stands  on  the 
middle  of  the  table,  flanked  at  each 
side  b7  immenae  oandleetieks,  with  a 
candle  of  tipo  or  three  pounds*  weight 
in  each.  There  is  a  stone  cneding 
table,  an  ea^  at  one  aide  of  the 
aisle  in  bronze,  and  the  old  ncesa  in 
the  porch  is  deared  out,  and  a  basin 
placed  m  it ;  bat  whether  for  the  re- 
oeptioD  of  My  water  or  charitaMe 
pence  I  did  not  stop  to  inqoire.  There 
Is  daU^  servke  at  ten  in  the  morning. 
The  girls  wear  a  regalar  aniform,  and 
call  themsdves  Sisters  of  the  Order  of 
8t  Gedfia,  and  haiw  appointed  Swal- 
lowlies  their  fiitfaer  confessor;  and 
once  ortwiee  a-^week,  I  betteve,  he,  ar 
Rowdy,  Of  Monnt  Hoxtable,  attends 
in  the  vestiy,  and  takes  tiie  yonng 
ladies,  <ne  by  one,  to  a  soKtaiy  oob- 
Tersatkw,  widb  the  door  lacked.  And 
the  best  of  the  aiKUr  ia,  that  Tom 
Blaaer  aad  Ids  two  nrifitary  irieads 
are  as  oonatant  in  their  attendance  as 
the  rest.  B«t,  with  these  exoeptioas, 
there  is  sot  a  man  to  be  seen  in  the 
church,  either  on  waek-daya  or  Sa- 
days ;  for  I  am  told  that  even  John 
Bimpkhis  and  Poter  Bolt  have  strvck 
for  wages,  and  woa*t  attend  prayers 
vnder  balf-a-crown  a- week.  So  we 
have  begoa  a  aobecription  in  the  pa- 
rish for  a  district  chapd ;  and  ia  the 
mean  time  we  stream  off  by  the  him- 
dred,  eitJier  to  the  chmrch  or  meetiag- 
hooses  of  the  nearest  parish.  Ma}or 
M*Tark,  I  am  sorry  ta  say,  has  had 
many  interviews  with  the  Reverend  Mr 
Rowdy,  and  has  become  almost  an  hi- 
idd,  with  a  leaaiag,  if  anything,  to 
the  r«ligioo  of  the  Bnddhists  in  India, 
who  fost,  he  says,  My  times  more, 
and  go  throngh  a  thousand  times 
more  painAri  penanees  than  tUktsr 
Pnseyke  or  Pi^iiist. 

This  moraiag  I  was  snrprised  to  see 
Doctor  Smiler  commg  np  my  garden 
walk,  as  he  used  to  do  k  the  days  of 
our  friendship.  He  looked  rather 
downcast  as  he  drew  near  the  win- 
dow, where  I  was  busy  getting  my 
fishing-flies  in  order,  and  conghea 
once  or  twice,  as  if  to  announce  his 
approach.  I  pretended  not  to  hear 
him,  and  continued  absorbed  in  my 
lines  and  feathers ;   and,  instead  of 


coming  in  at  the  open  door  as  he  has 
done  for  the  last  twenty  years,  ho 
actually  rang  the  beU,  and  oldThomaa 
had  to  basSle  en  his  coat,  and  oame 
out  of  the  back-yard  to  see  who  was 
there, — and  I  thonght  the  (dd  man^s 
tone  was  a  Uttle  sharp  when  he  an- 
nounced Dr  Smiler. 

"  How  do  yon  do,  Doctor  fimaer?'' 
I  said  very  courteously ;  ^^  have  the 
kindness  to  be  seated." 

The  Doctor  sat  down. 

*^  Are  yon  going  to  the  hrook  to- 
day?" he  inquired. 

''  Yes ;  if  the  wind  hdds,  I  shall 
try  it  for  an  hour  or  two  this  evening. 
I  hope  Mrs  Smiler  is  welL" 

''  She  is  not  well,"  he  uUL 

""And  Christina— Miss  ChristiDa?'' 
I  added,  correcting  myself. 

^  Dying,"^  said  the  Doctor. 

"Christina  dying  1"  I  exdaisked, 
starting  np  and  takinf  the  Doctor's 
hand;  ^mydearSmiler^  whydidnHyou 
leU  us?— why  didn't  yon  send  for  us?" 

""I  was  aahamed,  and  that's  the 
truth,"  said  the  Doctor.  ^Akl 
Buddie,  yen  were  wiser  than  I." 

''How?-.what?  IsU  thatraacal 
Mount  HnxtaUe  ?  "  I  inquired. 

^  No  doubt  of  it,"  replied  Smiler; 
^  He  has  ruined  the  happinoos  of  my 
daughter,  tamed  away  the  hearts  mi 
my  parisUohers,  and  made  mo  & 
laughing-stodL  to  the  whole  coonty," 

*'Ia  he  not  gomg  to  UMrry  bar^ 
then?— did  he  not  call  on  you  after  the 
pic-nic  ?  " 

^  No,  he  didn't  caU  on  me ;  but  he 
conouhed  Christkia's  taste  in  all 
things— got  her  to  superintend  tho 
alterations  in  the  chnrch— tiM  candle- 
etioks  and  flowers;  he  even  asked 
her  what  style  of  paper  she  liked  for 
drawing  rooms,  and  the  poor  girl 
expected  every  moment  that  he  wcild 
make  a  formal  demand." 

*'  It  may  come  yet,"  I  said,  endea- 
vouring to  dieer  Mm. 

''  It  cant,  my  dear  firiend.  I  find 
he  is  married  already." 

"Thevfllainl" 

''He  was  an  intiflMte  friend  of 
Charles  Fustian,"  continued  the  Rec- 
tor, "  and  by  his  advice  answered  my 
advertisement  for  an  anti-Tractarlaa 
curate;  by  his  advice  also  he  con- 
cealed the  fact  of  his  marriage,  and» 
in  the  course  of  less  than  a  months 
see  what  he  has  done." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


€96 


LeUers  to  the  Rev.  Charla  Fuitian. 


[Jnoe, 


*'  He  denied  that  he  knew  Charles 
Fustian." 

^'I  aocosed  him  of  the  dnplicity 
this  morning,  but  he  says  it  was  for 
ihe  good  of  the  flock ;  and  as  he  is 
then:  shepherd  for  two  years,  he  has  a 
^greater  interest  in  them  than  I.'* 

"And  how  did  he  explain  his 
speeches  to  Christina  ?" 

*^ General  observations,*'  he  says; 
"  he  wished  her  opinion  on  drawing- 
room  papers,  and  required  her  assis- 
tance in  the  interior  arrangement  of 
his  church." 

"His  church  I  the  puppy!  We 
shall  petition  the  bishop.** 

"  Of  no  use,**  said  the  Rector. 
"  You  will  perceive,  my  dear  Buddie, 
that  the  generality  of  the  bench  are 
either  very  fond  of  power,  and  flat- 
tered with  Puseyite  sycophancy ;  or 
ttnxious  to  keep  pace  with  the  titled 
aristocracy,  and  very  fond  of  *  gen- 
tility.' Now  there  is  no  denying  that 
the  Tractarians  are  more  polished 
men,  and,  as  far  as  the  arts  and  reflne- 
ments  go,  more  cultivated  men  than 
the  labouring  clergy  generally,  and 
iiherefore  these  two  thmgs  keep  them 
secure  from  any  authoritative  con- 
demnation— their  truckling  to  their 
spiritual  superiors,  and  their  standing 
in  society.  If  Mount  Huxtable  had 
been  a  vulgar  fellow,  though  with  the 
energy  and  holiness  of  St  Paul, — ^if  he 
had  stood  up  against  his  diocesan 
and  vindicated  his  liberty,  either  of 
speech  or  action,  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree— we  could  have  hurled  him  from 
the  parish,  probably  into  gaol,  in 
spite  of  all  the  licenses  in  the  world ; 
but  I  have  no  hope  in  this  case.** 

"  Then  I  have,"  I  said,  "  for,  flrom 
what  you  told  me  of  the  fellow's  hypo- 
crisy, I  have  no  doubt  he  was  the  very 
cnan  who  was  received,  as  they  call  it, 
into  the  Romish  Church  by  Bishop 
Cunningham,  three  months  since." 

"It  IS  surely  impossible,  my  dear 
Buddie ;  how  could  he  officiate  in  our 
church  after  being  a  professed  papist?" 

"  Easily,  my  dear  Smiler ;  it  has 
▼ery  often  been  done,  and  is  frequently 


done  at  this  moment.  Take  that  ac- 
count of  the  ceremony  with  yon,  and 
tax  him  with  it  at  once." 

The  Doctor  folded  np  the  paper,  and 
went  on, — 

"  But  this  is  not  all.  Howamlto 
atone  to  poor  Mrs  Blazer,  and  poor 
Mrs  Swainlove,  for  what  has  hap- 
pened?" 

^*  Why? — ^whathas  happened  to  the 
old  ladies?" 

"  Jones  has  eloped  with  Aramints 
Blazer ;  and,  in  the  same  post-chaise. 
Smith  has  carriedoffTinderella  Swain- 
love  r* 

"  Why,  they  were  almost  profbssed 
unbelievers,— at  least  not  at  all  Trac- 
tarian." 

"That  doesn*t  matter.  They  are 
off,  and  what  we  have  now  to  hope  for 
is—that  they  wiU  go  to  Gretna  Green. 
Young  Pnlser  also  has  kicked  Mr 
Rowdy  into  the  mill-pond,  where  he 
was  nearly  drowned,  for  something  or 
other  he  sud  or  did  to  Priscilla  Pnlser 
at  confession ;  and,  to  complete  the 
catalogue  of  woes,  Mr  Swallowlies  has 
been  arrested  for  theft ;  for  it  appears 
that  the  calf  which  Janet  Wheedler 
sold  him  was  not  her  own,  but  be- 
longed to  fanner  Buflliead.** 

What  could  I  say  to  comfort  the 
poor  old  rector  under  such  a  tremen- 
dous cloud  of  calamity  ?  The  solitary 
glimpse  of  satisfaction,  I  confess, 
which  I  individually  caught  from  his 
narrative  was,  that  Anuninta  had 
shown  the  good  taste  to  leave  a  friend 
of  mine  in  the  lurch.  I  wiU  add  no- 
thing to  this  letter,  for  I  am  hurrying 
off  to  assist  the  Doctor  in  comforting 
his  household,  and  recovering  posses- 
sion of  his  parish. '  How  we  succeed 
in  this,  and  what  steps  we  take  to  re- 
giun  the  confidence  and  affection  of 
the  flock,  I  shall  not  fail  to  inform  you. 
Meanwhile,  reflect  on  all  that  has 
arisen  from  your  introduction  of  these 
foreign  mummeries  and  superstitions 
into  this  quiet  parish,  and  "  how  great 
effects  from  little  causes  spring.** — 
Yours,  &c. 

T.  BUDDLS. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1849.] 


AuMiria  and  Hungary. 


697 


AUSTRIA  AND  HUKOARY. 


When  Jellachich,  on  the  9th  Sep- 
tember  1848,  passed  the  Drave,.  the 
bonndaiy  of  Croatia  and  of  Hnngaiy 
Proper,  the  war  between  Austria  and 
Hnngarymaybe  said  to  have  com- 
ment. Up  to  that  time  the  hosti- 
lities directed  against  Hnngaiy  had 
been  confined  to  the  attacks  of  her 
revolted  Sclavonic  subjects  in  some 
parts  of  Croatia,  and  in  the  counties 
on  the  Lower  Danube.  These  revolts 
had  been  instigated,  and  the  attacks 
conducted,  by  officers  in  the  Austrian 
service,  who  were  countenanced  and 
aided  by  a  par^  at  the  court,  and 
who  assertea  that  they  acted  with  the 
authoritv  and  in  the  hiterests  of  the 
Imperial  family.  StOl  the  emperor, 
on  the  demand  of  the  Hungarian  mi- 
nistry, had  disavowed  their  proceed- 
ings. In  May,  he  had  pubucly  de- 
graded Jellachich  from  all  his  offices, 
as  a  rebel  against  the  Hungarian 
government.  £i  July,  he  had  formally 
announced  to  the  diet,  through  his 
representative  the  Archduke  Palatine, 
his  determination  to  maintain  the  in- 
tegrity of  Hunsary,  and  the  laws  he 
had  sanctioned  in  Aprils  and  rejpu- 
diated,  as  a  calumny,  the  assertion 
of  Jellachich  and  the  other  leaders 
of  the  revolt,  that  the  emperor,  or 
any  other  member  of  the  Imperial 
fieimily,  countenanced  their  proceed- 
ings. It  is  true  that  JeUachich  and 
another  of  these  leaders  had  subse- 
quently been  received  by  the  emperor- 
king,  and  by  several  members  of  the 
Imperial  family,  in  a  manner  hardly 
consistent  with  their  position  as  rebels ; 
yet  it  was  possible  that  his  majesty 
might  still  listen  to  other  counsels — 
mi^t  still  resolve  to  pursue  a  consti- 
tutional course,  and  to  preserve  his 
own  faith  inviolate.  Even  so  late  as 
the  9th  September— the  day  on  which 
Jellachich  passed  the  Drave — ^he  so- 
lemnlv  renewed  his  promise  to  main- 
tain the  integrity  of  Hungary  and  the 
laws  of  April.  But  upon  the  4th  Sep- 
tember he  had  reinstated  Jellachich 
in  all  his  offices,  civil  and  military, 
knowing  that  he  was  then  at  the  head 
of  an  army  on  the  frontiers  of  Hun- 
gary, preparing  to  invade  that  king- 
dom, and  to  force  the  Hungarians  to 


renounce  the  concessions  made  to  them 
in  April  by  theur  king.  It  appeared 
that  the  Ban  had  been  supplied  with 
money  and  with  arms  fit>m  Vienna 
while  he  was  still  nominally  in  dis- 
grace, and  he  was  joined  by  Austrian 
regiments,  which  had  marched  fit>m 
Southern  Hungary  to  put  themselves 
under  his  orders.  His  advance,  there- 
fore, at  the  head  of  an  army  composed 
of  Austrian  regiments  and  Croat  forces, 
was  truly  an  invasion  of  Hungary  by 
Austria. 

The  Hungarian  forces  collected  to 
resist  this  invasion  were  still  without 
a  commander-in-chief  or  a  staff — 
without  sufficient  arms  or  ammuni- 
tion, and  for  the  most  part  without 
military  discipUne  or  organisation. 
We  have  alreadv  mention^  that,  on 
the  restoration  of  the  Ban  to  his  offices 
and  command,  the  Hungarian  minis- 
tnr  resigned;  but  Mazaros,  minister 
of  the  war  department,  Kossuth,  mi- 
nister of  finance,  and  Szemere,  minis- 
ter of  the  interior,  continued  provi- 
sionally to  perform  the  duties  of  their 
offices.  Their  measures  were  so  ener- 
getic, that  the  Palatine  called  upon 
Count  Louis  Bathyanyi,  the  head  of 
the  late  ministir,  to  form  another 
government.  This  step  was  approved 
at  Vienna ;  and  Bathyanyi  undertook 
the  duty  on  the  condition  that  Jel- 
lachich should  be  ordered  to  retire, 
and,  if  he  refrised,  should  be  pro- 
claimed a  traitor.  The  king  required 
a  list  of  the  proposed  ministry,  which 
was  immediatelv  presented;  but  a 
week  or  more  elapsed,  during  which 
no  answer  was  received,  and  during 
which  JeUachich  continued  to  advance 
towards  the  capital  of  Hungary.  Tho 
Palathie,  at  the  request  of  the  diet, 
and  after  the  measure  had  been  ap- 
proved by  the  king,  took  command  of 
the  Hungarian  troops  opposed  to  the 
Ban,  which  were  then  retiring  upon 
Bnda.  Both  parties,  the  invaaers 
and  the  invaded,  appeared  at  this 
time  to  be  countenanced  by  the 
Emperor  of  Austria  and  King  of 
Hnnganr;  and  the  diet,  while  i»re- 
paring  for  defence,  seems  not  to  have 
reUnquished  all  hope  of  a  peacefol 
arrangement.  The  Archduke  Stephen^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


698 


-liM#  in  iimf  Jj&iwjjwij  y. 


[Jmw^ 


after  joining  the  anny,  and  hastily 
organbing  it,  opened  commnnications 
with  the  Ban,  and  arranged  a  meeting 
in  boats  on  the  Lake  Balaton:  bat 
Jdtodiicb  did  not  keep  hie  appemt- 
ment;  and  the  Archduke  PaLatine, 
sammoiied  to  Yiraiia  by  the  emperor, 
left  the  army,  passed  teoiu^  Feetii 
on  his  way  to  Vienna,  asa  on  his 
anriTal  there,  as  we  formeriy  stated, 
resigned  the  office  of  pi^Sftine.  Shortly 
afterwards  he  retired  to  his  private 
residence  on  the  iUiine. 

Coant  Loois  Baihyanyi^  whose  am- 
bitions had  not  yet  beffls  either  ac» 
cepted  or  rejected,  was  thus  left  alone 
to  carry  on  the  whole  government; 
and  the  &t,  for  the  porposes  both  of 
aiding  and  eontn^ling  the  admimstra* 
tion  of  the  minister,  naoied  a  com- 
mittee of  their  mmiber,  called  the 
'^  Committee  of  Defence,"  to  assist  in 
condncting  the  .gciremmeDt. 

Jelkiehich  had  now  eetaUished  him- 
edf  at  Stohlweissenberg,  faar  or  five 
marches  from  Pesth ;  and  the  govern- 
ment at  Vienna  appears  to  have  anti- 
cipated that  Hungary,  left  without  a 
government,  mast  Ml  into  oonfoskm. 
Bat  she  preserved  her  loyal  and  con- 
stitadomd  attitude;  nd  while  she  was 
prepared  to  rtpd  foroe  by  f6rce,  gave 
DO  metext  for  emfkfjing  it.  Connt 
L.  Badiyaayi  was  at  ksi^k  informed 
that  his  list  of  the  new  ministi^  was 
not  approved ;  and  by  an  ordmance 
dated  25th  September,  General  Count 
Francis  Lamberg  was  appomted  to 
the  comsumd  of  all  tiie  troops  in  Hun- 
gary, with  power  to  restore  order  and 
to  dose  tiie  diet  The  time  had  arrived 
which  the  Hungarians  had  been  most 
de6hx>us  to  avert,  when  they  must 
either  surrender  their  constitutional 
rights  or  resist  their  king. 

The  murder  of  Count  Lamberg  by 
a  frantic  mob  threw  the  diet  mto  a 
state  of  consternation.  The  regiment 
on  wMdi  it  most  relied  was  the  regi- 
ment of  Lamberff,  and  the  Ban  was  at 
the  gates  of  Budk  The  diet  passed 
resolutions  expressing  its  profound 
grief  at  the  unhappy  £ate  of  the  count, 
and  ordered  criminal  proceedings  to 
be  immediately  instituted  against  his 
murderers.  The  patriotism  of  the 
soldiers  was  not  shaken  by  the  horrible 
event  that  had  ooeurred ;  and  they  dis- 
played their  wonted  gallantry  on  tiie 
29th,  when  the  Ban  was  repulsed.  Im^ 


mediately  after  the  murder  of  Creneral 
Lambei^  Count  Louis  Bathyanyi  re- 
signed. Therewasnowneitherpalatine 
nor  minister  in  the  kingdom,  and  the 
enemy  was  aboot  to  attack  the  eapi- 
taL  In  this  emergency  the  Committee 
of  Defence,  at  the  head  of  whidi  waa 
Lonis  Kossuth,  took  upon  itself  the 
directionof  affairs ;  and  since  that  time 
it  has  governed  Binngacy. 

After  the  defeat  of  Jellachkh,  ^^lle 
he  was  on  the  frontiers  of  Anstria, 
fdlowed  by  the  Hungarian  army,  the 
king  named  Connt  Adam  Riosay  prime- 
mimster,  andby  a  new  ordinance,  coun- 
terstgnedfiScsay,  thediet  wiadissolved, 
its  decrees  annufled,  and  Jellachich 
appointed  commander-in-chief  of  all 
the  troops  in  B^mgary.  The  dvil  autho- 
rities were  suspenisd,.  and  the  country 
declared  in  a  state  of  siege.  At  the 
saae  time  Jellachich  was  named  royal 
commissioner,  and  invested  with  exe- 
cutive pewor  over  tiie  whole  kingdom. 

From  the  moment  of  Jellachich's 
nomination  to  the  effloe  of  Ban  of 
Croatia,  without  the  eonsent  of  the 
responidble  Hungarian  ministry,  his 
concert  witili  a  pirty  hostile  to  Hni^ 
gary  at  the  imperial  conrt  had  not 
been  doubtful;  and  that  party  had 
now  prevailed  upon  the  empax>r'4dng 
to  adopt  their  views.  The  influence 
of  the  Ban  was  not  shaken  by  his 
defeat.  The  eonrt  had  previously 
identified  itself  with  his  proceedings, 
and  he  had  faithfully,  though  not 
hitherto  sueeessfnlly,  espoused  its 
cause.  He  had  declared  against  the 
laws  of  April  and  the  separate  minis- 
try in  Hmgary,  which  these  laws  had 
established,  and  in  favour  of  a  central 
government  at  Vi^ma  fer  the  whole 
dominions  of  the  emperor,  iriuch  he 
proposed  to  fi»ce  tbe  Hungarians  to 
accept.  He  was  no  longer  »  Croat 
chief,  asserting  the  national  preten- 
^ons  of  Ids  Gountnrmen,  but  an  Aus- 
trian general,  assailing  Uie  constitution 
and  the  mdependence  of  Hnngary. 
From  the  position  at  Baab,  on  the 
road  to  Vtenna,  to  which  he  had  re- 
treated after  his  reverse,  he  applied 
for  rmntoeemeBts  to  enable  him  again 
to  advance  towards  Pesth.  It  was  the 
reftaud  of  these  reinfereemeDts  to 
mardi  that  led  to  the  second  revoln- 
tioa  at  Vienna,  which  has  been  attri- 
buted to  Huiunrian  agency.  It  is 
probable  that  the  Hnngac&uis  would 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


ilMMTHI  CMu  XciM^flflyy. 


699 


emploj  all  the  inftnence  they  eoold 
commaDd  to  preyent  or  impede  the 
miureh  of  troops  to  attack  them  ;  but 
it  is  remarkable  that  the  prosecatioiia 
of  persois  engaged  in  that  reTolation 
do  not  appear  to  have  elicited  any- 
thing that  would  jostify  os  in  attri- 
buting the  revolt  of  the  Yienneee  to 
the  HiiBgarians.  Attempts  have  afeo 
been  made  to  implicate  the  Hnnga- 
rians  in  the  atrodooa  morder  of  La- 
tosr,  the  minister  of  war,  by  the  insure 
g^ta  of  Yienaa,  but  we  have  not 
been  able  to  trace  any  foundation  for 
such  a  charge.  The  Hungarians  were 
formidable  enemies^  and  to  them  every 
atrocity  was  attribnted. 

The  Emperor  of  Austria  was  now 
at  war  with  Hungary,  and  his  ene- 
mies, ther^oce,  became  her  allies. 
The  revoluticmary  party  at  Vienna 
for  a  time  regained  the  ascendency, 
and  signalised  it  by  the  crime  to 
which  we  have  referred.  After  Win- 
^iBchgratz  and  Jellachich  had  invested 
the  city,  the  ^Viennese  applied  to  the 
Hungarians  for  aid ;  but  their  levies 
and  national  guards  had  returned  in 
great  numbers  to  their  homes,  and 
their  army  was  not  &  a  cooditioD  to 
make  any  impression  upon  that  of  the 
«ii^>eror.  It  advanced,  and  was  re- 
pabed.  The  Austrian  government, 
by  allying  itself  with  rebellion  and 
anarchy  to  subvert  tiie  established 
consdtution  of  Hungary,  had  driven 
the  Hungarians,  in  self-defence,  into 
an  alliance  with  the  revolutionaiy 
party  in  Yienna  against  the  govern- 
ment. 

The  error  into  which  it  had  been 
led  ought  now  to  have  been  manifest 
to  the  Austrian  cabinet ;  and  it  was 
not  yet  too  late  to  remedy  the  eviL 
By  retundtt^  to  the  course  of  legality 
and  good  £uth,  the  Imperial  govern- 
ment might  have  disarmed  and  re- 
gained Hungary.  If  ihere  was  in 
that  country,  as  there  no  doubt  was, 
a  party  which  was  disposed  to  sym- 
pathise with  the  republicans,  and 
even  with  the  wont  of  the  anan^sts 
in  Austria,  they  were  without  power 
or  influence,  and  their  evil  designs 
would  at  once  have  been  fru^rated, 
their  opinions  repudiated,  and  the 
loyalty  of  the  nation  confirmed ;  but 
the  court  had  unftntunately  placed 
itsdf  in  a  position  that  left  it  but  the 
choice  of  abandoning  and  Inreaklng 


faith  with  the  rebds  to  Hungary, 
whose  eminent  services  at  Yienna  it 
was  bound  to  acknowledge,  or  of  per- 
severing in  the  breach  of  faith  with 
Hungary,  which  his  advisers  had 
forced  upon  the  emperor-king.  That 
the  Hungarians  had  been  ready  to 
support  the  cause  of  monarchy  and 
order,  so  long  as  faith  had  been  kept 
with  them,  was  put  beyond  all  ques- 
tion by  the  vote  of  the  diet,  which, 
on  the  motion  (^  the  responsive  Hun- 
garian ministry  finrmed  in  April,  had 
placed  forty  thousand  Hungarian 
troops  at  the  disposal  of  the  empertn*, 
for  service  in  Italy,  "  to  preserve  the 
honour  of  the  Austrian  arms,"  then 
endangered  by  the  first  reverses  of 
Marshal  RadetskL  The  Wessemberg 
ministry  appears  to  have  contem- 
plated restoring  the  king  of  Hungary 
and  his  subjects  to  their  legal  and 
constitutional  rdations,  for  it  issued 
a  circular  declaring  that  the  king  in- 
tended to  MBl  the  engi^g^nents  he 
had  entered  into  in  April.  But  the 
power  of  tJie  minister  was  subordinate 
to  that  of  a  party  at  the  court,  whose 
views  were  opposed  to  his  own ;  and 
the  acts  of  the  government  were  not 
such  as  to  restore  confidence  in  its 
sincerity,  at  all  times  a  difficult  task 
for  a  government  that  has  justly  for- 
feited the  confidence  of  a  whole  na- 
tion. Hungary  did  not  dare  to  sus- 
pend her  preparations  for  resistance ; 
and  the  second  revolution  at  Yienna, 
by  occupying  the  troops  destined  to 
attack  her,  gave  her  time  to  imi»x>ve 
her  means  of  d^once. 

Had  there  been  at  Yienna  a  govern- 
ment capable  of  inspiring  coodftdence 
in  its  sincerity— a  government  pos- 
sessing power  or  influence  enough  to 
carry  out  conciliatory  measures,  to 
fulfil  the  engagements  it  mi^t  con- 
tract—tiie  difibrraces  between  Austria 
and  Hungary  might  still  have  been 
amicably  adjusted,  by  restoring  the 
constituticmal  government  established 
in  April.  All  the  bloodshed  and 
misery  that  has  ensued,  and  all  the 
evils  that  may  yet  follow  from  the 
war,  would  thus  have  be^  averted. 
But  irresponsible  advisers  had  more 
influrace  at  the  court  than  the  osten- 
sible cabinet,  and  were  blindly  bent 
on  returning  to  the  irretrievable  past. 
They  foundted  their  hopes  upon  the 
devotion  of  that  noble  army  which 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Austria  and  Hungary* 


700 

had  re-established  order  in  Anstiia, 
and  which,  if  employed  only  to  main- 
tain order  and  the  jost  rights  of  the 
monarchy,  wonld  have  encountered 
no  opposition  that  it  conld  not  over- 
come. Hnnmy,  oorcEially  rennited  to 
Anstria  nnder  the  same  sovereign, 
wonld  agidn  have  become,  what  the 
Emperor  Frands  declared  it  to  be, 
**  the  chief  bnlwark  of  the  monarchy;** 
and  the  empire  wonld  have  resumed 
its  position  as  the  guardian  omP  peace 
and  OTder  in  Eastern  Eorope,  and  a 
powerful  support  to  the  cause  of 
constitutional  monarchy  and  rational 
liberty  everywhere.    ' 

UnhappQy  for  the  Austrian  empire, 
for  Eurqw,  and  for  *'  the  good  cause," 
evil  counsels  prevailed,  and  Hungary 
was  again  invaded.  Manv  of  the 
leading  magnates  adhered  to  the  court, 
at  which  they  had  spent  thehr  lives, 
and  which  was  in  fact  their  home. 
But  there  was  hardly  a  great  family 
of  which  some  wealthy  and  influential 
members  didnotdeclarefortheirnative 
oountoy.  A  great  majority  of  the  resi- 
dent aristocracy— the  numerous  class 
ef  resident  country  gentlemen,  almost 
without  exception— the  body  of  infe- 
riornobles  or  freeholders — thepeasant- 
proprietors  and  the  labouring  popula* 
tion,  espoused  the  cause  of  Hungary. 
The  Protestant  dm^  in  the  A&Sar 
country,  to  a  man,  and  the  Roman 
Catholic  clergy  of  Hungary  in  a  body, 
nrffed  their  flocks  to  be  patient  and 
ordeilv,  toobey  the  government  charg- 
ed with  the  defence  of  the  country,  and 
to  be  fidthfol  and  valiant  in  defending 
it 

'Die  attacks  of  Jellachich,  and  of  that 
portion  of  the  Croats  and  Serbes 
which  had  declared  against  Hungary, 
had  failed  to  Mug  about  the  submis- 
sion of  the  diet,  and  had  produced  an 
alliance,  dangerous  to  the  court,  be- 
tween Its  enemies  in  the  Hereditary 
States  and  the  Hungarians,  wiUi  whom 
it  was  now  at  war.  The  national 
assemUy  or  congress  that  met  at 
Vienna  was  tainted  with  republican 
notions,  and  divided  into  factions,  in- 
fluenced for  the  most  part  by  fedings 
of  race.  German  unity»  Sclave  as- 
cendency, and  Polish  regeneration, 
were  the  ultimate  obiects  of  many  of 
those  who  talked  of  fiberty,  equality, 
and  fraternity.  The  discussion  of 
the  constitution  revealed  the  discord 


[June, 


in  their  opinions,  and  they  seemed  to 
agree  in  nothiog  but  the.  detcrminar 
tion  to  overturn  the  ancient  system  of 
the  empire. 

Wearied  by  contentions,  in  which 
his  character  and  fiselings  unfitted 
him  to  take  apart;  distracted  by 
diverse  counsels ;  involved  by  a  seria» 
of  intrigues,  from  which  he  could  not 
escape,  in  conflicUng  engagements: 
dreading  the  new  order  of  tlungs,  and 
diffident  of  his  own  ability  to  perform 
the  duties  it  demanded  of  mm,  the 
Emperor  Ferdinand  abdicated;  and 
by  a  family  arrangement  the  crown 
of  Austria  was  transferred,  not  to  the 
next  heir,  but  to  the  second  in  succes- 
sion. The  crown  of  Hungary,  as  we 
formerly  stated,  had  been  settled  by 
statute  on  the  heurs  of  the  House  of 
Hapsburg;  but  no  provision  had 
been  made  for  the  case  which  had 
now  arisen.  The  Hungarians  held 
that  their  king  had  no  power  to  ab- 
dicate ;  that  so  long  as  he  lived  he 
must  continue  to  be  their  king ;  that 
if  he  became  Incapable  of  penorming 
the  regal  functions,  the  laws  had 
reserv^  to  the  diet  the  power  ta 
provide  fwr  their  due  performance ; 
that  the  crown  of  Hungary  was 
settled  by  statute  on  the  heirs  of  the 
House  of  Hapsburg,  and  the  Emperor 
Frands  Joseph  was  not  the  heir. 
The  laws  of  Hungary  required  that 
her  king  should  be  legitimately 
crowned  according  to  the  andent 
customs  of  the  kingdom,  and  should 
take  the  coronation  oath  before  he 
could  exerdse  his  rights  or  authority 
as  soverdgn.  If  he  dahned  the 
crown  of  Hungary  as  his  legal  right, 
he  was  bound  to  abide  by  the  laws 
on  which  that  right  was  founded. 
But  these  laws  required  that  he  should 
be  crowned  according  to  the  customs 
of  Hungary,  and  that  he  should  bhid 
himself  bv  a  solemn  oath  to  maintaift 
the  constitution  and  the  laws,  hidnd- 
ing  those  passed  in  March,  sanctioned 
and  put  into  operation  in  April  1848. 
In  short,  that  he  should  concede  what 
Hungary  was  contending  for. 

The  abdication  of  tiie  Empercnr 
Ferdinand,  and  the  accession  to  the 
Imperial  throne  of  his  youthful  suc- 
cessor, presented  another  opportmiity 
of  which  the  Austrian  government 
might  have  graceftilly  avidled  itself, 
to   terminate    the   diffiorraces  with 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1B49.] 


Auiiria  and  Hungary, 


701 


finngaiy.  The  jonng  emperor  was 
fettered  hj  no  engagements,  involyed 
in  none  of  the  intngnes  that  entangled 
Ills  nnwarj  predecessor,  and  entailed 
so  great  evils  npon  the  conntry.  He 
was  free  to  take  a  constitntional 
course  in  Hnnsarj,  to  confirm  the 
concessions  which  had  been  volnn- 
tarilj  made,  and  which  oonld  not 
now  be  recalled — ^to  restore  to  the 
Imperial  government  a  character  for 
good  fidth ;  and  thns  to  have  won  the 
hearts  of  the  Hungarians.  Supported 
by  their  loval  attachment  to  their  king, 
he  might  have  peacefnllj  worked  out 
the  reforms  in  the  government  of  his 
empire  which  the  times  and  the  cir- 
cumstances demanded  or  justified. 
But  Count  Stadion,  the  real  head  of 
the  new  ministry,  ti^ough  possessed  of 
many  eminent  qualities  as  a  states- 
man, was  deeply  imbued  with  the 
old  longing  after  unity  in  the  system 
of  government :  he  hoped  to  effect,  by 
means  of  a  constitution  devised  and 
fVamed  for  that  purpose,  the  amalga- 
mation of  the  different  parts  of  the 
empire,  which  abler  men  had  failed  to 
accomplish  under  an  absolute  mo- 
narchy, in  circumstances  more  favour- 
able to  success.  The  opposition  that 
was  inevitable  in  Hungary  he  pro- 
posed to  overcome  bv  force  of  arms ; 
and,  at  a  moment  wben  a  desire  for 
separate  nationality  was  the  predomi- 
nant feeling  in  the  minds  of  all  the 
different  races  in  the  empire,  he  had 
the  hardihood  to  imagine  that  he 
could  frame  a  constitution  capable 
of  overcoming  this  desire,  and  of 
fusing  them  all  into  one.  It  was 
considered  an  advantage  that  the  em- 
peror, unfettered  by  personal  engage- 
ments to  Hungary,  was  free  to  pro- 
secute its  subjugation,  to  subvert  its 
constitution,  and  to  force  the  Hun- 
garians to  accept  in  its  place  the  con- 
stitution of  Count  Stadion,  with  seats 
in  the  Assembly  at  Vienna  for  their 
representatives,  under  one  central  go- 
vernment for  the  united  empire.  This 
may  have  been  a  desirable  result  to 
obtain ;  it  might,  if  attainable,  have 
been  ultimately  condndve  to  the 
strength  of  the  empire  and  the  wel- 
fare of  all  classes ;  but  it  was  not  to 
dalm  the  hereditary  succession  to  a 
throne  secured  and  guarded  by  sta- 
tntes— it  was  rather  to  undertake  the 
conquest  of  a  kingdom. 

VOL.  LXT.— NO.  CCCCrV. 


Windischgratz  and  Jellachich  occa- 
pied  Pesth  without  oppoution,  set 
aside  the  constituted  authorities,  and 
governed  the  country,  as  far  as  their 
army  extended,  bv  martial  law.  The 
Committee  of  Defence  retired  bevond 
t^e  Theis  to  Debreczin,  in  the  heart 
of  the  Majjar  country,  and  appealed 
to  the  pamotism  of  tiie  Hnngarians. 
The  army  was  rapidly  recruited,  and 
was  organised  in  the  field,  for  the  cam- 
pidgn  may  be  said  to  have  endured 
throughout  the  whole  winter.  From 
time  to  time  it  was  announced  fW>m 
Vienna  that  the  war  was  about  to  be 
terminated  by  the  advance  of  the  im- 
perial army,  and  the  dispersion  or 
destruction  of  Kosiuth's  faction.  The 
flight  of  Kossuth,  and  his  capture  as  a 
fiiffitive  in  disguise,  were  reported  and 
believed.  The  delay  in  the  advance 
of  the  imperial  army  was  attributed  to 
the  rigour  of  the  season  and  the  state 
of  the  roads ;  and,  when  tiiese  impe- 
diments no  longer  existed,  to  the  in- 
c^[>acity  of  Windischgratz,  who  was 
roughly  handled  by  the  government 
press  of  Vienna.  The  true  cause  was 
carefully  concealed.  The  resistance 
was  not  that  of  a  faction,  but  of  a 
nation.  That  fact  has  been  fully 
established  by  the  events  in  this  un- 
fortunate, unnecessary,  and  unnatural 
war. 

The  Austrian  armies  employed  in 
Hungary  have  probably  exceeded  one 
hun£ed  and  fifty  thousand  reffular 
troops,  aided  by  irregular  bands  of 
Croats  and  Serbes,  and  latteriv  by  a 
Russian  corps  of  ten  thousand  men. 
They  established  themselves  both  in 
Transylvania  and  inHungary,and  were 
in  possession  of  the  whole  of  the  fer- 
tile country  firom  the  frontiers  of 
Austria  to  the  Theis,  which  flows 
through  the  centre  of  the  kingdom. 
From  Transylvania,  both  the  Austrian 
and  the  Russian  forces  have  been 
driven  into  Wallachia.  From  the  line 
of  the  Theis  the  imperial  army  has  been 
forced  across  the  Danube,  on  which 
they  were  unable  to  maintain  thehr 
positions.  The  sieges  of  Komom  and 
Peterwardein,  the  two  great  fortresses 
on  the  Danube,  of  which  the  capture 
or  surrender  has  so  often  been  an- 
nounced, have  been  raised ;  and  the 
question  is  no  longer  whether  De- 
brecain  is  to  be  occupied  by  the 
£mperor*s  forces,  but  whether  Vienna 
2t 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


T08 


Austria  oitdEm^Qrif, 


[Jl»^ 


issafeftomiheHwigndaiii.  Oi^Med 
to  the  admirahla  armr  of  Austria, 
these  re«lt6  oonki  act  We  been  ob- 
lained  imleee  the  great  bo^  of  the 
natioii  had  been  eordiallj  vnked,  ner 
eren  then,  uikleai  by  a  people  of  great 
energy,  oonmge,  aiid  inteUigenee. ' 

Had  the  goyerainaDt  of  Aoetria 
knoim  how  to  wfai  the  hearta  of  the 
Hongariaaa  fi)r  their  sovereign— had 
they  bat  preserved  the  good  faith  and 
the  sanctity  of  the  monaichy  in  Hun- 
gary, how  aecore  and  imposbg  might 
the  position  of  the  £n^>eror  have  now 
been,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  troubles 
in  Germany  1  Hnagarr  desired  no 
revolution;  shehadpeaoemllyobtained, 
by  constitutional  meuis,  all  she  de* 
sired.  Her  revoluti<m  had  been 
effected  centuries  ago  f  and,  with  indi- 
genous institutions,  to  which  her 
people  were  warmly  attached,  she 
would  have  maintained,  as  she  did 
maintain,  her  internal  tranquillity  and 
her  c(mstituti(mal  monardiy,  whatever 
storms  might  rage  around  her. 

The  resources  that  Hungary  has  put 
forth  in  this  contest  have  surprised 
Europe,  because  Europe  had  not  tak^ 
the  trouble  to  calculate  the  strength 
and  the  resources  of  Hungary.  With 
a  compact  territory,  equal  m  extent 
to  Grreat  Britain  luid  Irdand,  (m*  to 
Prussia,  and  the  most  defensible  fron- 
tier of  any  kingdom  on  the  continent 
of  Europe ;  with  a  population  nearly 
equal  to  that  of  England,  and  not 
much  inferior  to  that  of  Prussia;* 
with  a  climate  equal  to  tl^t  of  France, 
and  soil  of  greater  natural  fertility 
than  any  of  these ;  with  a  representa- 
tive government  long  established,  and 
free  indigenous  institutions,  which  the 
people  venerate ;  with  a  brave,  ener- 
aetic,  and  patriotic  population,  pe- 
oisposed  to  military  pursuits,  jealous 
of  their  national  independence,  and  of 
their  personal  liberty— ambitions  of 
miUtaiy  renown,  proud  of  their  tradi- 
tionaiy  prowess,  and  impressed  with 
an  idea  of  their  own  superiority  to  the 
surrounding  populations — Hungary, 
as  all  who  know  the  country  and  the 
people  were  aware,  would  be  found  a 


IbcmidaUe  antagonist  hf  any  power 
that  migfat  attack  her.  &t,paiadoaL^ 
ical  and  Incredible  as  it  may  appear, 
we  believe  it  is  not  the  less  true,  thai, 
little  as  Hungaiy  was  known  in  mo«t 
of  the  oountnes  of  Europe,  there  waa 
hardly  a  c^)ital,  in  that  quarter  of  the 
globe,  where  more  erroneous  notions 
regarding  it  prevailed  than  in  Vienna. 
In  other  places  there  was  ignorance ; 
in  the  capital  of  Ausbia  there  waathe 
most  absurd  misapprehension.  Though 
generally  a  calm,  sensible  man,  pos- 
sessing a  consideiable  amount  of  gene- 
ral information,  an  Austrian,  even 
after  he  has  travelled,  ^>pears  to  be 
peculiarly  inc^>able  of  understanding 
a  naticmal  character  different  from  his 
own :  this  is  true  even  in  respect  to 
other  Germans ;  and  neither  the  prox- 
imity of  the  counties,  nor  the  frequent 
intercourse  of  their  inhiUutants,  seems 
to  have  enabled  him  to  form  any  rea- 
sonable estimate  of  the  Hungarian 
character  or  institutions.  We  might 
adduce  curious  evidence  of  this  ignor- 
ance, even  in  persons  of  distinction ; 
but  we  shall  content  ourselves  with 

2 noting  Mr  Paget's  observations  on 
tie  subject,  in  «Jane  1835 : — 

^  The  reader  weald  certainly  laugh,  la 
I  have  often  done  sfaioe,  did  I  tell  him  one 
half  of  the  fooliah  tales  the  good  Yiennese 
told  08  of  the  conatry  we  were  about  ta 
yisit— no  roads !  no  inns  I  no  police !  We 
must  Bleep  on  the  ground^  eat  where  we 
oouldy  and  be  ready  to  defend  our  purses 
and  our  lives  at  ever j  moment.  In  taU 
credence  of  these  reports,  we  provided 
onrselres  most  plentifully  with  arms, 
whioh  were  oarefblly  loaded,  and  placed 

ready  ibr  inuaediate  use 

It  may,  hewever,  ease  the  read^s  mind 
to  know,  that  no  oocaaigQ  to  shoot  any- 
thing more  formidable  than  a  partridge  or 
a  hare  presented  itself  and  that  we 
finished  our  journey  with  the  full  conyic- 
tion,  that  trayelling  in  Hungary  was  just 
as  safe  as  trayelUng  In  England. 

"  Why,  or  wherefore,  I  know  not,  but 
nothing  can  exceed  the  horror  with  which 
a  true  Austrian  regards  both  Hungary 
and  its  inhabitante.  I  hare  somet&aes 
nspeeted  that  the  bngbear  with  whieh  a 
Vienna  mother  fri^tens  her  sqnaller  to 
deep  must  be  aa  Hungarian  bngbear; 


*  The  extent  of  Hungary,  ineMfag  Transylvania, Is  above  125,000  square  miles; 
that  of  Great  Britain  and  Irehmd  is  122,000,  and  that  of  Prussia  about  116,000.  The 
popihitien  of  Hungary,  aeoording  to  the  best  anthorities,  is  nearly  fonrteea  miUioas; 
that  of  England  (in  1841)  was  needy  fifteen  miUioas ;  that  of  Proasia  abont  sUteen 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


lSd90 


Amtna  <md  Ehmjfmrif, 


708 


far  in  BO  other  way  «am  I  Moonai  for  tko 
ii^od  aad  absurd  fear  whieh  they  enter- 
iain  fSorsuch  near  neighbome.  It  is  tme, 
the  Hosgariaiui  do  sometimeB  talk  about 
fiberty>  conBtitutional  rights,  and  other 
such  terrible  things,  to  which  no  well- 
disposed  ears  should  be  open,  and  to 
whieh  the  ears  of  the  Viennese  are  reli- 
giously dosed." 

There  were,  do  doabt,  elements  of 
diBCord  in  Hungary,  of  which  Aus- 
tria, on  former  occasions  as  well  as 
now,  took  advantage ;  bat  their  valoe 
to  her  in  the  present  war  has  been 
greatly  overrated.  The  population  of 
the  kingdom,  like  that  of  the  empire, 
is  composed  of  various  races,  amongst 
whu^  there  are  differences  of  Um- 
gosge,  religion,  customs,  and  senti- 
ments. Of  the  14,000,000  of  people 
who  inhabit  Hungary,  not  more 
than  5,000,000  are  Miyjars,  about 
1,262,000  are  Germans,  2,311,000 
Wallacks,  and,  of  the  remaining 
5,400,000,  nine-tenths  or  more  are 
Sclaves.  The  Sdaves  are  therefore 
as  numerous  as  the  Majjars ;  and, 
although  these  races  had  at  all  times 
combined  against  foreign  enemies,  it 
was  probaUe  that  they  would  not 
unite  in  a  domestic  quarrel,  as  that 
with  Austria  might  be  considered. 
When  a  great  part  of  the  colonists  of 
ibe  military  fr(Mitier,  chiefly  Croats  and 
Serbes,  took  part  against  the  govern- 
ment of  Hungary,  and  asserted  a 
Sdave  nationality  as  opposed  to  the 
Hungarian  nationality,  it  was  too 
hastily  assumed,  by  pers<ms  imper- 
fectly informed,  that  the  whole  Scla- 
vonic population,  equidling  the  Maj- 
jars  in  number,  would  be  available  to 
Austria  in  the  war.  But  the  Sclaves 
of  Hungary  are  a  disunited  race, 
divided  into  nine  different  tribes,  the 
greats  part  of  which  have  nothing 
in  common  except  their  origin.  Most 
of  these  tribes  speak  languages  or 
dialects  which  are  mutuallv  unintel- 
ligible ;  and  the  Sclaves  of  different 
tribes  are  sometimes  obliged  to  use 
the  M^ar  tongue  as  their  only  means 
of  communication.  Some  b^ng  to 
the  Boman  Catholic  Church,  some  to 
the  Greek ;  others  are  Protestants— 
Lutheran  or  Calvinist :  and  some, 
while  they  have  submitted  to  the  see 
of  Rome,  retain  many  of  their  Greek 
forms  and  services,  adhere  to  the  Greek 
calendar,  and  constitute  a  distinct 


oomnmnioa.  The  Slovacks  <tf  North- 
em  Hungary,  numbering  1,600,000, 
are  partly  Roman  Catholics,  partly 
Protestants— and  have  no  inlereourse 
or  conimttnity  of  language  or  feelinff 
with  the  Sclaves  of  Sontberm  and 
Western  Hungary,  firom  whom  they 
are  separated  by  the  interventioft  of 
the  MsMt  conntiT.  The  Ruthenes, 
also  inl^orthem  Huffaiy,  are  dis- 
tmct  from  the  Slovacks,  occupy  a 
different  portion  (^  the  slopes  and 
spurs  of  the  Carpathians,  and  have  no 
connexion  with  the  Sclaves  on  ^ 
right  bank  of  the  Danube,  from  whom 
they  are  separated  by  the  whole 
breadth  of  Hungary  and  Transylvania 
at  that  point— they  amount  to  about 
400,000.  The  Croats,  not  quite 
900,000  in  number,  are  partly  Roman 
Catholics  and  partly  belong  to  the 
Greek  Church.  When  religious  tole- 
ration was  established  in  Hungary, 
they  exercised  the  power  enjoyed  by 
the  provincial  assembly  to  exclude 
Protestants  ttom  the  country.  The 
ShodES  of  Sdavonia  Proper,  and  the 
Rasciens  of  that  province  and  of  the 
Banat,  amounting  respeetively  to 
above  800,000,  and  nearlv  half  a 
million,  are  tribes  of  the  Serbe  stock, 
of  whom  the  greater  part  adb^*e  to  the 
Greek  Church,  and  whose  language 
is  different  from  that  of  the  Croats, 
the  Slovaeks,  and  the  Ruthraes. 
The  Bulgarians,  about  12,000,  the 
Montenegrins,  about  2000,  and  the 
Wends  from  Styria,  about  50,000,  are 
small  distinct  tribes,  speaking  differ- 
ent languages,  and  divided  by  reli- 
gious dliSerencee.  But  the  whole  of 
these  Sclavonic  tribes  have  this  in 
common,  that  they  are  all  animated 
by  a  feeling  of  hatred  to  the  German 
race  ;  and  more  than  half  of  the 
Sdave  population  of  Hungary  has 
joined  the  Hungarians-  against  Aus- 
tria. 

There  was  also  a  belief  that  the 
Hung^ans  had  oppressed  theSdaves, 
and  that  the  whole  Sdave  race  would 
therefore  combine  to  put  down  their 
opiHressors.  This  was  another  mis- 
apprehension. Great  efforts  have 
been  made  by  some  d  thdr  poets  and 
their  journalists  to  persuade  the  Sclaves 
that  they  were  oppressed,  and  the 
Croat  newspapers  and  pamphlets  of 
M.  Gay,  and  the  Austrian  journals, 
have  drcnlated  this  belief  over  Ger- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


7(U 


Amtria  €nd  Hungaiy. 


[JiDW, 


manj,  whence  it  wm  dtosenhitted 
over  Enrope ;  bnt  Ibere  seems  to  have 
been  no  roondation  fyr  the  char^. 
The  Selaves  enjoyed  the  sane  lights 
and  privHeges  as  the  H«Bgarians; 
they  were  protected  by  the  same  laws ; 
they  have  shared  e^oallj  with  the 
Hungarians  in  aH  the  concessions 
obtained  by  the  Diet  of  Hungary,  to 
which  the  Selaves  sent  their  own  re- 
presentatives, fh>m  the  sovereign; 
they  bore  less  than  their  dne  propo^ 
tion  of  the  pnblic  hardens,  and  they 
were  left  in  the  enjoyment  of  thehr 
own  intenMil  and  manidpai  adminis^ 
tratlon.  Ooatia,  where  the  move^ 
nent  In  favour  of  what  wta  celtod 
Ulyrian  nationality  oHgilMtted  fifteen 
or  sixteen  years  years  ago,  and  where 
It  was  fostered,  cariensly  enough,  by 
the  patronage  of  two  imperial  govern* 
ments  —Croatia  does  not  appear  to 
have  any  reason  to  complain  of  Han- 
garhm  oiSpression.  The  Croats  had 
their  own  provlnciill  aBseniMy  br  diet, 
wMoh  regulated  the  internal  affhhis  of 
the  province,  their  otm  eetnty  as- 
serabiles,' their  o^wn  Ban  or  governor, 
they  elected  thetr  own  comity  and 
munlefpal  ofllcers;  a  gr^t  part  of  thft 
pfovltice  was  oi^ibei  as  a  part  of 
the  militkry  frontier,  knd  was  there- 
ibre  remold  from  the  dontn^l  of  thi3 
Hungarian  IMet^  Mid  ^  brought  moi^ 
directly  under  the  authorities  «t 
Yiemia.  The  only  specific  <6hfltrgey  so 
fhr  ^  we  have  b^^^able  to  diseeiv«r, 
^ni  they  biy>u^  agaiiist  the  Hun- 
Brians  Inis,  that  the  Maytlrs  desiMd 
to  impose  thefi^  lan^age*  upon  the 
Croats.  ■  The  history  of  the  m«tterls 
thi9,-^]iathi  hod  1)een  thcr  Uogaage  of 
public' busing,  of  dc^ateii,  and  of  the 
dedsions  oTcourts  of  tawin  Hungary, 
till  the  attest  of  Josei^  IL  to  sub- 
stitnte  the  <]refmaii  excited  a  strong 
na^ronal  m^ement' to  favour  of*  the 
Majjaf.  IVom  1790  this  movetnent 
has  been'  jfyet'se^red  In  with  the 
greatest  Meadinfess  $  and  fh  1880  an 
act  was  naseed  by  the  Diet,  and  saiiic- 
tSoned  by  the  King,  which  decreed 
that,  after  ^e  l^t  of  JaiMUiry>:li844, 
no  one  could  be  vttmed  to  any  pnhMc 
office  who  did  not  know  thd  M^)«r. 
This  completed  the  seiiles  of  moaflnres 
which  suVstitntsd  that  language  Ibr 
the  Latin,  a  langnage  nniuteuigible  to 
the  great  t>ody  of  the  pemle.  If  a 
Kvtog  was  to  be  substilnted  Ibr  a  dead 


language,  no  other  than  the  Millar 
could  well  be  selected.  Besides  being 
greatly  more  nnmeroas  than  any  other 
tribe  speaking  one  language,  the 
Majjars  were  the  wealthiest,  the  moat 
intelligent  and  influential ;  and  their 
language  was  spoken  not  only  by  their 
own  race,  bnt  by  a  large  proportion 
of  the  other  Inhabitants  of  the  coimtfy 
— ^probably  by  six  or  saven  times  as 
many  persons  as  nsed  any  other  Hun* 
garian  dialect.  The  Croats,  whose  Ian* 
guaffe  was  not  that  of  any  other  tribe, 
could  not  expect  it  to  be  cboseo,  and 
all  that  was  required  of  then  was  to 
employ  the  MaJ^ar  where  they  had 
hitherto  employed  the  lAlin  language, 
and  nowhere  else.  The  county  cf 
Agram,  the  most  important  and  popu- 
lous of  the  three  counties  of  Croi^ia, 
repudiated  the  notion  of  a  sepacile 
IHyrian  nationality,  of  which,  howv 
ever,  the  county  town  was  the  oenftie; 
and  dung  to  Hungairy  as  llie  safe- 
guard of  its  liberty.  The  truth  is  thalt 
the  Groats,  of  wllose  hosliility  to  tin 
Hungarians  we  hare  heard  so  mnoh, 
are  nearly  equally  divided  brtween 
Hungary  and  Austria ;  and,^  but  fqr 
the  miiitafy  organisation  which  pkoos 
so  large  a  portien  of  thatpeopfe  ttt 
the  disposal  of  AtMtfia-^^ndthAt  the 
most'ftra^dable  pOrtion^tbeBgiCittors 
-ibr  IHyrian  natlon^ky  wouUtprobaUy 
have  been  put  down  1^  thdr  own 
countrymen. '  TheSlowEickaf « |teople 
of  Bo^mhui  origin,  ifefuffees  froai 
TOligbtis  perseomiait,  have  Jeined  the 
Htmgaritms.  A  griMt  piort  of  the 
peofne  ^  8clavoHiai'i^per'h«)re>re- 
'fh^  tb  tdte*  part  agamic  Hungary. 
Tho  tribes'  that  haire  engaged  mMt 
ext^naiv^y  and  violeatiy  la  ho^tiHtifs 
'agahist  thei  Hangarians^.'have  be^ 
die  people  of  Servian  nut,  and  of 
tM  Ofeek^bburoh,  in  the  oovndeisi>of 
the  Lower  Damm^  and  in  Ckoat^ 
Asaongst  tha  H«iig*irlapi  Selaves  of 
'  the  Oveek  <terch.  It  is  wdl  known 
^hat  foreij^^  ipflataoo  has  long  4>flen 
afwork;  fbv  which  thenGseek  pii««t- 
bood  aro '  readv  'histrumeatei  The 
bopeS'Vf  theeettnbed  have  been  tamed 
towafd^  tlie  head  of  tiieindran^iaBd 
the  sympathies  of  ihiity ,  miUioM  ^f 
Eastern  Selaves  who  belong"  <  ta  the 
same^thorch;. 

Though  feelings  of  nationality  «id 
of  raoe  have  been  devdopedin  Hnn- 
gaiy,  as    elsewhere,  to   aa  extent 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


1840.] 


Au$ina<mdHiinffmTf. 


Utherto  tmexampled,  they  have  there 
to  contend  with  toe  cnnviog  ibr  liberty, 
which  has  al  the  same  time  aeqoirea 
sntensitj,  and  which  amongst  the 
Sdaves  has  bees  foeteced  and  bflamed 
by  the  efforts  of  those  who^  Ibr  the 
pnrfose  of  exciting  thorn  against  the 
JiiQ^urs>  wovld  persoade  them  that 
thoy  wera  the  Tiotima  of'<»pi«S6k>n. 
The  mora  inteHixeat  and  inflaential 
are  now  convinced^  that  it  is  to  Han* 
gai7«-4o  which  th^  owe  the  liberty 
ihey  tmjoy — and  not  to  anarchy,  or  to 
JLnstcMy  against  the  attacks  of  whose 

STemiMBt  Hnagaty  has  so  long  de- 
ided  their  freedom  and  her  own, 
that  they  most  look  for  advance- 
ment. 

The  relatiTO  positions  of  the  pea- 
aants  and  the  nobles,  and  the  anta- 
gonism of  these  classes,  enabled  Ans- 
tria  to  eaerclie  great  inflaenoe  and 
even  power  in  UnngBry.  The  peasant 
popnlatfon^  amoanting  to  three  mil- 
JioDs  or  more,  now  emancipated  from 
their  disabiiitUs  and  exclnsiye  or  dls- 
proportionato  bnrdeas,  and  raised  to 
the  rank  and  wealth  of  freehdders  and 
proprietors,  by  the  liberality  of  the 
nobles',  have  an  eqaal  interest  with 
them  in  defending  the  institotioos  to 
which  they  owe  Sieir  eleyation. 

The  elements  of  discord,  although 
tb^  were  sich  as  enabled  agitators 
to  raise  a  part  of  the  Sclavea  against 
the  Hangarians,  when  it  was  resolved 
to  retract  the  conoessions  that  had 
been  made  to  them,  woald  hardly  have 
been  found  available  for  that  purpose, 
had  not  the  instigators  of  the  revolt 
acted  in  the  name  of  the  King  of 
Hungary,  and  of  more  than  one  im- 
perial government;  nor  even  then, 
peitiapa,  had  they  not  been,  enabled 
to  dispose  of  the  resources  of  the 
military  frontier.  Now  that  the  Han- 
garians have  obtained  important  sac- 
cesses,  it  is  probable  that  the  Sclaves 
will  all  Join  them.  The  movement  of 
these  tribea  againat  the  Hungarians, 
which  was  oanaed  by  other  influences 
in  addition  to  that  of  Austria,  has 
thas  tended  to  lead  the  imperial  go- 
vernment into  hostility  with  Hungary, 
without  contributing  mnch  to  ks 
strengtli. 

mien  the  Austrian  government 
resolved  to  subjugate  Hungary,  it  was 
presumed  that  they  undertook  the 
conquest  of  that  country  relying  on 


705 

thehr  own  resources.  Bat  tie  success 
of  the  enterprise  was  so  doubtful,  and 
a  failure  ao  hasardons  to  the  empiire, 
that  we  sever  could  believe  it  possible 
that  it  Ittd  been  undertaken  without 
an  assurance  of  support.  It  is  true 
that  the  imperial  government  m^Ut  at 
that  time  have  expected  an  adjustment 
of  their  differences  with  Sardinia ;  but 
Yenioe  still  held  oat,  peace  with  Sar« 
diaia  had  not  been  condaded,  tlio 
state  of  Italy  was  dailv  beooming  moro 
alanming,  and  the  Austrian  oabinet 
knew  that  they  oould  maintain  their 
hold  of  Lombirdy ,  and  reduoe  Venice, 
only  by  meaas  of  a  powerful  army. 
They  were  awsre  that  the  condition  of 
Galicta,  and  even  of  Bohemia,  was 
precarious^  and  that  neither  could 
safely  be  denuded  of  troops.  The  state 
of  affairs  in  Germany  was  not  such  as 
to  give  them  conQ^enee,  still  less  to 
promise  them  support ;  and  the  atti- 
tude they  assumed  towards  the  assem- 
bly at  Frankfort,  though  not  unworthy 
of  the  ancient  dignity  of  Austria,  was 
not  cakalated  to  dimmish  her  anxiety. 
Even  in  the  Hereditary  States  all 
was  not  secure.  They  were  aware 
that  old  sentiments  and  feelings  had 
been  shaken  and  disturbed ;  that,  al- 
though order  had  for  the  time  been 
restored,  ^y  the  fidelity  and  courage  of 
the  army,  men^B  minda  were  still  un- 
settled ;  and  that,  both  in  the  capital 
and  in  the  provinces,  there  were  fac- 
tions whose  sympathies  were  not  with 
the  imperial  government,  and  which, 
in  case  of  disasters,  might  again  be- 
oome  formidable.  The  capital  alone 
required  a  garrison  of  twenty  thou- 
sand men,  to  keep  it  in  suljection— to 
preserve  its  tranquillity.  Putting 
aside,  therefore,  every  consideration 
aa  to  the  justice  of  the  war,  and  look- 
ing merely  to  its  probable  conse- 
quences, it  is  obvious  that,  without 
such  a  preponderance  of  power  and 
resources  as  would  not  only  insure 
success,  but  insure  it  at  once— by  one 
effort — it  woald  have  been  madness  in 
Austria,  for  the  purpose  of  forcing  her 
oonstitution  upon  the  Hungarians,  to 
engage  in  a  contest  m  which  she 
atidLod  her  power— her  existence— and 
wliidi  could  not  fail  to  be  dangerous 
to  her  if  it  became  protracted. 

Let  us  then  examine  the  resources 
of  both  parties,  and  see  what  was  the 
preponderance  on  the  side  of  Austria, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


706 


A.M$if9(H  OBM  Btm^&tif, 


[7ine, 


which  would  jistify  her  in  undertaking 
80  hazudons  «n  enteriHrise,  on  the 
supposition  that  she  r^ed  solely  on 
her  own  resooroes. 

The  Austrian  empire  contains  a 
population  of  36,000,000  ;  of  these 
about  7,000,000  are  Germans-- 
about  16,500,000  are  Sclaves,— nearly 
8,000,000  are  of  Italian  and  Dadan 
races,  and  about  5,600,000  of  Asiatic 
races,  including  5,000,000  of  Maj- 
Jars.  If  from  these  36,000,000  we 
deduct  die  peculation  of  Hunfary, 
14,000,000,  of  Lombardy  and  Ve- 
nice, 4,876,000— or,  together,  nearly 
19,000,000,  hostile  to  Austria— and 
the  population  o(  Gaticia,  4,980,000, 
which  did  not  contribute  to  her 
strength,  to  say  nothug  of  Bohemia 
or  Vienna,  or  Crakow,  there  will  re- 
main to  Austria,  to  cany  on  the  war, 
only  12,144,000.  But,  as  probably 
two  millions  of  the  SelaTes  and  other 
tribes  of  Hungary,  including  the  mili- 
tary frontier,  may  hare  been  reckoned 
as  on  her  side,  diat  number  may  be 
deducted  from  Hungary  and  added  to 
Austria.  There  will  then  remain  to 
Hungary  a  ppnlation  of  12,000,000, 
concentrated  in  their  own  country  for 
its  defence,  and  to  Austria  i^nt 
14,000,000,  whose  mifitary  resources 
must  be  distributed  over  her  whole 
dominions— from  the  frontiers  of  Rus- 
sia to  those  of  Sardinia,  from  the  fron- 
tiers of  Prussia  to  the  confines  of 
Tbrkey — to  re-establish  her  authority 
in  Lombardy,  to  reduce  Venice  to 
submission,  to  hold  the  Sardinians 
and  the  Italian  republicans  in  check, 
to  control  and  oyerawe  Galicia  and 
Crakow,  to  garrison  Vienna  and 
maintain  tranquillity  at  home,  and, 
finally,  to  conquer  12,000,000  of  Hun- 
garians. It  fe  true  she  had  a  noble 
array,  and  Hungary  then  had  almost 
none,  except  such  leries  as  she  had 
hastily  raised,  and  which  were  as  yet 
without  skilfhl  commanders.  But 
Austria  knew  by  experience  the  dif- 
ficulties and  hazards  of  a  war  in  Hnn- 
guy.  Her  government  must  hare 
known  the  resources  of  the  country, 
the  courage  and  patriotism  of  Hs  in- 
habitants, and  the  success  that  had 
attended  their  resistance  to  her  forces 
on  more  than  one  former  occasion. 
8^nrrounded  by  dtficuHies  at  home,  in 
Italy,  and  in  Germany,  with  full  one 
half  of  the  pq^ation  of  die  empire 


hos^e  to  the  gorcmmeBt,  die  was 
undertaking  an  eirterprise  whidi  her 
forces,  in  cbrcamstancea  Ur  more 
favourable  to  success,  had  repealedlj 
fuled  toaccompy^ 

Reviewing  the  wh(^  d  these  con- 
siderations, therefore,  we  hold  it  to 
be  quite  incredibie  that  the  Anstiiaa 
government,  having  the  ahematiTe  cf 
restoring  peace,  by  pennittiBg  the 
King  of  Hungary  to  fulfil  his  engage- 
ments to  his  subjects,  eonld  haye  pie- 
ferred  a  war  for  the  snijngatkm  o< 
Hungary,  if  she  had  relied  soMy  on 
her  own  resources,  or  Ibiiowed  ooly 
her  own  impidses  and  the  dictates  c€ 
ber  own  interest  We  cannoi  donbt 
that  she  was  assured  of  foreign  aid- 
that  .her  reeolntioa  to  make  war  upon 
Hungary,  rather  ^an  keep  fiith  witli 
her,  was  adopted  in  concert  witli  tiie 
power  by  which  that  aid  was  to  be  fur- 
nished. If  this  inference  be  just,  we 
may  find  in  that  concert  a  reason  fbr 
the  extraordinary  accumulatien  of 
Russian  troops  in  WaUachia  and  Mol- 
davia, which  appeared  to  tiireaten  the 
Ottoman  Porte,  but  which  also  threat- 
ened Hungry,  where  the  only  corps 
that  has  been  actively  employed 
found  occupation.  The  feeling  of 
Germany  made  it  unsafe  to  brin^ 
Russian  tnx^  hrto  Austria;  but 
the  massing  of  Russian  troops  in  the 
DanuMan  principalities  of  Tnricey 
excited  no  jealousy  in  Germany. 
Austria,  too^  shrinking  instinctiT^ 
from  the  perBs  of  Rn^ian  interven- 
tioB,  while  in  reliance  on  that  support 
lAe  pursued  a  bold  and  haaardous 
policy,  with  a  confidence  whidi  otiMr- 
wise  woidd  have  been  nnintelliglUe 
and  misplaced,  hoped  periii^  to 
escape  the  danger  of  having  reeonne 
to  the  aid  on  n^ich  she  relied. 

Having  employed  aU  her  di^>osable 
means  in  the  war,  Austria  now  maki- 
taias  it  at  a  dKsadvaatage,  for  her  own 
^fence.  Her  armies  have  been  de- 
feated, her  resources  exhausted  or 
crippled,  her  capital  is  in  danger,  and 
she  must  either  concede  ibe  demands 
of  the  Hungarians,  or  call  fai  the  armies 
of  Russia  to  protect  her  governraent 
and  enferce  her  poficy.  What  the 
demands  of  the  Hungarians  may  new 
be,  we  know  not ;  but  if  they  have 
wisdom  equal  to  the  courage  and 
energy  they  have  displayed,  they  wfll 
be  contented  with  the  restitution  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


AMsiria  mu^  Htmgar^ 


707 


their  legal  rights,  which  AustriA  maj 
grant  without  disbonovr,  becaoBe  in 
honour  and  good  fiuth  they  onght 
nerver  to  hare  been  rejected.  If 
they  are  wise  as  they  wne  brave,  the 
Hnngarians  will  seek  to  restore  nni^ 
and  peace  to  the  emphv  inth  which 
ihehr  lot  has  been  cast— whose  weak- 
ness cannot  be  their  strength— whose 
independence  is  necessary  to  their  own 
secority.  That  the  inte^rention  of 
Bnssia  wonld  be  fatal  to  the  Austrian 
empire,  to  its  dignity,  its  power,  its 
capacity  to  Mfll  the  conditions  of  its 
«zisteace  as  a  great  independent  state 
—the  gnardian  of  eastern  Enrope— 48, 
wethi^  onqnestionable.  Attribut- 
ing no  interested  design  to  Russia — 
assuming  that  she  desires  nothing  so 
much  as  the  strength  and  stability  of 
the  Austrian  empire— we  cannot  doubt 
that  the  re-establishment  and  main- 
tenance of  the  imperial  goremment^s 
authority  by  the  military  force  of 
Russia,  were  it  the  best  government 
that  ever  existed,  would  desecrate,  in 
tlie  heart  of  every  Grcrman,  the  throne 
of  the  Kaiser,  and  cover  it  with  dust 
and  ashes.  In  a  contest  between  the 
Russians  and  the  Hungarians,  the 
sympathy  of  all  Germany,  of  all  west- 
•ern  Europe,  would  be  with  the  Mm- 
jars.  Half  the  Emperor  of  Austria^s 
own  heart  would  be  on  the  side  of  the 
loyal  nation  to  which  his  house  owes 
ao  large  a  debt  of  gratitude;  who,  he 
must  be  aware,  have  been  alienated 
<m\y  by  the  errors  and  the  injustice 
-of  his  advisers,  and  who,  if  they  are 
aacrificed,  will  not,  and  cannot  be  sac- 
riioed  to  his  hrterests.  Hungary  was 
perfectly  satisfied  with  her  constitu- 
tion and  her  government,  as  esta* 
Wished  by  the  hiws  of  April  1848. 
6he  was  l<^al  to  her  king,  and  care* 
fhl  of  the  honour  of  Austria,  which 
ahe  sent  her  best  troops  to  defend  in 
another  country;  h^  crimes  have 
l^een  her  attacshment  to  established 
institutions,  and  the  courage  and  pa- 
triotism witii  which  she  has  defended 
them.  This  is  not  the  spirit  which  it 
can  ever  be  the  interest  of  a  sovereign 
to  extinguish  in  Aw  oum  subjects. 
The  desire  to  overturn  established  In- 
atitutions  is  the  veiy  evil  which  the 
Emperors  of  Austria  and  Russia  pro- 
less  to  combat,  and  their  first  efforts 
are  to  be  directed  against  the  only 
Christian  nation  between  the  frontiers 
of  Belgium   and  Rus^  —  between 


Denmark  and  Malta,  which  was 
satisfied  with  its  inMitutions  and 
government,  and  determined  to  mahi- 
tain  them. 

If  Russia  engages  seriously  in  the 
war,  she  will  put  forth  b^r  whole 
strength,  and  Hungary  may  probably 
be  overpowered ;  but  can  she  forget 
her  wrongs  or  her  successes? — ^wiU 
she  ever  again  give  her  affection  to 
the  man  who,  didming  her  crown  as 
his  hereditary  right,  has  crushed  her 
under  the  foot  of  a  foreign  enemy? 
If  anjrthing  can  extinguish  loyalty  in 
the  heart  of  a  Hungarian,  the  attempt 
of  the  Emperor  to  put  the  Muscovite's 
foot  upon  his  neck  will  accomplish  it. 
We  can  imagine  no  degradation  more 
deeply  revolting  to  the  proud  Majjar, 
or  more  Ukely  to  make  him  sum  up 
all  reasoning  upon  the  subject  witn 
tiie  de^erate  resolution  to  sell  his 
life  as  dearly  as  he  can.  There  is 
therefore  much  reason  to  fear  lest  a 
people,  who  but  a  few  weeks  ago 
were  certainly  as  firmly  attached  to 
monarchy  as  any  people  in  Europe, 
not  excepting  either  the  Spaniards  or 
ourselves,  should  be  driven  by  the 
course  Austria  has  pursued,  and 
especially  by  the  intervention  of  Rus- 
sia, to  renounce  their  loyalty  and 
consort  with  the  enemies  of  monarchy. 
Their  struggle  is  now  for  life  or  death 
— it  ceases  to  be  a  domestic  quarrel 
from  the  moment  Russia  engages  in 
it;  and  Hungary  must  seek  such 
support  as  she  can  find.  Austria  has 
done  everything  she  could  to  convert 
the  quarrel  into  a  war  of  opinion,  by 
rq>resentnig  it  and  treating  it  as 
sach ;  and  now  that  she  has  brought 
to  her  aid  the  great  exemplar  and 
champion  of  absdate  monarchy,  it  Ib 
not  imposdble  that  she  may  suc- 
ceed. 

Russia  comes  forward  to  re-estab- 
lish  by  force  of  arms  the  authority  of 
a  government  which  has  been  unable 
to  protect  itself  against  iU  own  sub- 
jects; and,  when  re-established,  she 
will  have  to  maintahi  it.    How  long 
this  military  protection  is  to  endure, 
after   all   armed   opposition  is    put 
down,  no  man  can  pretend  to  foretell. 
It  must  depend  upon  events  which 
are  beyond  the  reach  of  human  for»> 
sight.     But  a  ffovemmeut  *" 
dependent   for   its   anthori' 
foreign  power,  must,  in  ever 
the  term,  cease  to  be  an  in 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


708 


goveroment.  Is  It 
protection  that  Austria  Is  to  preservo 
Lombardy,  or  to  mamtain  her  iiifla- 
ence  in  Grermany  ?  Would  the  Sola* 
voiiic  population  of  Austria  cmitinqe 
to  respect  a  German  government  pro- 
tected \fy  a  nation  of  Sclaves — ^woold 
tbcy  not  rather  feel  that  the  real 
pofver  was  that  of  their  own  race  ? 
Would  the  Aostrians  forget  the  hu- 
miUation  of  Russian  protectioni  or 
forgive  the  government  that  hsd 
sacrificed  their  indapendenca?  Be^ 
pendent  upon  Bussian  protection,  the 
Austrian  ^vemment  could  fto  longer 
give  secanty  to  Turl^y,  or  counter- 
balance the  weight  with  which  the 
power  of  Russia,  whatever  may  bo 
the  moderation  of  the  reigning  em- 
peror, must  continue  to  press  upon 
the  fL'ontiers  of  weaker  countries.  In 
such  a  stato  of  things,  the  relations 
of  Austria  to  the  rest  of  Europe 
would  be  changed— reversed*  In- 
stead of  beiog  the  bulwark  of  Ger- 
many and  the  safetguard  of  Turkey 
against  Rossia,  she  would  become 
the  advanced  post  of  Russia  against 
both.  Is  it  to  bring  her  to  this  con- 
dition that  she  has  allowed  herself 
to  be  involved  in  the  .war  with 
HuDg^ry?  Is  it  to  aniye  at  this 
resuU  that  she  will  coos^Hfit-to  pro^. 
long  it? 
01  the  effect,  in  Germany,  of  tha 


Am^  and  JBunffanf, 
under  Bussian    be  intolerably. 


[Jaoov 

There  is  reaaon  to 
appcehend  that  a  great  body  of  true- 
hearted  Germane,  efl|iedaUy  in  the- 
middle  dasses-^whose  power  mm^ 
afler  all,  decide  the  contest,  and  who* 
desire  social  order  «id  eecunty  voder 
a    constitutional    monareby  —  mayr 
fancy  they  see  In  the  advance  of  Brn^ 
sian  forces,  at  a  momeat  when  the 
sovereigns^  supported  by  their  armies^ 
are  making  a  stand  a^jainst  popular 
tyranny,  cause  to  faar  that  eten  ^leir 
constUntional  freedom  is  ia  danger. 
Wo  are  satisfied  that  thete  ace  na 
reasonable  gcoonds  for  such  fears^- 
that  the  other  governments  ai  6er* 
manv  are  too  wise  to  kSk)^  the  ex- 
am{ub  of  Austria   in   her   oondnoi 
towards  Hungary ;  but  thai*  exaaeple 
cannot  fiiii   to   produce  distrust  iia 
mauiy  minds  idready  dispooed  to  k; 
and   popular  movements  are  more 
influenced  l>y  passion  than  by  reason^ 
It  is  ijoftpossible  not  to  tel  thaS 
Russia  is  abottt  to  oocnpy  a  new  po- 
sition in  Europei  which,  if  bo  je?enfe 
0Gcan9  t9.  obstmet  her  in  her  coane,. 
must  greatly  increase,  her  tinflnaBcer 
and  her  pojverfor  good:  or  te  ^riL  ^ 
She  is  to  bethe  protector  «f  Anstiia>'  ^ 
not    agaUial  jEeietgin   eoeiaiesv*  bat  * 
against  one  of  tho  nations' of 'Vhielt 
tbat^  empire  isrccuapesedj  uShe  is  tt> 
re-^satabUshAad^nattttaini,  by>nalttarf  ^ 
foffSi  a<9«veraiieat  whieh  .has.  been 


Russian  interveotion  in  Austria,  it  as.,  unabloLilKi^nalDtaJa  itself  agNnstjjta 


almost  superfluous  to  ^peak.  The 
advance  of  Russian  armlQSisiinaltane- 
ously  with  the  dissolution  ,oC  jupr^ 
than  one  refractory  ^Misembly,  has 
raised  in  the  minds  of  meni  already 
in  a  state  of  furious  excitement,  ^ 
susjn^ioQ.  that  these  events  are  not 
unconnected;  aA4  ^h»t  the  Emperoi; 
of  Anstraa  is  not  the  only  GemMUOk 
sovereign  who  i^  in  leagoe  with  the 
Cxarl  The  ttmehss  arrived  when  the 
question  must  be  determined  whether 
order  or  anarchy  is  to  prevail  ^  and 
we  iMive  no  doubt,  that,  in  Gerwrny 
as  in  Francor  the  friends  of  order  wiU 
speedily  g^n  a  complete  fisQendeney 
—if  ther^  bo  XM  foreign,  and  above; 
ally  no.  Russian  intervention.  But  to 
veiy  many  of  the  patriotic  friends  ff 

order  in  Geonany,  Russian  intervevr  

tion  in  her  affairs,  or  an  appearance    Ruasiai   would'  give 
of  concert  between  their  own  govern-    northiem.powtre 


intexnal    ,eQ<a»iesrrra*'4il(yverBAieHfe> 
whkh  a  nation  efA^QotoenianiUiaBa of., 
people  ^  lma>  xejeoted,  fonght^ .  end  : 
be^ten^    Ai^aeat poweroaafiotiataiK ^ - 
fere  in  tbeio|enuil.4iaira> of-aBet[ier 
states  to  tha  eatei^^of  tmaiataiaingi  i 
th^ro by  ibite ot affmsa tgonrenunant 
incapable  ofjBM&abiiibg  itself  ajsaftiali.. 
the  n^Mion*  without i^^etting  brrolved  •  ^ 
in  thoirelatioASjOf  the  go^ttadnatliSn 
upholdSfttoa»aflioiaat  ai  arhjahit  ii*// 
impoasiblO'  toifla /orvio  ipiied>ot.,thet  > 
limits,  but  of  which  the  tendeno^^ihaf  i 
everbeee^-aad  oastfaerbe^'pni^a^se^ 
siv%.  to.infii?eafla  thenponrei:  of  tibe.q 
proteotingiOvfir  thapDoteatedgoveniHii: 
men^V  ^  ^  siaitleiilhct>ithal2  the<. 
intetfeststof  Austria  were  injthtadDia«^>i| 
ner.  inseparably  boaftd,  op,  for  a  time 
of  indeflnite  duration,  withlhoae  o£ 
to.  die  great 
,botk- 


mont  and  Russia  for  the  puipose  of  in  Europe  and  m  Aaia,-  such  <  as  no 
iufluenclng  German  interests,  and  hereditary  monarohy  has  ^possessed  in« 
suppressing  German  feelings,  woald    modem  times. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


With  150,000  or  180,000 
m  HiiBgary,  WaUaobia,  and  Mol- 
davia, the  Boflsiaii  amieB  would 
endvde  the  firontten  of  Turkey, 
from  the  shoree  of  the  Adriatic  to  the 
froDtierB  of  Persia.  With  a  ^vem«* 
meat  in  Austria  dependent  upon  the 
support  of  those  armies,  the  power 
that  has  hitherto  been  the  chief  se- 
curity of  Turkey  against  the  military 
superiority  of  Bussia,  would  be  at  the 
cetmiandof  tiiecourt  of  St  Petersburg. 
The  Sckifonlc  tribes,  which  form  the 
chief  part  of  the  Turkish  populatioit 
in  £aix>pe,  seeing  themselves  enreloped 
by  the  armies  of  Russia,  guiding  and 
coatroUing  the  power  of  Austria,  in 
addition  to  her  own,  must  be  tho- 
roughiy  demoralised,  even  if  Russia 
should  abstain  from  all  attempts  to 
debauch  them.  Th^  will  (M  that 
they  have  no  ooune  left  but  to  eourl 
bee,  to  look  to  her  whose  fbroe  is 
vlnbly  developed  befbre  them,  is  hi 
cootaetwith  them,  surrounds  them, 
and  appears  to  be  irresistible  every- 
where. They  will  ind  in  the  unity 
of  race  an  iBducement  te  a^ere  to 
the  risiag  destinies  of  the  great  Scla- 
vonic eihpire '— their  instincts  wOt 
teach  theaa  to  abandon,  in  time,  the 
fabric  that  ia  about  to  fall. 

Forced'to  involve  herself  in  all  the 
retetiona' of  the  gietei'iiMeut  she  up- 
holds^ RoMia  wilt  cottelMo  ioHBediaie 
contact  with  the  minor  dermaibmo- 
nasehiest  wtiose  govennnents  may 
aUosteniln-needofproteotidn*  Therd 
Is  Mfone  kingdom  in  Oermany  that 
couldiehen  pveteod  to  oowu^balanoe 
her  power,  or  to  resist  her  policy. 
The.  jame  interests  ^»oald  ^rry  fa4r 
inflaenoe^  aad-  it  may  be  her  arms, 
intoritaly.  It  wil  tie  kwger  be  ne- 
cetsM^r  to  ne^fcMiate  the  "passage  of 
thai  DarianeUeshy  h^  fleei^^--«heread 
will  be  open  le  ^ber  tvoeps,  and  the 
pasiftge^  her  fl^t  wMl  no  longer  be 
ojMioaed)'!^*!'         '* 

We  Jisf^e  not  aitrlbnled  10  tiie  Em- 
pem  llicholas,.or  io  Russia^  any  am^ 
bitioas' ulterior  views  in  affbrdiog 
assistance 'to  Austria^^-we  have  sap- 
posed<him  to  be  tnfluonoed  enPf  by 
thesBOst  gehefoutlMUbgs  towaida  a 
bi-other  emperor.  Bnt^  to  suppose 
that  he  hai  no  desire  to  extend  his 
own  er  his  codntir's  hifiQenee  and 
po«rer-^tliat  he  win  not  takendvan- 
tage  «f  favourable  droumstanoes  to 
extend  them— would  be  absurd ;  and 


Ausirkumd  J^mgarjf. 


709 


were  he  to  set  out  with  the  firmest 
resolution  to  avoid  such  a  result,  the 
course  on  which  he  is  now  said  to 
have  entei^,  if  he  conducts  it  to  a 
successful  issue,  must,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, lead  to  that  result.  It  is  no  an- 
swer, therefbre,  to  say  that  the  Em- 
peror of  Russia  does  not  desire  to  • 
extend  his  territonr ;  that  he  has  ab- 
stahied  with  singular  moderation  fh>m 
interilsring  in  the  a£fkirs  of  Europe, 
while  every  capital  was  in  tumult, 
and  every  country  divided  against 
itself.  Giving  him  credit  for  every 
quality  that  can  adorn  the  lodiest 
throne,  the  consequences  of  his  pre- 
sent policy,  if  it  be  successfully  canied 
out,  are  equally  inevitable. 

We  must  remember,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  after  all,  the  Emperor  of 
Russia  is  but  a  man — ^but  one  man^ 
in  an  empire  containing  above  sixty 
millions  of  people.  He  is  the  great- 
est, no  doubt,  the  most  powerful,  per- 
haps the  ablest  and  wisest— the  pre- 
siding and  the  guiding  mind,  with 
authority  apparency  ubeofute— but 
tbef  little  know  the  details  of  an 
autocratic  govemdoent;  who  suppose 
that  he  is  uninfhienced  by  the  will  of 
the  nation,  or  has  power  to  fjllow  but 
his  own  intentions.  He  must  see 
with  other  men's  eyes,  he  must  hear 
with  other  men*s  ears,  he  must  speak 
with  the  tongues  of  other  men.  How 
much  of  what  is  said  and  done  in  his ' 
name,  in  his  vnst  emfAre,  and  in  eveiy 
foreign  country,  is  It  possible  that  he 
can  ever  know?  How  inndh  of  hi^ 
general  policy  must,  from  time  to  time, 
be  directed  l^  event*  prepawfd  or  con- 
summated ih  Airth^inUice  df  their  own 
views,  by  Ms  servants,  and  without  his 
knowledge  I  Hew  oilen  must'  he  be 
guided  by  the  fbrm '  in  which  facts 
are  placed  bdlbre  him,  aAd  by  the 
vieits  bf  those  who  fhrnlsh  theiia !  It 
is  Importawt,  ttierefbre,  t6  inquire  whs* 
are  the  feelings  ind  of^ions,  not  of 
theBssperOr  only,  bui  of  his  servants 
and  guides— of  the  men  who  pioneer 
for  him,  and  prepiare  the  r6ads  on 
which  per  fbrce  he  must  travel. 

Bhoi^  after  the  Trench  revblutionr 
of  February  184S,  a  Ithssian  dfiplo- 
matio  memoir  was  handed  about  with 
an  ak  of  mystery  in  cettaiu  circles  hi 
Parie.  M.  de  Bonrgoing,  formerty 
Fr^ch  ministar  ait  St  Petenburg,  and 
authM*  of  a  recent  woi^,  entitled,. 
Le$  ^wmet  d*  iOkfme  ef  4e  iiatimUae^ 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 
«=_ 


710 


AMtiria  tmd  Hmpmj. 


[Ji«t, 


has  pnblisbed  a  commeiiiary  upon  the 
Riissian  memoir,  whi<^  he  tells  ni 
was  prepared  by  one  of  the  ablest 
and  best-informed  emploj^  in  the 
Russian  Chancellerie,  after  the  e?ento 
of  Febmary.  He  farther  informs  is 
that  it  was  presented  to  the  Emperor 
of  Russia,  and,  with  the  tacit  consent 
of  the  Russian  goyernment,  was  sent 
to  be  printed  in  a  German  capital,  (the 
impression  being  limited  to  twelve 
oopies,)  under  the  title  of  "  PoHtique  et 
moyensd^acHondehRitBsUimparHale-^ 
ment  appr^cik,^  The  object  of  M.  Bonr- 
going^s  commentary,  as  well  as  of  his 
preylons  publication,  appears  to  be  to 
remove  exaggerated  apprehenstons  of 
the  aggressive  power  and  tendencies 
of  Russia,  and  the  fears  of  a  general 
war  in  Europe,  which  her  anticipated 
intervention  in  Austria,  and  the  occu* 
pation  in  force  of  Wallachia  and 
Moldavia  by  her  trof^M,  had  isxcited 
in  France.  His  fundamental  position 
appears  to  be,  that  the  wars  of  1848 
and  1849  are  essentially  wars  of  lan- 
guage and  race;  that  France  has 
therefore  nothing  to  fear  from  them ; 
and  that  Russia  has  neither  a  suffi- 
cient disposable  force,  nor  the  slight- 
ost  desire  to  interfere,  in  a  manner 
injurious  to  France,  in  the  aihurs  of 
Western  Europe.  With  this  view 
be  combats,  with  a  gentle  opposition, 
the  reasoning  of  the  Russian  memoir, 
which  he  represents  as  "  une  d^ara- 
tion  od  Ton  est  antoris^  ^  voir  nne 
«sp^  de  manifesto  envoy<^  sans 
^at  par  la  Russie  k  ce  qu*elle  in- 
titule la  r^olutlon.**  From  the  ten- 
<lencies  of  M.  Bonrgoing's  writings, 
which  occasionally  peep  out  some- 
what thinly  clothed,  thon^  they  are 
|;eneral]y  well  wrapped  up,  we  should 
infer  that  the  ^^anden  ministre  de 
France  en  Russie  ''  does  not  oonsidcr 
his  connexion  with  the  court  of  St 
Petersburg  as  finally  terminated;  and 
we  do  not  doubt  Uiat  he  has  good 
warrant  for  all  he  says  of  the  hkSocy 
<^  this  memoir. 

But,  whether  or  not  we  may  be  dis- 
posed to  assign  to  it  a  character  of  so 
much  authority  as  M.  Bonrgoiag  attri- 
butes to  that  docmnent,  we  cannot 
but  regard  it  as  a  cnrions  Illustration 
of  the  kind  of  memoirs  that  Russian 
^plomatists,  *^  les  plos  habils  et  les 
plus  iastniks,**  present  to  the  Empe- 
ror, and  that  the  Rasiian  govemneat 
^•tadtly  consents**   t#  have 


mitted  to  a  German  capital  to  be 
prMed  ^  sur-le-champ." 

The  Russian  aflmoir  commences 
with  the  following  genenl  propo«'» 
tion, — 

''Poor  con^>rendre  de  qnoi  fl  s*agit 
duislacrise  extreme  o^  PBype  vi—fc 
d'entrer,  voioi  ee  qn'il  fandrtit  m  dire : 
D^pnis  longteu^  il  n'y  a  plus  en  Eunfe 
qmo  devx  puisMMMee  r^tilae,  la  R^Tolatioa 
tt  la  Rome.  Ces  demx  pniasanoes  soiU 
BuuntMMii  en  pr^sMioe,  et  demaia  peat- 
£tre  •Ilea  seroBt  aax  prises.  Entre  Pane 
tt  TMitreyil  n'y  ani  traits  ni  transaction 
possibles.  La  rie  de  Pane  est  la  mort  de 
rantre.  De  Hssae  de  la  lutte  engage 
entre  elles,  la  plosgrande  des  lattes  dont 
le  monde  ait  €U  t^moin,  depend  pour 
del  sidles  tout  I'arenir  polU^me  et  rdi' 
gieuM  de  I'hamaait^ 

«La  Riinie  est  awwi  tout  Pempin 
4Mtim{  le  people  rasse  est  ehr^Ueos 
BOtt-aeoleBMnt  par  Pofikodoxk  de  see 
oroyaaoesy  mais  par  qoelqoe  chose  de 
plus  intiae  encore  qae  la  cioyance :  il 
Test  par  cette  Ikoolt^  da  renoncemeni  et 
da  sacrifice,  qoi  sont  conune  le  fond  de 
sa  natare  morale. 

**  II  7  a  heareasement  snr  le  trdne  de 
Russie  an  soayerain  en  qui  la  pens^ 
rosse  s'est  incam^,  et  dans  P^tat  aetoel 
da  monde  la  pens^  rasse  est  la  seule  qui 
soit  plae^  asees  en  dehors  da  miliea 
r^Yolutionnaire  poar  poavoir  apprtfoier 
saineMent  les  fsits  qoi  s'j  prodniseot. 

<<  Tout  oe  qai  reste  4  la  B(^iae  de 
vraie  yie  nationale  est  dans  ecs  oroymnem 
AtftnfM,  dans  cette  protestation  toigoois 
viyante  de  sa  nationality  slave  opprim^ 
contre  Vuiurpation  de  Vigl%$4  romaine^ 
aussi  bien  que  centre  la  domination  de  la 
nation  allemande.  Cest  Nk  le  Uea  qui 
Ponit  a  toot  son  pass^  de  latte  et  de 
gloire,  et  0*081  A  aassi  le  oheaun  qui 
poarrarattaeiMr  an  jo«r  le  Toh^ae  de  la 
BohAne  4  ees  tx^tm  d'Orieat. 

**  On  no  MNuait  assez  insister  sur  oe 
poiatycar  ee  seat  pr^cis^ment  ces  r^Bunia- 
oences  sympathiques  de  P6glise  dXhienty 
ce  sont  ces  re  tears  vers  la  tUUU/oi  dont 
le  hussitisme  dans  son  temps  n'a  €i6  qa'- 
une  expression  imparfaite  et  d6figar€e,qal 
6tabli8sent  une  diffl^rence  profonde  eatre 
la  Pologne  et  la  Boh  toe,  entre  H  Bohtme 
ne  sabittaat  que  Malgr6  die  Itj^m^de  la 
oomnmmtmtS  ocaUtemaU,  at  oeftte  Potogae 


dst^0etidst^9iU9i9w»  taa&tia  ria^-tls 


We  add  a  fow  mora  extracts  :-^ 

"  Que  fera  la  Boh^me,  arec  les  peoples 
qo!  Pentoarent,  Moraves,  Slovaqaes,  o'est- 
a-dire,  sept  on  holt  millions  ^ommes  4m 
nlnw  langoe  et  de  m#me  raoe  qo'dlel 
En  gtBeral  o'eil  ana 


Digitized  by  V^jOOQIC 


1849.] 


Autina  and  Humganf. 


711 


cboM  difM  de  rem«rqa6»  qiM  oeite  Hmnat 
pen^f^ranie  que  U  Buasie,  le  bob  Babm, 
8»  gloire,  «on  aTMur  n'o&i  ee8s6  da  ren- 
coBirw  parmi  let  homines  nationaux  de 
Prague."— (Page  15.) 

At  page  18  we  find  the  Mowing 
^beeirttioiis  upon  HuBgary : — 

^'Ceite  enemie  o'eet  la  Hongrie,  j'eniend 
la  Hongrie  Biagyar.  De  tou  les  enBemis 
de  hk  Rnasie  e'eet  pent-^tre  eelai  qui  la 
hahdelahiuaelapliiiAirieiiee.  Lepeuple 
llagyar,  en  qai  la  ferrMur  r6T<^«tioBBaire 
Tieni  de  a'assoder,  par  la  plus  strange 
^es  combinaisoiiB,  ^  la  brutality  d*tine 
horde  asiatique,  et  dont  on  poanrait  dire 
avec  tout  autant  de  justice  que  dea  Turcs, 
qu'il  ne  fait  que  camper  en  Europe,  yit 
entour^  de  peuples  Solayes,  qui  lui  sent 
tons  ^galement  odieux.  Ennemi  personel 
de  oette  race,  il  se  retronre,  apr^  des 
si^oles  d'agitation  et  de  turhulenoe,  ton- 
jours  eoeore  empriaouitf  an  milien  d'elle. 
Tons  ees  penple  qui  I'entonrent,  Serbee, 
Ooaies,  Slofaqnes,  TransylTanieBs,  ei 
jnsqn'  an  petits  Rassiens  des  Karpathes, 
soat  les  anneanx  d'nne  chaine  qu'il 
eroyait  i  tort  jamais  briser.  Et  main- 
tenant  il  sent,  audessns  de  lui,  une  main 
qui  pourra  quand  il  lui  ^aira  rejoindre  ces 
anneaux,  et  resserrer  la  chaine  ^  Tolonttf. 
De  lik  sa  haine  instinctire  centre  laRossie. 

"  D'antre  part,  sur  le  foi  de  jonmalisme 
stranger,  les  menenrs  aetnel  dn  parti  se 
sent  B^riensement  persuade  qve  le  peoples 
Magyar  avait  vm  granule  misnon  k  rem- 
plir  dans  TEnrepe  ortkodoxe,  que  cVtait 
4  Ini  ea  nn  mot  i  teair  en  ^eo  les  dee- 
iin^s  de  la  Rnssie.'' 

K  these  ere  Um  mvtoal  seBtiments 
of  RnssUiis  and  Hf^ara,  we  maj  form 
some  idea  of  the  kind  of  warfare  that 
18  aboat  to  be  waged  in  Hanniy. 

It  \b  carioas  lo  obeenre  the  confi- 
dence wMi  which  the  RmslaB  diplo- 
matist assumes  that  the  infloenoe  ^ 
bis  master  over  all  the  Setayonic  tribes 
of  Hungary  is  corapletelj  estabtished, 
iind  po&ts  to  the  Emperor  of  Russia, 
not  to  their  sovereigii,  as  the  hand 
that  is  to  dench  the  chain  bj  which 
the  Majors  are  enclosed.  When  it  is 
remembered  that  tMs  memi^  was  cir- 
ealated  in  Paris  before  anydiflSsreiess 
had  arisen  between  Anstria  aad  Hnn- 
garj— that  the  tint  morement  hostile 
to  the  Migjars  was  made  by  Sdaronic 
tribes  of  the  Greek  Cknrdi,  headed  by 
the  Palrtech— that  Austria  long  hesi- 
tated before  she  reeohred  to  break 
faith  and  peace  with  Hmigaiy — that 
her  own  resources  were  inadequate  to 
the  enterprise  she  uidertook— thai  her 
own  interests  appeared  to  forbid  her 


nndertakingit^one  isforcedto  ponder 
and  reflect  on  the  means  and  influences 
by  whidi  she  may  haye  been  led  into 
so  fatal  an  error. 

We  cannot  refrain  from  giving  one 
other  extract  from  the  Russian  me- 
uKnr,  which  is  too  pungent  to  be 
omitted: — 

''Quelle  ne  serait  pas  IHiorrible  confti- 
sion  on  tomberaient  les  pays  d'Occident 
anx  prises  ayeo  la  rtfrolntion,  «i  le  IMHme 
fotrMfOvii,  n  Vempertur  orikodom  d'Orimttf 
tardait  longtemps  ^  y  apparaitre! 

^  L'Ooctdent  s'en  ra;  tont  oronle,  tout 
s'ablme  dans  une  oonflagration  g^niSralOi 
PEuiiOPB  DB  Charlbmagmb  aussi  bien  que 
TEurope  des  trait^s  de  1815,  la  papautb 
DE  Rome  et  toutet  lee  royautU  de  VOcd- 
devt,  le  ccUkolicisme  et  le  protestantismOi 
la  foi  depute  longtempe  perdue  etlaraison 
r^duite  a  Pabsurde,  I'ordre  d^sormais  im- 
possible, la  liberty  desormais  impossible, 
et  snr  toutes  ces  mines  amoneel^s  par 
elle,  la  eMlumlivn  se  snieidant  de  ses 
propres  mains ! 

"  Et  lorsque,  audessns  de  oet  immense 
nanfrage,  nous  Toyons,  eomne  une  arehe 
'  taintCy  somager  cet  empire  plus  immense 
encore,  qui  done  pourrait  douter  de  sa 
mission?  Et  est-ce  k  nous,  ses  enfkns,  k 
nous  montrer  sceptiques  et  pusiUanimesf 

Such  then,  it  appears,  are  tiie  sen- 
timents of  some  of  the  most  enlight- 
ened of  the  Russian  diplomatists — 
such  are  the  opinions  and  views  pre- 
sented to  the  Emperor  by  the  men  on 
whose  reports  and  statements  his 
foreign  policy  must  of  necessity  be 
chiefly  founded — such,  above  all,  are 
the  foelings  and  asptratlicms,  the  enmi- 
ties uid  the  means  of  action,  iHiidi  the 
nation  fosters  and  on  which  it  relies. 

It  has  been  said  that,  in  attacking 
the  Hnngariatts,  Russia  is  but  fighting 
her  own  battle  against  the  Poles,  who 
are  said  to  compose  a  large  propor- 
tion of  the  Huogtuian  army ;  and  those 
who  desire  to  throw  discredit  on  the 
Hungarian  movement  have  nicknamed 
it  a  Polo-Majjar  revolution.  They 
must  have  been  ignorant  or  regardless 
of  the  facts.  Whatever  the  Austrian 
jovmals  or  proclamations  may  assert, 
Russia  must  know  full  well  that  in 
the  Hungarian  army  there  are  not 
more  than  five  thousand  Poles,  and 
only  two  Polish  general  officers,  Dem- 
binek  and  Bern. 

That  the  Poles  imy  tMnk  they  see 
fai  a  war  between  Russia  and  Hunganr 
a  favourable  opportunity  to  revoK,  is 
not  improbable,  and  tha^  if  the  P<deft 


Digitized  by  V^jOU<^l(^ 


712 


A^mina  and  Hfmgary* 


[Janer 


should  rise,  they  w&l  find  sjmpathj 
and  support  in  the  nation  that  Russia 
is  attacking,  mnst  be  ineritabto. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  Hnngarians 
are  preparing  for  the  unequal  eoatest. 
Th^  baive  a  weU-eqaipped  army  of 
160,000  men  in  the  field,  and  a  levy 
of  200,000  more  has  been  ordered. 
Sach  is  the  national  enthnsiaaB,  ihtk 
this  whole  nnmber  may  probably  be 
raised.  This  fiBeltog  is  not  confined  to 
the  Miyjars,  but  extends  to  the  Scla- 
vonic population  also. 

The  following  extracts  from  a  letter 
received  on  the  14th  May,  by  one  of 
his  correspondents,  from  an  intelli- 
gent English  merchant  who  has  just 
returned  from  a  visit  to  the  Sclavonic 
districts  of  northern  Hungary,  on  his 
commercial  affurs,  gives  the  latest 
authentic  intelligence  we  have  seen  of 
the  state  of  things  in  the  Slovack 
counties,  the  only  part  of  the  oonntry 
which  the  writer  visited : — 

"  I  am  just  returned  from  Hungaiy.  X 
was  exceedingly  Burprisedto  see  so  much 
enthusiasm.  My  candid  opinion  is  that> 
even  if  the  Russians  join  against  them^ 
the  Hungarians  will  be  victorious.  They 
are  certainly  idiort  of  arms;  if  they 
could  procure  one  or  two  hundred 
thousand  musketo,  the  affair  would  be 
closed  immediately.  In  the  mountains 
the  cultivation  of  the  land  proceeds  as 
usual,  although  the  whole  neighbourhood 
was  ftill  of  contending  troops.  As  I  came 
out  of  Hungary,  the  advanced  guards 
were  only  two  Qerman  miles  apart 
However,  I  found  no  inconvenience ;  the 
roads  were  quite  safe ;  and  if  it  were  not 
for  the  guerillas,  whom  one  expects  every 
minute  to  issue  ftom  the  woods,  the  thing 
would  go  on,  for  a  stranger,  comfortably 
enough.  The  new  p^>er-money  (Koesuth'a) 
is  taken  eveiywhere,  not  only  for  iSaa 
common  necessaries  of  life,  but  also  for 
laige  business  transactions — ^theideabeing 
that  there  is  about  equal  securitv  for 
Hungarian  as  for  the  Austrian  bank- 
notes." 

It  must  be  confeesed,  that  in  cir- 
cumstances calculated  to  try  her  pru- 
dence, Russia  has  acted  with  singular 
composure  and  wisdom .  She  abstained 
from  interfering  in  the  affairs  of  west- 
em  Europe  while  the  tide  of  republi- 
can frenxy  was  in  flood.  She  contented 
herself  with  carefully  and  diligently 
increaskig  and  organising  her  arm  v — 
then,  probably,  hi  a  more  inefficient 
state  than  at  any  time  during  the  last 


thirty  years — and  gradoally  «mcen- 
trated  her  disposable  troops  on  her 
western  iWrntler,  where  magazines 
have  been  prepared  for  it.  While 
eontineBtol  Eorope  was  conndsed 
by  reTohitkmB,  she  ma<l»  no  aggnu- 
sion--th6  eccipatlon  of  WaUadua  aokl 
MoldaTia  was  her  only  mere  in  ad* 
yanoe.  She^avoided  gtviag  umlnvge 
to  the  people,  to  tin  soverogns,  or  t» 
the  successive  goveinmeBts  that  weie 
formed,  and  estaUisfaed  a  right  to  de- 
mand confidence  in  her  moderaHon 
and  forbearance.  She  came  to  the 
aid  of  Austria  at  first  with  a  smalt 
force  in  a  distant  piovince,  just  suffi- 
cient to  show  that  the  Anstiian  go- 
yernment  had  her  suppoct,  and  not 
enough  to  excite  the  jei^ousy  of  Ger- 
many. Kow  that  her  anlitary  pre- 
parations are  oomjdeted,  she  comes  to 
protect  Austria,  not  until  she  is  called, 
and  at  a  time  when  the  most  formid* 
able  dangers  she  has  to  eBoonnter 
are  such  as  the  friends  of  order, 
triumphant  in  the  west,  and  we  trust 
dominant  eyer3rwhere,  would  be  tlie 
last  to  evoke.  Yet  it  is  impos^le  to 
deny  that  the  successful  execution  of 
her  present  project  woirid  be  a  great 
revolution-- Uiat  it  would  more^  seri- 
ously dena^  the  vdattve  positions  oC 
nations,  and  the  balasee  of  power, 
than  any  or  all  of  those  revmutiona 
which  the  two  last  eyentfol  years  have 
witnessed. 

The  adjustment  of  the  diffiarenoes 
between  Austria  and  Hungary  wonid 
avert  this  danger-^would  remove  all 
hazsurd  of  throwing  the  power  of  Hon- 
gary  into  tiie  scale  witn  the  eaemieB 
of  monarchy— would  re^estabHek  tho 
Austrian  eaq>hre  upon  the  only  basis  on 
which,  as  it  appears  to  us,  it  is  possible 
to  reconstruct  it  as  an  independent 
emph:e;  and  would  be  **  a  heavy  blow 
and  great  disconragement  **  to  the 
anarchists,  whose  element  is  strifo, 
whose  native  atmo^here  is  the  whirl- 
wind of  evil  passions.  But  If  this 
may  not  be— if  Austria  nses  the  power 
of  Russia  to  enforce  iojostiee,  and,, 
with  that  view,  is  prepared  to  sacrifice 
her  own  Independence — ^we  sbenld  le- 
ftise  to  ident%  the  cause  of  monardiy 
and  order— the  oauae  of  constitutional 
liberty,  morality,  and  public  faith — 
with  the  dishonest  conduct  of  Austria, 
or  the  national  antipathies  and  dan- 
gerous a^hrations  of  Russia. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18i9.] 


Feudalism  m  Ike  NmeUenik  Century. 


713 


VKUDAUBH  Df  THSNINBTEKirrH  CCMTUKY. 


It  ifl  not  exacUr  the  best  of  all 
tunes  to  point  out  udngs  that  may  be 
•miss  in,  nor  to  find  fanlt  with  either 
portions  or  the  whole  of  institntiona 
which  haye  receiyed  the  approYing 
sanction  of  time  and  experience ;  for 
the  bad  passions  of  the  lower  and  less 
moral  orders  of  men,  in  most  £nro- 
pean  nations,  hare  of  late  been  so 
completelj  nncludned,  and  the  debade 
of  the  revolntionary  torrent  has  been 
80  suddenly  overwhdming,  that  no 
extra  impetus  is  required  to  be  put 
upon  it.  Bather  should  we  build  up 
and  repair  the  ancient  dams  and  dikes 
of  societj,  anomaloas  and  inconyeni^ 
ent  though  they  mvj  be,  than  attempt 
fto  mmeve  them,  even  for  the  sake  of 
iHnt  aiay  appear  better  ones,  while 
the  waters  of  innbvatlon  are  still  out, 
and  when  the  spirit  of  man  is  brood^ 
lag  oyer  them  for  the  elaboralaoii  of 
Mme  new  chaos,  some  new  incarna- 
tion of  0¥il.  Nevertheless  there  are 
»  few noadeiis,  and  ma«y  karmles^ 
BBomalies  sosd  /contradictions  in  the 
fiondal  or  airistocratio  constitiition  of 
■oeiety^  indneed  17  the  iapse  of  time, 
tiM'weao  aai  tebr  of  ages,  which, 
4JMiDgh  they  may  not  admit  of  removal 
'now,  may  demand  it  on  the  first  cdn- 
.  venient  opportunity;  and.  thea  on 
eeveralfttf  tiiie  steritp  a&d  more  fhn- 
*damentaL  piittc^iies  '4>f  fendalism  in 
(ineientidayd^.upon^which  the: basis  of 
moABtn  1  society'  nally  existed  Iwt 
wUek  hfttB  oeen  lost  sight  of,  and 
2|h9t  ifriuith'  are-ifcntted  into  pvominent 
'notice^' aid  >oaght  to  be  pnt  in  antidn 
Oiioo<mci)ev  by  tim  morbid  tendencies 
«e#ipo|mburr  noleace.  We  shatt  be 
ao^^tiittedDf'aUaseire^:  change  for 
ttbange'^aafcai;  nottme  will  accise  as  of 
b^g  iaWtnal  vielatera  of  ancicBt 
4hfalgsvdn8toms^.indlaayB:  itis  rather 
beeatisQ.vfe  1ot»  tiiaoit  Mid  venerate 
4faeaa,  andwiA  -to  T«^¥<e  them  on 
aooounl' of  their  intffhisie  elcellence, 
that  weweoldoaitonr^reader'ilattett- 
tiolito^few thmge  geinft on  aronnd 
uB»i  He  heed  not  be  afraid  cf  omr 
tronfaliag.him.  with  a  dry  treatise  on 
thetheoiy  oCgovemment-*'We  «re  no 
oeiistitutiofr»niongers  D  he  need  net 
expect  to  be  bored  with  pages  of  sta- 
tistical details,  nor  to  be  aattated  with 


the  nostrums  of  political  economy. 
We  propose  making  one  or  two  very 
commonplace  observations,  professing 
to  take  no  other  guide  than  a  small 
modicom  of  common  sense,  and  to  have 
no  other  object  than  our  riders* 
delectation  and  the  goodof  our  country. 
(1.)  How  was  it  that  nobles  came 
to  be  nobles  and  commons  came  to  be 
commons?  how  was  it  that  the  great 
territorial  properties  of  this  kingdom 
were  originaUy  set  agoing  and  main- 
tained? and  how  was  it  mat  you  and 
I,  and  millions  of  others,  came  to  be 
put  in  the  apparently  interminable 
predicament  of  having  to  toil  and 
struggle  with  the  world,  or  to  be  sen- 
tenced to  somethinff  like  labour,  more 
or  less  hard,  for  li^ ;  you  and  I,  we 
say,  you  and  I,  and  our  fathers  and 
our  children?  Tell  us  that,  gentle 
reader,  whether  you  be  good  old  Tory, 
or  moderate  Conservative,  or  slippery 
Peelite,  or  coldblooded  Whig,  or  pro- 
fligate Badical,  or  demoniac  Chartist? 
Force,  my  good  friwid— force,  pht- 
siOAL  90R0B — s  good  strong  hand,  and 


nrranging  itself  ever  since.  And  ivgh4; 
good  thfaigs  they  were,  too,  in  their 
proper  time  and  place ;'  and  so  they 
ever  wiH  be :  they  are  some  of  the 
matinsprings  of  the  world ;  they  tnay 
become  concealed  in  their  action,  they 
tnay  be  forgotten,  they  may  even  fall 
into  temporary  inaction,  but  they 
4)ome  out  aginn  into  foil  pla(f  ever  and 
anon,  and,  when  the  wild  storm  of 
ihnman^  passion  drives  over  the  world 
in  ft  reokkse  tornado^  they  go  ^ong 
with  thewhklwind,  imd  they  hover 
all  around  it,  and  they  loUow  it^  and 
they  reassert  their  permanent  sway 
enrer  mankind.  Tlie  Norman  Wil- 
liam's basons,  the  noble  peers  o^^^"**;^ 
iemagne,  the  princes  and  marshals  of 
Napoleon,  aU  found  theur  estates  at  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


714 


FmtdmHtm  m  Ae  Nin^ttmih  Otttimy. 


CJw, 


points  of  their  swords ;  and,  while  they 
kept  their  swords  bright,  their  estates 
remained  intact ;  b«i,  when  milatMj 
prowess  declined,  legal  astuteness  and 
commercial  craft  crept  in,  and  the 
broad  lands  decreased,  because  the 
sharp  point  and  edge  were  blonted. 
The  remote  origin,  the  first  title  of 
trery  crowned  head  and  noble  fiunilj 
of  £orope,  is  to  be  traced  to  the 
sword,  or  has  been  derired  from  it. 
We  speak  not  d*  parvemu^  we  allnde 
to  the  great  families  of  the  variotis 
leakns  of  the  andent  world ;  all  old 
and  r6(U  nobility  is  of  the  sword,  and 
of  the  sword  only.  The  French  need 
to  express  this  w^,  and  understood 
the  true  footing  on  which  nobility 
on^t  to  stand ;  they  always  talked 
of  la  nobleue  de  V^de^  as  oootradis- 
tingoished  from  la  noblesse  de  la  robe: 
the  former  referred  to  the  feudal  fruni- 
lies  and  their  descendants,  the  latter 
to  those  who  had  become  ennobled 
for  services  at  the  bar.  As  for  no- 
bility granted  for  any  commercial  or 
pecuniaiy  causes,  they  never  dreamed 
of  such  a  thing;  or,  if  a  spurious 
ennobling  took  place,  it  was  deemed  a 
glaring  and  an  odious  violation  of  the 
nmdamental  laws  of  aristocratic  so- 
ciety. 

Now  the  ideas  of  the  world  have 
become  so  changed,  or  rather  so  cor- 
rupted, on  this  point,  that  the  prime 
notion  of  nobility  no  longer  is  attached 
to  military  tenure  or  service ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  we  find  titles  given,  nay, 
bought  and  sold,  for  any  the  most 
miscellaneous  services,  and  the  meri- 
dian of  nobleness,  of  elevation,  of 
power,  altogether  eliminated  frt>m  the 
qualifications  that  the  nobleman  ought 
to  possess.  Back-stair  services,  lobby 
services,  electioneering  services,  coun- 
ting-house services,  any  services  as 
weU  as  military  services,  have  been 
deemed  sufficient  causes  for  procuring 
a  patent  of  nobilitv  to  those  who  could 
alteffe  them.  Titles  and  causes  of 
flisuiiction  they  might  have  been,  but 
surelv  not  of  nobUity,  not  of  heredi- 
tanr  honour  and  distinction,  the  tenure 
and  essence  of  which  should  ever  be 
attached  to  territorial  power  sained 
and  held  by  the  sword.  And  this 
lowering  of  the  tone  of  nobility,  this 
communising  of  what  ought  to  be  ever 
held  up  as  a  thinff  apart,  as  a  thing 
originating  with  tne  first  beginnings 


of  a  nation,  and  remuning  fixed  till 
the   nation   becomes  itself  extinct, 
has  done  do  good  to  society :  it  ha» 
not  raised  the  tone  of  the  commons^ 
it   has   ooly  lowered   that   of  the 
nobles:  h  has  emaeeolaled  the  one 
without  adding  any  strength  to  the 
otho*.    In  all  natkms,  as  kmg  as  the 
Bobiltty  have  remained  esseBtially  a 
mllitaiy  order,  holding  tfadr  own  by 
their  own  strength,  the  fortines  of 
that  nation  have  advanced;  but  when- 
ever the  nobles  have  become  degene- 
rate,   and    therefore    the   oommone 
Ucentioas— the  former  h<dding  only 
by  nescriptive  re(q>ect,  and  the  latter 
subjected  to  them  oviy  in  theory,  net 
in  practice— the  fhte  of  that  natioo 
has  been  prMOunced^  and  its  dedine 
has  alreaay  begun.     The  destmctioB 
and  absorption  of  tiie  good  fiefe  of 
France,  in  the  time  of  Lcrais  XL,  laid 
the  way  for  the  rasing  of  tiie  chiteayx, 
and  the  decapitation  of  their  owners 
by  the  Cardinal  de  Bichelieu,  in  the 
time  of  Lous  Xm.;  and  this  gradiial 
degenerating  proeess  of  nndennining 
the  true  strmigth  of  the  nobles,  led  to 
the  corruption  of  the  nation,  and  to 
its  reduction  to  the  primary  starting- 
point  of  society  in  the  reign  of  Louis 
XVL     So,   too,   in   England,    the 
sapping  of  the  strength  of  the  nobles, 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIIL,  added 
to  the  corrupt   proceedings   of  the 
times  of  James  L,  caused  the  Great 
Rebellion  in  the  rdgn  of  his  successor. 
The  nation  has  never  recovered  frt>m 
this  fatal  revolution  of  the  seventeenth 
century.    Like  France,  England  has 
shone  awhile,    and   sustained   itsdf 
both  in  arts  and  anns;  but  the  dis- 
solving process  has  beJi^  long  ago 
with  us  as  it  did  with  them.  One  order 
of  the  state— the  order  of  nobles— has 
been  constantly  decreasing  in  power 
and  influence;  and  the  descent  to- 
wards the  level  of  anti-sodal  demo- 
cracy seems  now  as  easy  and  as  broad 
as  that  to  the  shades  of  Avemus.   The 
nobles  of  Bussia,  on  the  contrary,  still 
retain  their  foudal  power— they  all 
draw  and  use  the  sword :  their  nation 
is  on  the  ascendant.    In  Spain  and 
Italy  ti^e  nobles  have  descended  so  far 
as  ahnost  to  have  lost  their  claim  to 
the  titie  of  men ;  while  in  most  parts 
of  Oemumy  the  result  of  recent  move- 
ments has  shown  that  the  power  of 
the  nobles  had  long  been  a  mere 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1M9J 


FmdaHtmmtk&NmeUeiUh  Cmiuri^ 


sbadow;  and  they  hftve  eT^Kxrated 
In  empty  smoke,  whfle  the  nations 
are  fast  slaking  to  the  level  of  a  com- 
mon and  savage  democnu^. 

We  wonld  propose  a  remedy  for 
this  state  of  things.    We  consider  the 
profession  of  arms,  when  joined  to  the 
holding  of  territorial  power,  as  the 
highest  form  of  dviiisation  and  politi- 
eal  ezcellenoe  to  which  man  has  vet 
been  able  to  rise.    It  constitates  thai 
nnion  of  all  the  highest  and  best  feel- 
ings of  human  nature  with  the  sa- 
preme  possession  of  power  and  in- 
nnence  over  material  objects— over 
land  and  the  produce  of  land— which 
seems  to  be  the  ultimate  and   the 
worthy  oly'ect  of  the  good  and  great 
In  all  ages.   And,  therefore,  the  nearer 
a  nobleman  can  revert  to  the  prin- 
ciples iq)on  which  his  order  is,  or 
OBght  to  be,  based,  the  greater  se- 
curity, in  the  working  out  both  for 
himself  and   the   nation,    that   the 
strength  and  dignity  of  the  whole 
people  shall  be  maintained  inviolate. 
Of  all  men  in  the  stale,  the  noble  is 
he  who  is  most  endan^[ered  by  any 
approximation  to  effenunacy  and  in- 
activity :  he  is  the  representative,  the 
beau  ideal,  of  the  virility  of  the  whole 
nation :  he  is  the  active  principle  of 
its  force— the  leader,  the  diief  agent, 
in  building  up  the  fortunes  of  bis  conn- 
Iry.  Let  him  but  once  degeneratefrom 
the  elevating  task,  and  he  renounces 
the  main  privileges  of  his  order,  he 
•does  wrong  both  to  his  fellow-coun- 
trymen and  to  himself—he  diminishes 
his  own  force,  and  he  weakens  their 
national  powers.    Whenever,  there- 
fore, any  such  departure,  more  or  less 
wide,  from  the  ancient  principles  of 
his  order  has  taken  place,  let  the 
nobleman  hasten  to  return  to  them,  if 
he  would  stop  the  course  of  ruin  be- 
fore it  become  too  late.    We  wonld 
hold  it  to  be  the  duty  of  every  noble- 
man in  this  country— and  we  include 
herein  his  immediate  descendants— 
to  enter  the  profession  of  anus,  and 
to  adopt  no  other  save  that  of  after- 
wards serving  the  state  in  the  senate: 
we  h^  it  to  be  his  duty  to  avoid  all 
iq^woximation  to  the  engagements  of 
commerce— we  would  even  sav  of  the 
law,  of  any  of  the  learned  proiessions. 
These  pursuits  are  intended  for  other 
orders  of  men,  not  less  essential  to 
the  state  than  the  noble,  but  still  dif- 


715 

ferent  orders.  The  noble  is  the  leader, 
the  type,  the  example  of  public  mili- 
tary and  political  strength.  Let  him 
keep  to  that  lofty  function,  and  dis- 
charge it  and  no  other. 

Two  methods  of  effecting  this  pre- 
sent themselves.  Li  the  &rst  place,  a 
regulation  might  be  easily  and  advan- 
tageously made,  in  connexion  with 
the  army,  whereby  any  nobleman,  or 
son  of  a  nobleman,  or  in  fact  any 
person  belonging  to  the  class  which 
the  law  m^ht  define  to  be  noble,  (for 
some  modification  is  wanted  on  this 
head,)  might  be  allowed  to  attach 
himself  as  a  volunteer  officer  to  any 
regiment,  and  be  bound  to  serve  in  it 
as  such,  without  pay.  He  should 
receive  his  honorary  promotion  the 
same  as  any  other  officer,  and  should 
be  subject  to  all  the  same  duties  and 
responsibilities;  but  *^pay"  he  should 
not  need ;  himself  or  his  family  should 
provide  for  all  his  charges.  Or,  in 
the  second  {dace,  he  should  serve  as 
an  officer  in  a  national  force,  the  con- 
stitution of  which  we  propose  and 
advocate  below:  in  this  case,  too, 
entirely  without  pay,  and  subject  to 
all  the  articles  of  war.  In  either 
instance,  we  think  it  the  duty  of  the 
country  to  give  the  nobleman  an 
especial  opportunity  of  serving  her  in 
a  military  manner ;  and  we  hold  it  to 
be  his  especial  duty — one.  of  the  most 
essential  duties  of  his  order,  without 
which  his  order  degenerates  and  stul- 
tifies itself — to  serve  as  a  military 
man,  and  to  serve  with  distinction. 

We   often  hear  it  said  that  the 
English  are  not  a  military  people ; 
that  they  do  not  like  an  army ;  that 
they  have  a  natural  repugnance  to 
the  military   profession,    and   other 
similar  pieces  of  nonsense  or  untruth. 
Such  libels  as  these  on  the  innate 
courage  of  an  Englishman,  are  never 
uttered  but  by  those  who  have  some- 
thing of  the  calf  in  their  hearts ;  the 
wish  is  father  to  the  thought  in  all 
such    declarations,    when    seriously 
mad 
argi 
mor 
who 
isjc 
mai 
sho< 
that 
swii 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


716 


FeudaUtm  in  the  NtmUenih  Century. 


[Jiiiie« 


connti7iand  that  he  prefers  a  con- 
stant residence  in  town.  Snch  a  man 
is  not  only  a  nseless,  he  is  positively 
a  noxious  member  of  society— he  is 
an  excrescence,  a  deformity,  a  nuis- 
ance, and  the  sooner  his  company  is 
avoided  the  better.  Such  men,  how- 
ever, do  exist,  and  they  do  actually 
say  such  things ;  but  they  are  tokens 
of  the  debased  and  degrading  effects 
of  over-civilisation,  of  social  degene- 
racy, of  national  humiliation;  and 
whenever  their  sentiments  shall  come 
to  be  approved  of,  or  assented  to,  by 
any  large  portion  of  the  people,  then 
we  may  be  sure  that  the  decline  and 
fall  of  the  nation  are.  at  hand,  and 
that  our  downward  course  is  furly 
commenced.  No;  the  men  and  the 
nation  that  can^  in  cool  blood,  repu- 
diate the  noble  profession  of  arms, 
forfeit  the  virility  of  their  character, 
they  may  do  very  well  for  the  offices 
that  slaves,  and  the  puny  denizens  of 
crowded  cities,  can  alone  perform; 
but  they  deserve  to  lose  the  last  relics 
of  their  freedom,  for  thus  daring  to 
contradict  one  of  the  great  moral  laws 
of  nature.  Force  and  courage  have 
been  awarded  to  man  like  any  other 
of  his  faculties  and  passions;  they 
were  intended  to  be  exercised,  other- 
wise they  would  not  have  been  given: 
their  exercise  is  both  good  and  neces- 
sary ;  and,  like  their  great  development. 
War,  they  are  destmed  by  our  Maker 
to  be  the  causes  and  instruments  of 
moral  and  phvsical  purification  and 
renovation.  As  long  as  the  mind  and 
body  of  man  continue  what  they  are, 
the  Profession  of  Arms  and  the  Science 
of  War  will  be  held  in  deserved 
honour  among  the  great  and  good  of 
mankind. 

Great  evils  have  no  doubt  resulted 
from  their  use,  and  more  especially 
from  their  abuse;  but  not  a  whit 
greater  than  from  the  use  and  abuse 
of  any  other  of  the  faculties  and  pro- 
pensities of  man :  not  so  much  as 
m)m  the  spirit  of  deceit  and  oppres- 
sion, which  is  the  concomitant  of 
trading  and  manufacturing  operations ; 
not  so  much  as  from  ttxe  spirit  of 
religious  fanaticism  and  superstition 
which  haunts  the  human  race;  not 
so  much  as  from  the  gluttony  and 
sensuality  of  civilised  nations.    War 


and  Arms  are  anilogons  to  the  Tem- 
pest and  the  Thnnaerbolt,  but  they 
purify  more  than  they  destroy,  and 
they  elevate  more  than  thev  dq»«as. 
The  man  that  does  not  arm  In  defence 
of  his  country,  of  his  family,  and  of 
himself,  deserves  to  die  the  death  of 
a  dog,  or  to  clank  about  for  endless 
years  in  the  fetters  of  a  slave. 

It  has  been  well  shown,  by  one  of 
the  most  philosophic  of  modem  his- 
torians,* that  the  final  causes  of  war 
are  indissolubly  nnited  with  the  moral 
constitution  of  man  and  human  society; 
and  that,  as  long  as  man  oontinnes  to 
be  actuated  by  the  same  passions  as 
hitherto,  the  same  causes  of  war  must 
occur  over  and  over  again  in  endless 
cycles.  Not  but  that  the  pain  and 
misery  thereby  caused  are  undoubted 
evils,  but  that  evil  is  permitted  to 
form  part  of  the  moral  and  physical 
system  of  the  world.;  it  is  what  consti- 
tutes that  system  a  state  of  probation 
and  moral  trial  for  man.  When  evil 
ceases  to  exist,  men^s  evil  passions  shall 
cease  also,  and  the  worid  shall  become 
another  Eden;  but  not  tOl  then.  The 
bearing  of  arms  and  the  waging  of 
war  are  no  disgrace  to  a  nation; 
they  are  an  honour  and  a  blessing  to 
it  if  justly  exercised,  a  disgrace  and  a 
curse,  sooner  or  later,  if  undertaken 
unjustly.  Believing,  therefore,  that 
the  proper  maintenance  of  a  warlike 
spirit  is  absolutely  essential  to  the 
welfare  of  any  nation,  and  knowing 
how  much  the  pecuniaiy  and  political 
embarrassments  of  our  mighty  though 
heterogeneous  empire  cripple  the  pub- 
lic means  (in  appearance  at  least)  for 
keeping  np  a  sufficient  military  force, 
we  proceed  to  throw  out  the  follow- 
ing hints  for  the  formation  of  an  im- 
proved description  of  a  national  mili- 
tary force.  And  we  may  at  once 
observe,  that  it  is  one  especially  cal- 
culated to  fall  under  the  direction  of 
the  nobles  of  the  land,  and  to  revive 
that  portion  of  the  feudal  spLrit  which 
depends  on  the  proper  constitution  of 
the  military  resources  of  agreat  people. 

The  military  strength  of  this 
country  lies  at  present  concentrated 
in  the  regular  army,  in  the  corps 
of  veterans  styled  "  pensioners, " 
and,  we  may  very  fairly  add,  in 
the  ^'police."    We  have  nothing  to 


•  AUBON,  Hittory  o/Europ4,  vol.  x. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Feudalism  in  the  Nineteenih  Century, 


717. 


Bay  except  in  prtdse  of  tbese  tliree 
bodies  of  men,  the  two  latter  of  which 
are  tnoBt  useful  adjuncts  and  sup- 
porters to  the  former.  But  we  not 
only  wish  that  the  nnmher  of  the  re- 
gular army  were  permanenify  and 
considerably  increased^  we  could  desire 
also  that  the  number  of  the  police 
were  augmented,  and  that  they  had 
more  of  military  training  about  them. 
We  shall  revert  to  one  of  these  points, 
at  least,  at  a  fhture  period.  We  are 
also  of  opinion  that  the  militia  of  the 
country  should  always  be  kept  np, 
and  regularly  trained  even  in  tne  in« 
tenrals  of  war,  were  it  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  maintain  some  faint 
degree  of  mQitary  spirit  and  know- 
ledge among  the  common  people. 
The  question  of  expense  and  of  inter- 
ruption to  labour  does  not,  we  confess, 
stop  us  in  the  least  in  our  aspirations : 
we  think  that  the  country  pays  not  a 
fkrthing  too  much  for  its  militaiy  and 
naval  forces ;  and,  as  for  interruption 
to  labour,  anything  that  would  draw 
off  the  attention  of  the  lower  orders 
fh>m  the  giinding  and  degrading  occu- 
pations of  manufacturing  slavery,  we 
should  consider  one  of  the  greatest  be- 
nefits that  could  accrue  to  the  country. 
We  wish  to  call  attention,  however, 
to  another  method — ^by  no  means  a 
new  one-^  angmentiilg  the  military 
resonrces  of  the  conntrv,  and  to  throw 
out  some  hints  for  rendering  that  me- 
thod more  efficacious  than  it  may 
hitherto  have  been  deemed.  We 
allude  to  the  system  of  volunteers. 
And  here  let  not  our  military  readers 
laugh:  we  would  assure  our  gallant 
Mends  that  we  are  fully  aware  of  the 
thousand  and  one  objections  that  will 
be  immediately  started;  we  know 
how  easv  it  is  to  pooh-pooh  a  plan  of 
this  khid  all  to  nothing.  We  can  al- 
ready hear  them  calling  out  about  the 
Lumber  Troop,  and  the  City  Light 
Horse:  nay, we  ourselves  can  actually 
remember  that  most  astounding  and 
heart-sthrring  event  of  the  late  war, 
the  storminff  of  Putney,  and  the  battie 
of  Wimbleoon  Gomm<m.  We  were 
preset,  gallant  readers,  not  as  actors 
bat  as  very  juvenile  spectators  of  that 
memorable  combat,  to  whidi  Auster- 
litz,  Borodino,  and  Waterloo  were 
mere  &roes ;  so  we  know  all  that  is 
to  be  said  o^om^^  the  volunteers.  And 
now  just  have  the  goodness  to  let  us 
say  somethingybr  them. 

TOL.  LXV.— HO.  CCCCrV. 


A  volunteer  force,  if  it  is  to  be 
merely  a  parade  force,  a  make-believe 
force,  is  a  **  sham,**  a  humbug,  and  a 
gross  absurdity.  If  it  is  to  be  a 
"  National  Guard,"  plaving  the  part 
of  armed  politicians,  it  is  a  dangerous 
nuisance,  and  ought  never  to  be 
formed.  If  it  is  to  consist  of  a  crowd 
of  pot-bellied  citizens,  with  red  noses 
and  spectacles,  who  are  afraid  of  firing 
off  a  musket,  and  cannot  march  above 
ten  miles  a  day,  nor  go  more  than  six 
hours  without  plenfy  of  provisions 
tucked  under  their  belts,  nor  sleep 
anywhere  except  between  clean  sheets 
and  warm  blankets — ^why,  a  set  of 
wooden  posts,  sculptured  into  the 
human  form,  and  painted  to  look  like 
soldiers,  would  be  far  more  service- 
able. We  are  not  going  to  commit 
the  absurdity  of  advocating  the  for- 
mation of  any  such  corps  of  men  as 
these ;  but  we  wish  to  point  out  how 
a  really  efficient  corps  of  volunteers 
might  be  raised  throughout  the  king- 
dom, kept  on  a  footmg  of  constant 
service  and  readiness,  costing  the 
country  not  one  forthing,  and  consti- 
tuting a  reidly  useful  and  valuable 
auxiliary  force  to  co-operate  with  the 
regular  troops. 

If  these  qualifications  are  to  exist 
in  anv  volunteer  corps,  then  it  is  quite 
manifest  that  the  following  kinds  of 
persons  cannot  form  part  of  it.  First 
of  all,  the  whole  generation  of  pot- 
bellied, red-nosed,  counter-thumping 
fellows,  alluded  to  above,  would  not  be 
admissible ;  next,  no  man  who  is  not 
endowed  with  a  good  quanti^  of  bo- 
dily activity,  health,  and  vigour  of 
mind,  could  remain  in  its  ranfis ;  and 
further,  no  one  need  apply  for  admis- 
sion who  wanted  merely  to  ^' play  at 
soldiers,"  or  whose  means  and  occu- 
pations would  not  allow  of  his  giving 
np  regularly  a  certain  portion  of  his 
best  time  to  the  service,  and  occa- 
sionaUv  of  absentuic  himself  from 
home  for  even  a  consiaerable  period — 
say  of  one,  two,  or  more  months,  and 
proceeding  wherever  the  government 
micht  wish  him.  Furthermore,  no 
sucn  corps  could  have  the  smallest 
pretensions  to  be  effective,  if  it  were 
left  to  its  own  guidance  and  com- 
mand :  it  must  be  as  much  under  the 
control,  and  at  the  orders,  of  the  com- 
mander-in-chief—for  home  service— 
(for  we  do  not  contemplate  the  possi- 
bility of  its  bebg  ordered  abroaci,)  a» 
2z 

Digitized  by  V^jOO^K^ 


718 


FemUitm  m  ike  Nm&tmmlh  Cmthiry. 


[JMt. 


■ay  of  the  regnlir  €»rp0  i&  ber  Ma- 
jeet j's  anny. 

U  will  be  seen  ai  onee,  from  the 
aboTB  stiptlatione,  tbat  we  do  noi 
advert  to  anything  at  all  resembling 
the  loose  aad  extramdy  local  organi- 
sation of  tiie  old  Tolonteers  of  1805 
and  the  snbeeqiittit  years. 

Now,  a  Tolonteer  corps  caa  oily  be 
held  together  by  the  two  fcdlowing 
principles: — fici^  a  strong  sense  of 
pablic  and  patriotic  dnty;  and,  se« 
oondly,  an  acute  feeling  of  Honoor, 
and  the  Pride  of  bdooging  to  a  really 
distingnished  arm  of  the  senioe — ^a 
bona  fide  cQfTw  if  ^Zit&  WheBeverwar 
breaks  ont,  we  know,  and  we  feel  the 
most  hearty  satis&ction  in  knowing, 
that  in  eyeiy  comer  of  the  land— «aye, 
perhaps,  in  the  mnrky  dens  of  misery, 
discontent,  and  degeneracy  abounding 
in  our  mannfactmriBg  towns— 4boa« 
sands  of  British  hearts  wfll  beat  with 
a  tenfold  warmer  glow  than  hereto- 
fore, aad  will  bum  to  giro  forth  their 
best  blood  for  the  serFicea  of  their 
country.  I.et  bit  the  most  distant 
intimation  of  fordgn  InTasum  begiyeo, 
and  hundreds  of  thousands  af  braire 
and  generous  defenders  of  tlieir  be- 
loved native  land  will  instantiy  step 
feirth.  Bat  we  would  say  that,  if  the 
defence  of  the  ooontry  from  invasioii 
be  really  desirable,  it  is  not  safliciei^ 
that  the  wiU  to  defend  ii  be  forthcom- 
ing at  the  proper  moment^the  biov^ 
ledge  how  io  do  it,  ike  prqHaraiory 
trammgy  ^  fofmaldmi  of  mdUory 
iabia^ — always  a  matter  of  slow 
grow^, — ^the  previous  orgamiioiion  of 
tke  d^enders  dkemeehet^  is  mucJi  more 
important.  In  short,  to  keep  tiie 
country  safe  from  fereign  invasion, 
(we  do  not  allude  to  the  naval  strength 
of  the  conninr,  which,  after  aU,  may 
prove .  abnadantly  suffidmtt  fer  the 
purpose,)  to  take  awi^from  afbmign 
enemy  evien  the  iq>]rit  to  dare  an  in- 
TasiOn,  the  previoos  formation,  the 
constant  mauitenance  of  an  efficient 
toiunteer  force  must  necessarity  be  of 
great  valoe. 

The  expedieney  of  this  will  be  height- 
ened by  the  consideratioo  that  it  may, 
at  any  time,  even  of  the  most  profennd 
peace  in  Europe,  be  fennd  necessary 
suddenly  to  detach  a  large  portion  of 
the  regwar  amy  for  the  oeefence  of 
our  numerous  colonial  possessions, 
or  that  distarbanees  among  our  manu- 
"^pahtim  at  home  may 


reqnire  a  sadden  augmetttationof  tiM 
armed  force  of  the  country.  Ineither 
of  these  emergencies,  tiie  vustenee 
of  a  considerable  body  of  armed  men 
who,  though  perhaps  not  eqnalling 
the  regulars  inpreeiemt  of  discipluM 
and  evolution,  might  yet  be  In  £ar 
better  training  than  the  miUtia,  emd 
wko  thoudd  be  kept  eoaino  expeme  tm 
ike  government^  would  evidentiy  be  of 
great  valae  to  the  whole  cemmonity. 
We  do  not  expect  that  many  per* 
sons  engaged  in  trade  and  mannfac^ 
tnres,  nor  indeed  that  many  inhabi- 
tants in  laige  to  wns—flrt  least  of  those 
dasses— would  liketo  enrol  themselves 
in  a  oorpa  the  service  of  which  woiM 
be  constant,  and  might  frequently  take 
them  away  for  a  eonsidianhle  tune 
iiom  their  homes  aad  ooenpatimis.  We 
^louM  not  wish  to  see  them  joiaiBg 
it,  for,  however  warm  thdr  goodwill 
mi^  be,  we  know  that  their  pockets 
and  stomadis  would  be  continnally 
rebelling,  and  tiiat,  far  from  being 
^*  voluttteeis,*'  they  wouM  more  oom- 
monly  be  found  as  '*  deaerters."  We 
would  rather  see  them  staying  at 
home,  aad  acting  as  good  members  of 
their  municipalities,  or  as  special  eon- 
stables,  or  forming  ^^  street  assoda- 
tioas  "  for  the  keeplag  of  the  peace- 
all  most  necessary  aad  laudal^e  pur« 
poses,  and  not  a  iHdt  less  usefrd  to  the 
country  than  the  serving  as  vofamteers. 
We  would  lathar  see  the  force  we 
meditate  drawn  ezdnsively  from  the 
gentry  and  the  farmers  of  the  country, 
and  in  feot  from  tiie  same  dasses  as 
now  furnish  the  yeomanry  cavalry,— 
only,  we  would  have  it  moBt  especkdly 
to  indude  oil  tke  gentry  of^  naAm : 
and  we  would  have  it  hereby  uMde 
an  konottr  even  to  belong  to  the  eoipa. 
To  see  a  ooimtey  gentleman  heading 
his  tenants,  and  his  sons  serving  in 
tJMir  nmks,  as  some  of  themselves, 
and  the  younger  gentry  fr(mi  tilie 
country  or  provincial  towns  also  com- 
ing forward  f(»r  the  permanent  military 
sendee  of  their  country — coming  for- 
ward as  gentlemen,  and  serving  as 
gentlemen,  with  the  name  and  title 
of  gentlemen— and  to  see  the  stout 
formers  of  England,  the  real  pride  and 
bulwark  of  £e  realm,  thus  linked 
with  thdr  best  and  natural  friends 
and  protectors  in  a  common  bond  of 
honour  and  of  anas,  would  be  the  most 
glorious  sif^  that  this  nation  wonld 
have  witnessed  for  many  a  long  year. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ia4».] 


Femhiism  m  ^  NimteefUh  OmUun^ 


719 


It  woQld  ffire  a  new  stamp  to  society, 
and  wonld  infuse  a  Tigorons  energy  of 
mind  amongst  ns  that  sbonld  go  hr 
towards  connteracting  the  dangerous 
and  emasculating  iniuence  of  the 
"large  town  system."  The  heart- 
blood  of  England  wonld  begin  to  flow 
back  again  into  its  old  and  natural 
channete ;  and  that  linking  of  lords  and 
tenants,  which  can  never  be  loosened 
without  the  most  fatal  consequences, 
would  be  rendered  doser  and  tighter 
than  ever. 

Men  drawn  from  such  classes  as 
these,  the  adult  sons  of  respectable 
fanners,  the  sons  of  the  countiy  gentry, 
the  younger  gentry  from  the  towns, 
the  fanners  and  the  gentry  themselves, 
(sndi  at  least  as  comd  really  be  roared 
from  their  numerous  avocatkms,) 
would  constitute,  both  ki  their  physi- 
tal  and  mental  qualifications,  the  very 
beet  description  of  vohmteers  that 
could  be  sdected  in  any  land,  fcfr  they 
wonld  be  the  true  SHU  of  the  whole 
nation,  the  very  pride  and  hope  of  the 
country.  It  would  be  truly  an  hon- 
our to  belong  to  such  a  corps,  whether 
the  appticant  for  admission  w^re  a 
yeoman  or  a  gentieman ;  and,  if  pro- 
periy  organised  and  trained,  it  might 
be  made  a  force  of  paramount  eflld- 
ency. 

Now  what  wonld  be  some  of  the 
main  characteristics  of  the  men  com- 
posing such  a  force?  for  by  those 
characteristics  tiie  natnre  and  desti- 
nation of  the  force  should  be  mainly 
gnided.  First  of  all,  a  large  portion 
would  be  able,  as  now,  to  serve  on 
horseback :  and  this  leads  at  once  to 
diow  that  the  yeomany  cavalry,  if 
more  fluently  exerdsed,  and  if  kept 
ont  for  longer  periods  of  service, 
might,  with  an  improvement  which 
we  shall  by-and-by  sncgest,  become 
of  great  value  in  this  division  of  the 
national  fbrce. 

Next,  men  of  this  kind  wonld  be 
more  or  less  distinguished  for  bodily 
activity— we  mean  activity,  as  distin- 
gnished  from  muscular  strength  — 
though  of  this  they  would  have  in  the 
old  proportion  of  one  Englishman  to 
any  two  Frenchmen,  we  have  no 
doubt.  Hence  the  force  would  be 
fitter  for  the  service  of  fight  than  of 
heavy  armed  troops. 

And,  tSifrdly,  ttom  thefr  pecuniary 
means  they  would  be  capable  of  digUmi 
ttdropicf motion;  andtheteforeth^ 


should  form  a  corps  destined  for  quick 
and  desultory  rather  than  for  slow 
and  stationaiy  warfare. 

From  the  very  fact,  however,  of 
thehr  forming  a  corps  drawn  from  the 
middle  classes  of  provincial  and  urban 
society,  and  from  their  havmg  pecu- 
niary means  at  their  command,  more 
than  any  other  dase  of  troops  could 
possibly  hope  for,  they  would  be 
especially  liable  to  relax  in  discipline 
from  the  contamination  of  garrisons, 
or  the  seductions  of  large  towns.  They 
wovAd  be  formed  of  the  finest  young 
fellows  of  the  whole  countrr;  and 
therefore  a  residence  at  ^' Capua" 
would  be  deslaructive  of  their  military 
effldem^.  The  damage  they  would 
reeiproeally  cause  and  sustain  by 
being  quartered  in  any  large  town  for 
a  lengthened  period,  might  be  great ; 
hence  they  should  be  confined  as  much 
as  possible  to— where  they  would  be 
most  effoctivd—operations  in  the  open 
field. 

Again,  if  there  are  any  two  points 
of  manly  exercise  in  which  the  gentry 
and  yeomanry  of  this  country  are 
^Mnguished  beyond  any  other  Euro- 
pean nation,  they  are  theso— the  being 
ffood  marktmen^  and  good  horsemen. 

We  are  thus  naturally  led  to  the 
determming  of  the  exact  description 
of  troops  which  should  be  constituted 
with  such  admirable  materials— a  vast 
body  of  riflemen — some  mounted,  the 
others  on  foot.  Sudi  a  corps,  or 
rather  such  an  assemblage  of  corps,  if 
properly  organised  and  trained,  would 
not  have  its  equal  in  the  w<»rld.  It 
would  be  formed  of  the  choicest  spirits, 
the  picked  men  of  the  nation,  and  it 
would  be  organised  upon  the  very 
points,  as  bases,  upon  whidi  those 
men  would  the  most  i^de  themsdw, 
m  which  they  would  be  the  strongest, 
which  they  would  be  Uie  most  accus- 
tomed to,  and  would  the  best  under- 
stand. They  wonld  have  all  the  de- 
ments of  good  soldiers  among  them ; 
all  that  would  be  wantfaig  would  be 
good  organisation  and  tra&ng. 

"  IMs  is  no  great  discovery,"  some 
one  will  say ;  ••  there  have  been  volun- 
teo*  rifle  corps  already.  Of  late  days 
they  started  a  thfaig  of  ^e  kind  among 
the  peaceaUe  Glasgow  bodies,  and 
those  treasonable  asses,  the  Irish. 
Irishmen  that  wanted  to  be  rd)els2 
and  the  En^ish  Chartists  that  wanted 
to  sadt  Londoui  reoommended  th 


Digitized  by  V^jOU' 


gle 


720 


Feudalism  m  Ike  NineUemik  Cenimy, 


[Jane, 


deiaded  countrymen  to  '  dab  together 
and  bay  rifles.' "  We  acknowledge  it 
—the  idea  is  old  enoa|^.  We  only 
mean  to  say,  that  if  a  yolonteer  force 
be  a  desirable  a^jonct  to  oar  military 
system — and,  under  certain  regnla- 
tions,  it  might  no  doabt  become  so — 
then  a  rifle  eoips,  or  rather  an  army 
of  volunteer  riflemen,  drawn  from  the 
classes  spedfled  above,  would  consti- 
tute a  most  effective  branch  of  the 
service.  ,We  make  no  pretensions  to 
the  starting  of  a  new  idea ;  we  merely 
endeavour  to  render  that  idea  practi- 
cable, and  to  point  out  how  it  may  be 
best  realised. 

The  following  points  as  to  organisa- 
tion we  lay  down  as  indispensable, 
without  which  we  should  hwrdly  care 
to  see  the  force  enrolled  :— 

Ist,  The  only  matter  in  which  the 
volunteer  spirit  should  subsist,  should 
be  thai  of  joining  the  corps  in  the  first 
instance,  and  then  of  equipping  and 
maintaining  the  men,  each  at  their 
own  cost.  Once  enrolled,  it  should 
no  longer  be  at  the  option  of  the  men 
whether  they  served  or  not — nor  when^ 
nor  where^  nor  how  they  served :  we 
mean  the  force  not  to  be  a  sham  one ; 
we  do  not  want  soldiers  in  joke,  we 
reqmre  them  to  oome  forward  in  good 
earnest.  All  matters  concerning  the 
time,  place,  and  mode  of  their  service 
should  lie  with  the  government. 
Once  enrolled  and  trained,  they  should 
be  at  her  Majes^'s  disposal;  they 
should  be  her  banajide  soldiers,  only 
not  drawing  pay,  nor,  except  under 
certain  circumstances,  rations. 

2d,  The  corps  should  be  raised  by 
counties,  hundreds,  ahd  parishes,  and 
should  be  under  the  colonddes  of  the 
Lords-Lieutenants  or  their  deputies. 
Upkeep  up  the  eeprit de carpe con^ 
jointly  with  the  spint  of  local  associa- 
tion and  public  patriotism,  it  is  essen- 
tial that  friends  and  neighbours,  lords 
and  tenants,  should  stand  side  by  side, 
fight  in  the  same  ranks,  witness  eadi 
other's  brave  deeds,  and,  in  every  sense 
of  the  word,  '^  put  shoulder  to  shoal- 
der.'*  The  several  counties  might  eadi 
furnish  a  regiment,  and  these  resi- 
ments  should  then  be  brigaded  un»ur 
the  command  of  a  genend  officer,  ap- 
pointed by  the  commander-in-diief  of 
her  Miyesty*8  forces.  Li  the  first 
instance,  at  least,  it  would  be  desirable 
that  a  certain  pr<nportion  of  the  officers 
"^rawn  m>m  the  half-pay  list 


of  the  army,  both  for  the  sake  of  in- 
struction and  example.  Aflerwarda 
they  should  be  taken  from  the  ranker 
for  the  ranks  in  this  corps  would  be^ 
by  Uie  mere  fact  of  thehr  oi^ganisation, 
composed  of  gentlemen  and  the  best 
description  of  yeomen— the  latter,  be 
it  ever  remembered,  not  unworthy  ta 
lead  their  friends  and  neighbours; 
and  the  mode  of  so  doing  might  be 
easily  arranged  by  the  military  antho- 
rities,  on  the  combined  footing  o£ 
local  influence  and  perscmal  merit. 

dd,  These  corps,  when  oi^ganiaed, 
should  be  primarily  intended  for  the 
local  defence  of  their  several  ooontiest 
or  of  any  a<]yacent  military  districts, 
into  whidi  the  country  might,  fix>m 
time  to  time,  be  divided.  But  they 
should  also  be  liable  to  serve,  to  the 
same  extent  as  the  militia,  anywhere 
within  the  European  dominions  of  her 
M^jesty.  We  do  not  contemplate  the 
eventuality  of  theur  being  ordered  on 
fordgn  service,  though  we  strongly 
suspect  that  it  would  be  very  difficult 
to  keep  such  a  corps  always  at  home, 
when  stirring  scenes  of  national  arms 
and  glory  were  to  be  met  with  away 
from  their  own  shores.  If,  however, 
the  corps  should  be  called  on  to  do  duty 
away  from  their  own  military  districts^ 
tiien  they  should  draw  rations,  dothes^ 
equipments,  «m1  ammunition,  but  not 
pay^  the  same  as  the  regular  troops. 

4th.  As  it  should  be  esteemed  an 
honour  to  belong  to  such  a  corps,  so 
tiie  members  fA  it  should  not  only  be 
exempt  from  being  drawn  for  the 
militia,  but  they  should  also  be  free 
from  j[>aying  for  a  license  to  carry  fire- 
arms  and  to  shoot  as  sportsmen ;  and 
the  cost  of  their  equipment  should  be 
such  as  to  insure  a  certain  degree  of 
respectability  on  the  part  of  the  volun- 
teer. This  prdiininaiy  expense, 
added  to  that  of  maintaining  himself 
on  duty  at  his  own  cost,  would  pre- 
vent any  one  but  a  man  of  a  certain 
degree  of  substance  from  seeking  ad- 
mission into  the  corps. 

5th]y,  The  acquisition  of  suffident 
skill  hi  the  use  of  that  deadliest  of  all 
arms,  the  rif^,  might  be  made  by 
means  of  local  meetings  to  practise, 
at  which  heavy  fines  for  non-atten- 
dance would  not  only  insure  tolerable 
regularity,  but  would  also  provide  a 
fund  for  prices,  and  for  general  pur- 
poses. At  these  meetings,  which 
should  bt  held  frequently,  the  knpw* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Feudalism  m  the  Ntntteenth  Ceniwy, 


ledge  of  military  evolations,  and  the 
minutis  of  drill  -might  be  readily 
commnnicated  by  the  non-commis- 
sioned officers  of  the  pensioners*  corps ; 
and,  from  the  circnmstance  of  the 
men  not  being  mere  dods  from  the 
plough  tail,  nor  weavers  from  the 
loom,  the  requisite  amount  of  instruc- 
tion would  be  conyeyed  in  a  com- 
paratirely  short  time.  We  should 
suppose  that,  within  six  months  from 
their  first  organisation,  if  the  disci- 
pline was  well  attended  to,  such  corps 
-mij^ht  be  able  to  stand  a  field-day 
i)erore  their  general  officers.  The 
cayahy  would  not  learn  their  duties 
so  readUy  as  the  infkntry,  because 
the  men  would  have  to  teach  not 
themselves  alone,  but  also  their  horses ; 
and,  though  they  would  form  a  most 
effective  and  valuable  species  of  light 
cavalry,  the  combined  practice  of  the 
rifle  and  the  sabre  would  demand  a 
considerable  time  for  the  corps  to  be 
quite  at  home  with  their  duties.  We 
would  give  them  a  year  to  make 
themselves  complete.  A  volunteer 
force  of  cavalry  should  never  aim  at 
being  anything  else  than  a  corps  of 
light  horse — they  can  never  consti- 
tute effective  heavy  cavalry.  But  as 
light  horsemen  possessing  rifles,  and 
able  to  use  them  whether  in  the 
saddle  or  on  the  ground,  they  would 
become  as  formidable  to  a  European 
enemy  as  the  African  Arabs  have 
been  to  the  French,  and  would  be  a 
match  for  any  light  cavalry  that  could 
be  brought  to  act  against  them.  For 
all  purposes,  too,  of  local  service  they 
would  be  admirably  efficient. 

6thly,  The  discipline  of  a  volunteer 
corps  is  alwavs  the  main  difficulty  to 
be  contended  against  in  its  practical 
management;  but  we  conceive  that 
this  cnfficulty  would  be  lessened,  in 
the  present  instance,  from  the  pecu- 
liarly good  composition  of  the  rank 
and  file  of  such  a  body  of  men. 
Several  large  classes  of  military  of- 
fences could  not  possibly  prevail 
among  them  ;  and,  for  those  that 
remained,  the  ordinary  articles  of 
war  would  be  sufficiently  repressive. 
It  should  be  observed  that  we  do  not 
contemplate  the  granting  leave  to 
such  corps  to  disband  themselves : 
the  engagement  once  formed  should 
be  binding  for  a  certain  moderate 
number  of  years,  and  the  volunteer 
should  not  have  the  faculty  of  re- 


721 

leasing  himself  frx>m  his  duties  except 
by  beo^ming  invfdided.  We  imagine 
that  the  possibility  of  being  ultimately 
dismissed  from  such  an  honourable 
body  of  men,  for  ungentlemanlike 
conduct,  would  constitute  the  most 
effectual  check  that  could  be  devised 
fbr  the  instances  of  breach  of  disci- 
pline likely  to  occur. 

It  should  not  be  lost  sight  of  that 
we  advocate  the  formation  of  such  a 
force  as  a  corps  dehu^  as  one  elevated 
above  the  militia,  and  even  above  the 
regular  army,  in  the  morale  of  the 
men  composing  it,  if  not  in  their 
physique;  and  therefore  it  may  be 
verv  fairiy  inferred  that  the  members 
of  It,  feeUng  the  muHge  attached  to 
their  name,  would  act  up  to  the  dig- 
nity and  honour  of  their  station ;  that 
they  would  not  only  behave  as  valiant 
soldiers  in  the  field,  but  that  they 
would  act  as  gentlemen  in  quarters. 
Drinking  and  gambling  would  be  the 
two  main  offences  to  provide  against ; 
but  these,  if  discouraged,  and  not  prac- 
tised by  the  officers,  misht  be  checked 
among  the  men.  For  ful  quarrels  and 
disputes  likely  to  end  in  personal 
encounter,  a  special  tribunal  of  arbi- 
ters should  be  constituted  among 
men  and  officers  of  corresponding  rank 
in  the  corps ;  and  all  duelling  should 
be  totally  prevented.  The  mere  fact 
of  sending  or  accepting  a  challenge 
should  involve,  ipso  facto^  expulsion 
from  the  corps.  The  running  into 
debt,  too,  on  the  part  of  the  members, 
should  be  most  rigorously  prevented, 
and  should  incur  the  penalty  of  ex- 
pulsion. By  these  and  similar  regula- 
tions, combined  with  the  judicious 
management  of  the  superior  officers, 
we  have  no  doubt  that  the  discipline 
of  such  a  body,  (which  should  be 
strict  rather  than  lenient,)  might  be 
efiectually  maintained. 

7thly,  The  arming  and  equipping 
of  such  a  corps  of  men  is  a  point  of 
Importance,  but  by  no  means  of  diffi- 
culty. We  may  here  disappoint  some 
of  our  pseudo-military  readers;  but 
we  anticipate  that  the  real  soldiers 
will  agree  with  us,  when  we  declare 
our  conviction  that  a  military  cos- 
tame —  we  do  not  say  a  uniform 
costume — but  a  military  one,  would 
be  altogether  out  of  character  and 
needless  in  such  a  case.  No:  we 
would  not  have  any  of  the  smart 
shakos,  and  tight  little  green  Jackets 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


722 


FtmdoKsm  m  Ae  Nrndemitk  Cmkay. 


[Joe, 


of  the  rifle  hrigade ;  no  plimies  nor 
feathers;  no  traiiing  sabres  for  the 
officers,  no  cartouche  boxes  for  the 
men — ^nothing  at  aU  of  the  kind.  We 
would  pat  them  idl  in  nnifmnf  but 
not  in  a  uniform  of  that  natore-^ 
should  be  one  suited  to  the  wearers, 
and  to  the  natore  of  their  service. 

Now  the  original  intent  and  oliject 
of  all  nnifbrm  costome  is,  not  the 
ornamenting  of  the  person ;  it  is  not 
the  dressing  of  a  young  fellow,  nn^ 
he  becomes  so  handswne  that  the 
first  woman  he  meets  is  ready  to  sur- 
render at  discretion  to  him.  It  is 
not  the  uniform  that  makes  the  sol- 
dier; it  should  be  the  soldier  that 
should  mi^e  the  uniform  ;  that  is  to 
say,  the  kind  of  drees  should  be  dic- 
tated both  by  the  usual  habits  and 
rank  of  the  wearer,  and  by  the  ser- 
vioe  he  is  called  on  to  perform.  Add 
to  this  that,  provided  the  men  all 
wear  the  same  costume,  no  matter 
what  it  may  be,  the  great  end  of  mili- 
tary costume,  the  holding  the  mesk  in 
distinct  and  united  corps,  is  attained. 
The  uniform  does  not  make  a  man 
fight  a  bit  the  better  or  worse :  it  is 
only  for  the  sake  of  evolutions  and 
discipline  that  any  uniform  at  all  is 
needed. 

We  would  therefore  recommend  the 
keeping  in  view  of  two  princii^es,  in 
selecting  the  uniform  or  sudi  corps; 
via.,  utility  and  simplieity.  What 
are  the  duties  a  rifleman  has  to  per- 
form? Any  man  who  ever  went 
deerstalking,  any  one  who  is  accus- 
tomed to  beat  up  the  woods  and 
covers  for  cocks  or  pheasants,  knows 
nine-tenths  of  a  rifleman's  duties. 
His  game  is  the  enemy :  whether  he 
be  a  tall  stag  or  a  Freudiman,  it  it 
all  the  same;  a  steady  aim  and  a 

Suick  finger  will  do  the  job  for  hhn. 
ind  now,  dear  reader,  or  gaUant 
TC^nnteer,  or  old  feUow-sbot,  If  you 
were  invited  to  go  a-gnnning,  whether 
after  stags,  codu,  or  men,  how  would 
you  like,  if  left  to  vour  own  free 
dioioe,  apart  from  all  military  nonsense 
— bow  wonld  you  like  to  equip  your- 
sdf  ?  We  know-how  we  used  to  go 
together  over  the  Inveme«-shire  hi&, 
and  we  know  how  we  now  g*  throi^ 
the  Herefordshire  preserves,  and  how 
we  sometimes  wander  over  the  York- 
shire moors ;  and  it  is  just  so  that  we 
should  like  to  tnm  out.  Yon  know 
th*  ****—  •  we  need  hardly  deacribe 


it:  everybody  knows  it;  everybody 
has  worn  it.  Just  such  a  dress,  then, 
as  the  volunteers  would  wear  at  home 
in  their  field-sports  and  ooeupatioaa, 
the  very  same,  or  one  of  the  saae 
kind,  would  we  recommend  for  their 
service  as  v<dunteer  riflemen. 

A  shooting-eoat,  made  either  of 
doth  or  velvete^i,  diflforiqg  in  colovr, 
p^ haps,  for  the  different  districts,  or 
dse  (me  and  the  same  throughout  the 
whole  service — black,  or  dark  brown, 
or  dark  ffreen,  or  any  other  oAaar 
that  would  suit  the  woodland  and  the 
moor;  a  waistcoat  to  match,  witk 
those  abundant  pockets  that  the  tne 
shooter  knows  bow  to  make  use  of; 
trousers  and  stout  boots,- or  else  knee- 
breeches,  leathern  leggings,  and  bil- 
lows; in  fact,  whatever  shootiag^ 
costome  might  be  decided  on  by  the 
gratry  and  authorities  of  t^e  eoun^ 
for  their  respective  regiments.  Asm- 
hats,  dther  a  plain  round  hat,  or 
else  one  of  the  soft  felt  ones,  those 
most  delightful  friends  to  the  heated 
and  exhausted  sportsman.  The  only 
thing  would  be  to  have  everything  oat 
after  the  same  fashion,  and  the  eibct 
of  uniformity  would  be  immediately 
attained,  without  running  into  any  ii 
those  exeesses  of  paraphernalia  which 
in  former  days  brought  down  sneh 
deserved  ridk»le  on  tlM  corps  of  kiyat 
volunteers.  Every  man  should  wear 
round  his  waist  a  black  leathern  belt 
containing  his  buBetf  and  leathers ; 
his  caps  would  be  stowed  away  in  one 
of  his  pockets ;  and  his  powder  wonld 
travel  well  and  dry  in  a  horn  or  flask 
hung  by  a  Btnp  ov^  his  shoidder. 
His  r^— we  need  hardly  describe  it 
— should  be  rather  kwger  and  heavier 
than  for  sporting  purposes,  inasmudb 
as  it  may  have  to  be  used  agaiaai 
cavalry ;  and  it  should  admit  el  hav- 
ing a  sword-bayonet  fostened  on  at 
the  muasle.  This  bayonet  might  be 
worn  suspended,  as  a  sword  in  ita 
dieath,  firom  the  belt  round  the  waist. 
A  black  leathern  knapsack,  and  m 
pilot- coat  of  warm  stnfi"  rolled  up  oa 
the  top  of  it,  would  comi^te  the  oee- 
tume  of  our  volunteer ;  and  he  would 
look  more  truly  martial  and  service- 
able, when  thus  equipped,  than  if 
decked  out  with  all  innde  of  laoe  and 
trimmings,  and  clad  in  a  jacket  cut  itt 
the  most  recherche  style  of  militarj 
tailoring. 

The  officers  should  wear  a  in-eciselfi 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


a849J 


Fmdalumm  4ke  Nmekaiih  CaUmy. 


timilar  dreii,  but  they  waght  be  dis- 
tiiigiiiibed  bj  gold  or  crhiuoB  saslies, 
aocordmg  to  nnk,  md  might  wear 
romnd  their  breast,  or  on  their  hats, 
iome  forther  distingoishiDg  marlu  of 
their  offices.  The  whole  should  be 
based  cm  the  Mea  d  eqnippiiig  the 
eofps  as  plain  coontiy  g^Ktlemen  and 
yeomen  gdng  out  to  do  a  day's  sen- 
oos  bnsiness  in  the  field;  and  if  the 
business  is  not  to  be  serioos,  it  is  bet- 
ter to  kave  it  alone  than  to  attempt 

Regard  shonld  be  paid  to  the  Tari- 
ovis  indinations  ana  habits  of  the 
distriets  from  whence  the  regiments 
shonld  be  drawn,  and,  in  particular, 
those  from  Scotland  shonld  by  all 
means  retain  some  strongly  diatinc- 
tive  marks  of  their  nationid  costnme : 
the  plaid  conld  never  be  misapplied 
on  theur  brawny  riiofilders. 

We  shonld  snf^xise  that  it  would 
cost  each  member  of  the  corps  at  least 
£10  or  £15  to  eqnip  himself  complete- 
ly, and  this  w<mld  be  by  no  means 
too  large  a  snm  for  the  porposes  re- 
quired. 

The  oostmne  of  the  momited  rifle- 
men need  not  differ  mndi  from  Aat 
of  the  men  on  foot.  The  sbooting- 
eoat  is  as  good  on  horsebadL  as  off; 
and  the  only  alteration  we  woold 
recommend  wonld  be  in  the  use  of 
the  stont  but  supple  black-jack  hunt- 
ing-boots now  coming  so  mndi  into 
mhion.  These  admit  of  exercise  on 
foot  as  well  as  in  the  saddle,  and  be- 
ing plain,  quiet  things,  would  be 
peculiarly  suhable  for  the  purpose 
intended. 

8thly,  We  are  firmly  persuaded 
that,  if  this  experiment  were  tried  in 
■ny  one  county  or  district,  it  wci^d 
be  found  to  answer  so  well  that  others 
would  adopt  and  imitate  it.  The  ser- 
▼ice  it  would  render  to  government 
might  be  most  important  in  stining 
times ;  and  being  a  bond  fide  and 
i«ally  efifective  corps,  it  wonld  revive 
the  martial  and  manly  feelings  of  the 
people,  now  somewhat  blnnt^  by  the 
long  duration  of  peace,  and  would 
diffuse  a  most  wholesome  sfrfrit 
thronghont  the  land.  From  the  sen- 
timents of  honour,  and  loyalty  too, 
with  which  such  n  corps  would  be 
miimated,  (for  it  would  be  composed 
of  the  very  fiower  and  hope  of  the 
land,)  it  wouhl,  by  its  moral 
weight  alone,  keep  in  chedLthatcrowd 


728 

of  discontented  persons  who  always 
exist  hi  our  emphpe.  The  loyal  and 
honourable  sentiments  possessed  by 
this  corps  wonld  spread  thenoelves 
abroad  among  the  people ;  the  good 
example  set  wonld  be  followed  by  the 
most  respectable  part  of  the  nation, 
and  a  healthier  tone  would  be  thereby 
given  to  society  hi  generaL 

9thly,  T^uff  into  consideration  the 
number  of  pari«ieS|  and  the  population 
of  Great  Britain,  (for  we  could  not  ad- 
mit the  Irish  into  our  loyal  nuks)  we 
shoidd  estimate  the  probable  force 
that  could  thus  be  raised  and  main- 
tained at  its  own  expense,  at  not  less 
than  50,000  men,  of  wliom  10,000 
would  be  effective  light  cavalry ;  and 
we  should  suppose  that  at  least  40,000 
of  this  total  number  might  be  counted 
on  for  active  service,  in  any  emer- 
gency. 

The  mere  fkct,  if  this  calculation  be 
not  overrated,  of  our  beiuff  thereby 
able  to  add  such  a  degree  of  strength 
to  our  regular  army — or  that  of  our 
being  able  to  replace  such  a  number 
of  our  regular  troops,  if  called  abroad 
suddenly  for  distant  duty — or  else, 
the  knowledge  that  there  would  al- 
ways be  such  a  numerons  body  of  men 
in  the  country,  armed  nid  arrayed  in 
the  support  of  the  monarchy  and  the 
constitution ;  either  of  these  facts, 
taken  separately,  might  justify  the 
formation  of  such  a  corps,  but,  taken 
conjointly,  they  seem  to  carry  with 
them  no  small  weight. 

An  anomaly  in  the  present  constl- 
tutioB  of  noble  sodety  which  reqnures 
remedying,  is  the  frequent  inadequa<7 
of  the  territorial  means  possessed  by 
noble  families  for  the  mauitenance  of 
their  power  and  dignity.  This  has 
reached  to  such  a  pitch,  of  late  days, 
that  we  have  seen  the  ladles  of  two 
peers  of  the  realm  claiming  public 
support  informd  piotperum;  and  we 
have  witni«eed  the  breaking-up  and 
siUe  of  such  a  princely  establishment 
as  that  of  Stowe.  Many  noble  fami- 
lies are  forced  to  depend  on  public 
offices,  and  other  indnect  sources,  for 
Uie  support  of  their  members.  Many 
noble  families  of  high  distinction  and 
renown  are  poorer  than  ordinary  com- 
moners. There  are  very  few  estates 
of  nobles  (we  say  nodiing  of  those  of 
commoners)  which  are  not  oppressed 
by  mortgages,  and  which,  in  reality, 
confer  much  less  power  than  thej 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


724 


Feudaliitn  in  the  Nmeteenih  Century. 


[Jmie, 


nominallj' represent.  From  whatever 
causes  these  circnmstances  may  have 
arisen, — ^whether  from  the  folly  and 
extravagance  of  the  nobles  them- 
selves as  a  main  canse,  or  from  the 
imprudence  of  the  crown  in  making 
unworthy  creations,  as  a  subsidiary 
cause — they  have  produced  the  most 
injurious  effects  upon  the  order,  and 
have  even  justified  the  boast  of  the 
first  commoner  who  thought  himself 
superior  to  the  last  of  the  nobles.  By 
few  things  has  the  order  been  more 
injured  in  public  opinion  than  by  the 
inequality  and  inadequacy  of  its  terri« 
torial  resources.  This,  too,  becomes 
the  more  painfully  evident  in  a  nation 
where  commerce  has  been  allowed  to 
assume  an  undue  preponderance  in 
the  public  mind,  and  where  the  means 
of  gaining  money  are  so  various  and 
so  many,  that  the  rapid  acquisition  of 
handsome  fortunes  is  a  very  common 
occurrence.  It  is  an  evil,  a  negation 
of  the  ends  of  life,  and  a  main  cause 
of  the  decline  and  fall  of  a  nation, 
that  such  a  state  of  things  should  ex- 
ist ;  but,  seeing  Uiat  it  does  exist,  it 
is  doubly  the  dutv  and  the  interest 
of  all  who  have  the  honour  and  the 

germanency  of  national  prosperity  at 
eart,  to  favour  the  establishment  and 
the  maintenance  of  the  strongest  pos- 
sible antagonistic  principle — ^the  form- 
ing and  preserving  of  large  territorial 
possessions  in  favour  of  the  order  of 
nobles.  Believing  that  the  law  of 
primogeniture  is  the  basis  of  all  poli- 
tical freedom,  we  would  urge  the  ex- 
pediency of  modifying  the  law,  so  that 
certain  great  estates,  like  the  fiefs  of 
old,  should  become  inalienable  by  any 
person,  unattachable  for  any  liabili- 
ties, and  indivisible  under  any  circum- 
stances, in  favour  of  the  order  of 
nobles :  and  that  the  holders  of  sudi 
estates  should  be  nobles,  and  nobles 
only.  In  the  same  spirit  we  would 
say,  that  the  extent  of  territory  should 
determine  the  rank  of  the  noble,  tak- 
ing, as  the  starting-point,  the  estates 
as  they  might  exist  at  any  period  of 
time ;  that  to  each  title  a  certain  terri- 
torv  should  be  inalienably  attached, 
and  that  the  title  itself  should  derive 
its  name  from  that  territory— the 
holder  of  the  territory,  whoever  he 
might  be,  always  taking  the  title. 
It  would  be  productive  of  great  good 
if  facilities  were  given  as  much  as 
■* — «»-«-  ^-  massing  together  the  pro- 


perties of  the  noble ;  and  if  estates 
widely  spread  over  the  kingdom  conld 
be  exchanged  for  others  lying  dose 
together,  and  forming  a  compact  terri- 
tory. The  powers  of  the  nobles  are 
now  greatly  frittered  away  and  lost 
by  the  dispersion  of  their  properties : 
he  who  holds  neariy  a  whole  county 
continuously,  like  the  Duke  of  Suther- 
land, is  of  much  more  wdght  in  the 
state  than  another,  like  the  Duke  of 
Devonshu*e,  whose  estates,  thou^  of 
very  great  value,  lie  more  widely 
scattered. 

It  may  appear  an  innovation,  bnt 
we  are  persuaded  that  it  would  be  only 
a  return  to  the  fundamental  and  an- 
cient principles  of  the  oonstitntion,  to 
make  the  possession  of  a  real  estate  of 
a  certain  value,  for  a  certain  time,  a 
legal  title  to  claim  the  right  to  nobility. 
Thus  the  possession  of  an  estate  of 
£10,000  per  annum  dear  rental,  or 
of  5000  acres,  by  the  same  family,  in 
direct  descent  for  four  generations, 
should  of  itself  constitute  a  right  for 
its  owner  to  be  ranked  in  the  lowest 
order  of  nobility, — that  of  barons,— 
and  the  barony  should  give  its  name 
to  its  possessor ;  while  Sie  possession 
of  land  of  greater  extent  and  valoe 
should  modify  the  superior  titles  of 
those  who  hdd  them,  until  the  highest 
rank  in  the  peerage  were  attamed. 
All  nobles  holding  not  less  than 
£100,000  per  annum  of  dear  rental,  or 
50,000  acres,  should  ^o/oc^o  and  de 
jure  become  dukes,  and  so  on  in  pro- 
portion between  these  two  extremes 
of  the  peerage.  Baronets  should  rank, 
in  virtue  of  their  estates,  immediately 
after  the  barons ;  and  in  their  turn,  too, 
the  possession  of  a  certain  income 
from  landed  property,  such  as  £5000 
a-year  dear  for  four  generations,  in 
the  same  family,  should  immedlatdy 
entitle  its  owner  to  rank  among  the 
baronets,  and  to  have  the  style  and 
privileges  of  that  order. 

It  will  be  urged,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  the  crown  would  thereby  be  de- 
prived of  the  power  of  rewarding  meri- 
torious public  servants,  by  calling 
them  up  to  the  House  of  Peers,  if  the 
possession  of  a  certain  large  amount 
of  landed  property  were  made  a  sine 
^d  nan  for  every  creation.  To  this 
It  may  be  replied  that,  though  the  pre- 
rogatives of  the  crown  require  exten-* 
sion  rather  than  contraction,  yet  that 
a  suffident  power  of  reward  would  be 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Feudalism  in  the  Nineteenth  Century. 


725 


possessed,  if  men  of  eminence  in  Uie 
pablic  senrice,  whether  mst  com- 
manders or  distinffoished  lainrers, 
were  sommoned  to  die  Upper  Moose 
for  their  liyes  only,  without  their  titles 
teing  made  hereditary ;  and  farther, 
that  other  distinctions  might  be  given 
which  would  be  Mlj  sufficient  rewards 
in  themselves  without  any  encroach- 
ment behig  made  on  the  privileges  of 
the  order  of  nobles.  Thus,  in  former 
times,  when  the  honour  of  knighthood 
was  not  so  common  is  it  has  now  be- 
come, a  ^at  general  and  a  great 
judge  considered  themselves  rewarded 
6nou|fh  if  knighted:  they  never  thought 
of  bemg  created  peers.  And  the  fact 
is,  that  though  personal  nobility— the 
nobUi^  acquired  hj  the  performance 
of  great  actions— is  in  itself  of  the 
highest  value  to  the  state,  as  well  as 
to  the  individual,  it  is  not  sufficiently 
valuable  to  entitle  the  heirs  of  a  great 
man  to  tike  perpetual  rank  among  the 
great  landed  proprietors  of  the  realm. 
The  duties  and  responsibilities  of  no- 
bility depend  more  upon  the  trust  re- 
posed in  each  member  than  upon  that 
member^s  personal  qualifications.  The 
noble  cannot  be  separated  from  his 
lands  nor  from  his  tenants,  nor  from 
the  multifarious  heavy  responsibilities 
therelnr  incurred ;  he  is  the  represen- 
tive  of  a  great  interest  in  the  state ;  he 
is  the  representative  of  his  land,  and 
of  all  connected  with  it ;  he  is  the  re- 
presentative of  a  great  class  and  ga- 
thering: his  duties  are  not  merely 
personal;  he  cannot  found  his  right  to 
nobility  upon  personal  merit  alone. 
PersoDid  qualifications  can  give  no 
valid  right  to  hereditaiy  privileges, 
whereas  land  is  perpetual— mra  nume- 
bunt^nnd  the  privileges  as  well  as  the 
duties  attached  to  it  should  be  per- 
petual also. 

It  would,  therefore,  be  another  step 
towards  constitutfaig  the  aristocracy 
of  the  state  on  a  more  solid  and 
reasonable  basis,  if  the  orders  of  baro- 
nets, and  of  knights  of  various  descrip- 
tions, were  pureed  of  their  anomalies, 
and  rendered  attainable  only  under 
rules  of  a  more  general  and  fixed  na- 
ture than  at  present  prevail.  Both 
these  classes  of  nobles— for  so  they 
may  be  called— require  considerable 
purification ;  the  former,  that  of  baro- 
net, should  be  made  the  hitermedlate 
class  between  the  nobles  by  personal 
merit,  or  knights,  and  those  who  are 


nobles  by  thdr  lands,  the  peers.  As 
was  observed  before,  no  baronetcy 
should  be  conferred  unless  a  real  estate 
of  a  certain  value  could  be  shown  to 
be  possessed,  dear  of  all  mortgage  and 
debt ;  and  the  retention  of  such  an 
estate  for  a  certain  number  of  genera- 
tions should  establish  a  legal  daim  to 
the  title  of  baronet ;  while  the  subse- 
quent increase  of  the  same  estate,  and 
a  similar  retention  of  it  for  a  certain 
number  of  descents,  should  establish 
a  fhrther  claim  to  the  honour  of  the 
peerage.  If  the  orders  of  knighthood 
were  made  more  difficult  of  entry,  and 
if  they  were  specially  reserved  only 
for  public  personal  services,  they 
would  rise  again  io  public  estimation, 
and  would  be  suitable  for  all  purposes 
of  reward  required  by  the  sovereign. 

At  the  same  time,  and  as  a  conse- 
quence of  this,  peers  and  baronets 
should  not  be  admitted  into  the  orders 
of  knighthood — they  should  be  satis- 
fied with  thek  own  dignities.  The 
garter,  the  thistle,  and  the  shamrock 
should  be  reserved  especially  for  the 
great  military  and  naval  commanders 
of  the  realm :  the  bath,  and  perhaps 
one  or  two  other  new  orders,  should 
be  destined  for  men  of  eminence  in 
whatever  line  of  life  they  might  be 
able  to  render  service  to  their  country. 

It  is  an  opinion  controverted  by 
some,  but  it  seems  founded  in  reason, 
that  the  twelve  judges,  who  are  at 
the  head  of  their  most  honourable 
profession,  should  not  merely  be 
allowed  to  sit  on  the  benches  of  the 
House  of  Lords,  but  that  they  should 
have  the  right  of  voting  therein,  and, 
in  fact,  be  summoned  as  peers  for 
life  upon  their  elevation  to  the  bench. 
No  order  of  men  in  the  whole  state 
would  exercise  power  more  couscien- 
tiously,  and  fiom  no  other  source  could 
the  Upper  House  derive  at  once  such 
an  immense  increase  of  deliberative 
strength  in  the  revision  and  framiog 
of  the  laws.  The  bench  of  sphituu 
lords,  and  the  bench  of  legal  lords, 
ought  to  form  two  of  the  purest  orna- 
ments in  the  bright  galaxy  of  tho 
peers  of  the  realm. 

We  shall  content  ourselves  for  the 
present  with  iudicating  two  other 
points,  recognised  and  admitted  by 
the  constitn^nal  forms  of  the  go« 
vemment,  but  at  present  much  lost 
sight  of;  and  they  may  be  considered 
as  affecting  the   lowest   order— the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


726 


FmMtuM  m  Ae  Nmeiemtk  Cemlmry. 


rj«^ 


▼eiy  root  of  the  whde  AobiM^  of  the 
land. 

Members  oi  the  Lower  Hoiiee  for 
oomities  are  always  called  hmghti  of 
tbe  shires  thejrepneeat;  aadsothey 
Ofught  to  be.  No  person  should  be 
eligible  to  represent  a  coanty  mken 
preyioQsly  adorned  with  the  honoor 
either  of  knighthood  or  of  the  baronet 
age,  or  onless  the  jonnger  son  of  a 
peer  of  the  realm;  and  indeed  the 
attaehiog  of  titles  of  nobilitj  to  the 
possession  of  estates  of  acertaia  vidoe 
and  &uty  of  tenure,  and  the  annexing 
of  baronetcies  to  similar  inroportaee, 
wonld  pnt  all  the  principfU  country 
ffeirtlemen  in  a  positioB  suited  to  the 
duties  of  a  knight  of  the  shire.  We 
should  not  then  see  the  absurd  and 
misdiieTOus  anomaly  of  an  ambitions 
theorist  of  no  landed  property  in  his 
own  possession,  but  backed  by  the 
democrats  of  a  manufacturing  district, 
thrust  upon  the  legislatnre  as  the 
representatiye  of  a  large  agricnltnral 
eonnty.  We  should  rather  find  tiie 
knights  of  the  shires  forming  a  com- 
pact and  most  influential  body  in  the 
imperial  parliament,  the  real  repre- 
aentatives  of  the  mterests  of  tiieir 
oonstitaents,  and  the  main  eonsenra- 
tive  element  m  the  Lower  House  of 
the  legislature. 

The  bearing  of  arms,  and  the  gra- 
tnttons  assumptioD  of  the  title  of 
esquire,  now  so  nniTersally  adopted, 
reqmre  to  be  more  strictly  limited, 
mless  it  is  desired  that  the  whole 
mtem  should  faH  from  ineritable 
ndicole  into  ultimate  disuse.  It  is  a 
khid  of  morbid  foelhig  that  has  thus 
been  prodaoed  by  national  ranity, 
snd  will  some  day  or  other  work  ont 
its  opposite  extreme,  unless  restrained 
ittdoetioie.  For  the  undne  granting 
of  anus  the  Henld's  CoUege  is  greaUy 
Tesponsible;  but  for  the  aiyenal 
aaenmption  of  the  eorrelatife  titie, 
society  at  large  is  to  be  blamed.  It 
is  one  of  the  wealuesses  of  the  day, 
that  men  and  things  are  ne  longer 
called  by  their  tme  names,  and  it 
indicates  a  downward  progress  in  the 
national  fortunes  rather  than  the 
contrary.  The  eril  mtght  be  checked 
by  the  confinhig  of  the  right  to  wear 
€oat»  of  arms  or  tkiddM  to  the  orders 
of  knighthood  only— aa  It  used  to  be 
at  the  flrst  institution  of  the  custom ; 
while  for  all  persona  nnder  that  stand- 


ing k  society,  some  distbictiye  badge 
or  family  token  nright  be  adopted, 
snfloient  to  identify  their  Unease,  yet 
showing  a  difference  of  grade.  It  ia 
more  difficnlt  to  say  how  tiie  appella- 
tions of  the  yarions  classes  of  cotfi- 
moners  shall  be  settled;  bnttherecan 
be  no  doQbt  that  theconunon  herding 
of  all  men  together— wliethcr  under 
the  names  of  esquires,  gentlemCT,  or 
eren  of  *•*•  gents  ** — ^is  an  absurdly : 
miscfaieTOOS,  inasmuch  as  it  tends  to 
lerel  what  oug^  to  be  unequal,  and 
as  it  rendets  ridiculous  what  ought  to 
be  respected. 

We  readily  allow  that  the  ideas 
propounded  above  are  mese  or  Mia 
Ut^^ian ;  se,  however,  are  all  ideas 
of  change.  With  this  excuse,  luyw- 
ever,  we  content  onrsetves  fon  ftub 
present.  If  we  have  adrooated  any 
amendments,  tb^  are  not  in  tiie  di- 
rection of  what  is  called,  falsely 
enon^ — Progrtn^  bnt  in  that  ii 
what  is  reaUy  and  truly  impn)yi»- 
awnt,  because  it  implies  a  reyert- 
ing  to  the  fundamental  and  aa- 
alterable  basis  of  the  modem  £nro> 
pean  social  system.  "Progross^now 
means  adyaacement  in  the  eaaseof 
demooracy^-^at  is,  in  the  path  which 
mariu  the  dectine  and  Mi,  and  ulti- 
mate destracdon  of  any  dd  nation. 
Far  be  it  from  us  to  lend  a  hand  to 
aught  that  can  assist  this  fatal  and 
desKbuctive  process.  We  would  pre- 
serye,  and  restose,  and  improve,  rather 
than  destroy.  And  it  ia  becanse  we 
belieye  this  ancient  spirit  of  feudalism 
to  be  that  which  contains  the  great 
elements  of  natioaal  prosperity,  that 
we  therefore  advocate  a  return  to- 
wards some  of  its  fbst  pciadples.  A 
further  devdopmeat  of  this  we  reeerve 
fbr  a  future  occasion.  But  this  wo 
will  maintain,  that  in  the  great  ^cto 
of  yean  which  oonstitate  tiM  lifo  of  a 
people,  the  upward  risiag  of  the  na^ 
tion  is  characterised  by  the  adiyo 
yitaUfy  of  what  we  will  call  iBudaUsm, 
its  downvrard  sinking  by  the  existeace 
of  demecratic  liotnse  and  epalcat 
enervatioB,  fellowiag  ^f>oa  tte  do- 
dine  of  warlike  and  duvalroas  par- 
suits.  The  process  of  corrapHen  and 
of  disintegration  may  be  alow,  but  it  is 
not  the  less  certain.  It  overtakes 
evea  the  most  prosperous  nationa  at 
last.  Would  tfaatweoonld  check  and 
avert  that  eyil  from  ouriswB  eouatry  t 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


ChU  Bamkakm  m  the  Canadat. 


72T 


onriL  BsvcHiUnoN  m  ths  gakadas. 


SnuHGB  though  it  souid  to  speak 
of  a  reyolatioii  in  these  provioGeB, 
wbexe  the  repres^tative  of  the  crown 
IB  Dot<»ioiiely  supported  by  a  large 
majority  in  the  proyineial  parliaaieirt, 
and  where,  for  years  past,  there  has 
scarcely  been  an  inquiry  made  as  to 
when  a  regiment  either  came  or  went, 
or  even  bow  many  troops  were  in  the 
whole  American  colonies;  yet  it  is 
nevertheless  a  iaO,  that  a  more  im- 
portant and  effective  levdution  is 
now  going  on  in  the  Canadas,  than  if 
half  tiieir  popiilatlon  were  in  open 
arms  against  the  mother  country. 

Before  attempting  either  to  describe 
or  to  account — ^which  we  trust  in  the 
course  of  this  paper  to  be  aUe  to  do 
— ^for  this  extraordinary  state  of 
things,  it  will  be  necessary  to  touch 
upon  a  few  leading  eventa  in  the  his- 
tory of  both  provinces,  and,  inddeai- 
ally,  upon  the  cbaraeter  and  inten- 
tions of  the  parties  engaged  in  thrai. 

It  is  wen  known  to  all  En^ish 
readers,  that  the  French  of  Lower 
Canada,  forming  a  population  of  some 
four  hundred  thousand  people,  after  a 
loDg  course  of  factious  and  embarras- 
sing legislation;  after  a  species  of 
civil,  social,  and  parliamentary  strife 
for  nearly  half  a  century,  which  was 
fer  more  withering  in  iu  e£feets  npeo 
the  prosperity  of  the  eovstiy  thao  a 
good  fight  in  the  begimihig  would  have 
been,  finally,  in  18S7,  took  up  arms 
agaiasttheBritisb  government.  Short- 
ly afterwards  they  were  joined  by  the 
party  in  Upper  Canada  which  had  kmg 
made  common  eanse  with  them, 
thouf^  withoot  cooMnon  prmetpks, 
aims,  or  hopes — the  one's  pride  being 
indi9Solttbly  wedded  to  institatioas 
which  were  pregnant  with  retrogres- 
sion and  decay,  the  other's  chief  merit 
eonsistaBg  in  pretenrioo  to  raise  men 
from  beneath  old  ruins,  instotd  of 
bringmg  old  rmns  down  npoo  them. 
Yet  both  agreed  in  hating  Engkmd, 
and  in  taking  wp  arms,  jointiy  and 
severally,  to  overthrow  her  mstitn- 
tioBs.  Whatever  other  lesson  In- 
land might  have  learned  from  the 
ftct,  she  shonkl  at  least  have  learned 
this— -that  it  was  no  ordinary  feelings 
ef  demeratfon  or  of  difference  that 


made  them  forego  so  much  to  each 
other,  in  order  to  strike  an  effec-. 
tual  blow  at  her;  and  that  it  conld 
be  no  ordinary  circumstance,  if  it 
was  even  in  the  nature  of  things, 
after  they  had  become  partners  in 
the  same  defeats  and  humiliations — 
after  Uiey  had  been  made  bed-fellows 
by  the  same  misfortunes— that  could 
disunite  them  in  favour  of  theur  common 
enemy ;  and  not  only  tnm  the  tide  of 
their  hatred  against  each  oth^,  but 
make  the  party  that  became  loyal  to 
England  kiss  the  rod  that  had  so 
severely  scourged  it. 

Probsbly  this  might  have  been 
thought  difficult.  But  where  the  hos- 
tility to  England  might  have  been  re- 
garded as  accidental,  rather  than  of 
settled  and  determined  prindf^  it 
might  be  urged  that  the  reconciling 
one  or  both  these  parties  to  the  Bri- 
tish government,  might  not  have  been 
impossible ;  or  the  bringing  the  one 
back  to  loyalty,  even  at  the  expense 
of  its  having  to  oppose  the  other,  might 
still  be  in  the  power  of  wise  legislation. 

This  brings  us  to  consider  the  cha- 
racter and  the  principles,  the  prcfm- 
dices  and  the  predilections,  of  the  tw<y 
parties.  And  if  the  reader  will  follow 
us  over  a  little  scrap  of  histcny,  pes- 
siUynewto  hnn,  if  we  do  not  hmen 
to  aifiSor  on  the  road,  we  apprehend 
we  shall  agree  in  summing  up  the 
genoal  resists. 

For  many  parMaaents  previons  to> 
the  rd>elUon  in  Lower  Canada,  the 
minority  in  fevonr  of  the  Fresch  was 
on  an  average  equal  to  four-fifths  of 
each  house.  And,  instead  of  thia 
minority  being  diminished  by  the 
agency  of  immigration,  or  by  reason 
of  the  detachment  of  almost  every 
Englishman  and  American  in  the 
province  from  their  caase — ^who  at 
first  sided  with  them  for  the  par- 
pose  of  procuring  the  redress  of  all 
real  abuses,  most,  if  nse  all,  of 
whidi,  arose  from  the  nature  of  their 
own  tnstitutiotts,— it  contfaiaed  to  in- 
crease, until  at  last  every  comity  in 
the  province  whidi  had  a  preponder- 
ance of  French  mfloenee,  sent  a 
member  to  psriiameat  to  carry  on  » 
kind  of  dvii  war  with  the  ge^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


V28 


CwH  Revohaian  in  <fte  Canadas, 


ment.  Men  of  the  first  talents  in  the 
coontry,  who  had  freely  spent  the  best 
of  their  lives  and  their  efforts  in  its 
seryice,  when  they  were  compiled  to 
leave  this  faction,  or  take  leave  of 
their  loyalty  to  the  crown,  found  that 
the  breadth  of  their  own  intellects  was 
all  they  were  ever  able  to  detach 
from  its  ranks.  Every  concession  the 
imperial  government  conld  make, 
every  effort  to  conciliate  them,  was 
met  only  by  fr^h  demands  —  de- 
mands conceived  in  a  spirit  of  hos- 
tility, and  wilfally  and  knowmgly 
of  snch  a  character  as  conld  not  be 
conceded.  Yet  their  mtyorities  con- 
tinned,  and  even  increased,  in  parlia- 
ment. In  1882,  they  carried  their 
measures  of  hostility  to  the  British, 
And  even  the  Irish  population  so  fftr,  as 
to  refuse  to  employ  them  for  any  pur- 
poses whatever,  and,  in  some  cases, 
those  employed  were  dismissed.  It 
is  matter  of  Lower  Canadian  history, 
that  one  of  their  greatest  grievances 
was,  that  they  had  not  the  control  of 
the  appointments  of  judges  and  other 
public  officers,  and  the  apportioning 
of  their  salaries ;  yet  it  is  well  known 
-—it  was  publicly  avowed  by  them  in 
parliament — that  their  object  was,  to 
starve  out  the  British  government,  by 
starving  out  its  officers.  Still  the 
French  leaders  who  mooted  these 
measures  gained  in  popularity,  and 
the  English  members  for  French 
counties  continued  to  lessen.  British 
manufactures  were  solemnly  de- 
nounced in  their  parliament,  and  the 
use  of  them  declared  a  disgrace  to 
every  Frenchman ;  and  a  tax,  which 
they  intended  as  a  prohibition,  was  at- 
tempted to  be  placed  upon  British 
emigrants :  yet  withal,  Mr  Papineau, 
the  great  French  leader,  rose  the 
higher,  and  his  party  grew  the  stronger. 
The  more,  in  short,  the  French  1^- 
ers  could  embarrass  the  government, 
and  the  more  they  could  throw  ob- 
stacles in  the  way  of  the  improvements 
incident  to  the  activity  and  enterprise 
of  the  English  race,  the  more  they 
rose  in  t^e  estimation  of  the  French 
constituencies.  They  claimed,  in 
truths  for  these  very  acts,  their  con- 
fidence, and  they  received  what  they 
claimed  to  thefhllestextent.  Inawell- 
written,  and,  considering  all  the  cir« 
^mmstances,  a  temperate  address  of 
the    Constitutional    Association    of 


[June, 

Montreal  in  1832 — an  association 
got  up  with  the  view  of  making  the 
situation  of  the  British  population 
known  to  the  imperial  government, 
and  an  association  that  afterwards 
greatly  conteibuted  to  save  the  pro* 
vince  during  the  rebellion — ^we  find 
the  following  among  other  passages  to 
the  same  effect,  upon  this  sutject : — 

**  For  half  a  oentarj  has  the  population 
of  English  and  Irish  descent  in  Lower 
Canada  been  subjected  to  the  domination 
of  a  party  whose  policy  has  been  to  re- 
tain the  distinguishing  attributes  of  a 
^foreign  race,  and  to  orndi  in  otiiers  thai 
[spirit  of  enterprise  whieh  they  are  nnaUa 
Niff  unwilling  to  emnlate.  During  this 
Mriod,  a  population,  descended  from  ike 
same  stock  with  ourselves,  have  covered 
a)continent  with  the  monuments  of  their 
agricultural  industry.  U^ 
and  the  United  Statgn  hear  urnxTtn  testi- 
mo5y  of  the  floOd-{l5e.  ftf  pro^|>grijy — the 
resGH^^»fjmieetrfoleaenterprise,  and  of 
equitable  laws.  Lower  Cuiada,  where 
another  race  predominates,  presents  a 
solitary  exception  to  this  march  of  im- 
provemeat.  Time,  snrronnded  by  forests 
inviting  industry,  and  offering  a  rich 
reward  to  labour,  an  illiterate  people, 
opposed  to  improvements,  have  com- 
pressed their  growing  numbers  almost 
within  the  boundaries  of  their  original 
settlements,  and  present,  in  their  mode 
of  laws,  in  their  mode  of  agriculture, 
and  peculiar  customs,  a  not  unfaith- 
ful picture  of  France  in  the  seven- 
teenth century.  There  also  may  be  wit- 
nessed the  humiliating  spectacle  of  a 
rural  populatimi  not  unftequently  neces- 
sitated to  implore  eleemosynary  relief 
from  the  legislature  of  the  country." 

But  it  is  no  new  lesson  to  learn, 
that  an  inert  and  nnprogressive  race, 
with  pride  clinging  to  decay,  and 
customs  withering  to  enterprise,  can- 
not harmonise,  in  legblative  provisions, 
wit^  men  who  want  laws  to  assist 
the  steps  of  advancing  civilisation, 
rather  than  ways  and  means  of  keep* 
ing  up  old  ruins ;  who  prefer  to  gather 
the  fimits  of  a  thousand  trees,  for 
the  planting  of  which  enterprise 
has  explored,  and  industry  has  em« 
ployed,  new  and  rich  domains,  to 
tying  up  the  decaying  iMranches  of  a 
few  old  ones,  to'whidi  possibly  memory 
may  love  to  ding,  but  under  whidi 

Slain  human  nature  might  starve, 
'o  expect,  in  fact,  that  men  with 
snch  opposite  characteristics,  apart 
even  from  their  other  elements  <^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Civil  ReooluHan  in  the  Canadas, 


72g 


discord,  should  harmonise,  when  the 
party  weaker  in  legislation  was  the 
stronger  in  civilisation,  when  the 
party  that  stood  still  had  the  power 
of  making  the  other  stand  still  also, 
was  to  expect  an  impossibility.  And 
this  was  exactly  the  nature  of  the 
contest  so  long  carried  on  in  Lower 
Canada.  An  ox  and  arace-horse  had 
be^  yoked  together  in  the  same  legis- 
lative harness.  Bat  the  misfortune 
was  increased  by  the  race-horse's 
being  subject — however  much  he 
might  struggle,  and  rear,  and  foam — 
to  the  motions  of  his  dogged  compa- 
nion, and  to  the  necessity  of  not 
moving  at  all,  whenever  it  pleased 
his  venerable  mate  to  stand  still.  It 
IS  clear,  therefore,  that  any  legislative 
provision,  after  the  rebellion,  which 
would  restore  to  the  French  this 
ascendency,  would  be  but  causing 
confusion  worse  confused — ^would  be 
but  entailing  upon  both  parties  con- 
stant contentions,  with  the  proba- 
bility, if  not  the  certainty,  of  a  final 
appeal  to  arms ;  in  which  case  Eng- 
land would  be  left  without  a  Mend  m 
either  party— the  one  looking  upon 
her  as  their  natural  enemy— the  other 
as  a  power  which  had  always  sacri- 
ficed its  friends  when  it  had  the 
means  of  benefiting  them— had  per- 
petually raised  its  defenders  very 
high,  to  see  how  Yery  far  it  could  let 
them  fall. 

The  par^  in  Upper  Canada  which 
had  opposed  the  government  step  by 
step,  until  it  ended  with  rebellion 
in    conjunction   with    the    French, 
was   composed    of  vastly   different 
materials  nom  these  its  allies.     And 
it   is  somewhat  singular,  but  it  is 
nevertheless  a  foct,  that  this  party, 
both  as  to  its  strength,  and  the  true 
causes  of  its  hostility  to  England,  has 
never  been  vory  thoroogUy  understood 
even  in  the  Canadas.    The  principle 
of  under-rating  enemies  was  alwavs 
applied  to  it  by  its  o****""**"*-**  '"  ♦"* 
province*     The  pen 
looking  upon  men. 
contempt  to  take  the 
strength,  is  as  bad  in 
in  a  physical   strug 
party  known  as  theg< 
m    Upper   Canada, 
far  too  self-importan 
to  calculate  how  ma 
clouds  it  takes  to 


The  government  of  England  too, 
never  very  dear-sighted  in  colonial  af- 
fidrs,  and  with  its  Argus  eye  as  direct- 
ed to  Canadian  prospects  always  suf- 
fering from  some  defect  of  vision,  or 
looking  through  very  distorting  media, 
was  not  very  ukely  to  catch  the  height 
and  cut  of  each  individual  in  a  colonial 
multitude,  which  it  scarcely  ever  saw 
even  in  gross  ;  while  the  Crovemors 
who  "  did  the  monarch  "  in  the  pro- 
vince, did  not  generally  betray  much 
taste  for  sitting  down  by  the  farmer's 
fireside,  and  eating  apple-sauce  and 
sauerkraut  at  his  table,  where  there 
neither  was,  nor  could  have  been, 
recognised  a  distinction  between  the 
master  and  the  man, — between  the 
lord  of  the  castle  and  the  cook  in  the 
kitchen.  Yet  such  were  the  places 
where  governors  and  rulers  might 
have  seen  at  work  the  elements  of 
democracy;  might  have  witnessed 
the  process  of  education  to  the  level- 
ling system.  An  education  whicb^ 
with  the  vast  facilities  for  indepen- 
dence in  America,  irrespective  of 
situation  or  institutions — men  never 
get  over;  and  in  which  they  might 
have  traced  the  natural  growth  of 
feelings  and  principles,  that  must, 
in  the  very  nature  of  things,  be  in  a 
state  of  continual  warfare  with  the 
customs,  the  pride,  and  the  love  of 
distinction,  which  are  the  inalienable 
offspring  of  the  monarchy,  the  aris- 
tocracy, and  the  social  system  of 
England.  Yet  here  they  never  pene- 
trated either  to  count  the  voters  or 
the  children.  They  felt— they  were 
obliged  to  feel— that  the  great  wheel 
of  the  government,  whidi  was  the 
majority  in  parliament,  often  per- 
formed extraordinary  revolutions  the 
wrong  way.  But  they  knew  not  how 
or  wherefore.  They  never  went  where 
they  m^ht  have  studied,  and  could 
have  understood,  the  difficulty ;  where, 
to  make  a  long  story  short,  in  order 

fi\    (TAf.    At  wliAt  thAv  mififlAil.   ftn<]  to 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


780 


CmdBB9olmi»mmHUCmuida§. 


pime. 


taxAty  ti  hdiiiiig,  b«t  wow,  of  all 
^then,  those  tfaej  most  desired  to 
hear.  The  clergTiiieii  of  the  Church 
of  Eo^^d  were  few,  and  stationed 
m  tiie  larger  towns.  Bni  it  Is 
one  of  the  peooHarities  of  MetJio- 
dism,  that  however  nnmeroos  or 
scattered  tiie  settlers  might  have 
been,  the  preaoher  eonld  always 
Buuuige  to  live  among  them ;  for  he 
reeeiyed  with  his  drcmt  a  sort  of  ni- 
TOfsal  biileting-ticket,  and  the  hoosee 
of  all  his  flm^,  and  all  his  flodL's 
friends,  thereupon  became  one  yast 
home  to  him;  and  wherever  he  him- 
pened  to  take  np  his  temporary  abode, 
he  conferred  a  sort  of  honour  instead 
of  receiving  a  fevour.  Tbe  system 
had  anotho*  peonUsrity  too— at  all 
events,  at  the  early  period  we  are  speak- 
ing <tf—4t  had  no  standard  of  fitness  in 
tiie  way  of  education  ibr  its  ministiT. 
Yet  where  men  of  education  ooud 
never  think  of  poietratlng  or  ezist- 
mg,  these  men  were  willUig  to  go. 
Where  no  bishop  oonld  dream  of 
sending  a  pastor,  It  is  the  principle 
of  Methodism  to  believe  the  Lord  will 
raise  up  or  send  one.  If  his  talents 
are  none  of  the  brightest,  they  are  will- 
ing to  trust  to  Heaven  to  make  up 
thedeficiency ;  and  certainly,  in  some 
instances,  there  is  much  need  of  it. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  perceive  how 
great  must  have  been  the  influence  of 
these  preachers  over  a  people  so  dr- 
cnnstanced  :  how  eageriy— in  the 
absence  of  newspapeiB,  and  of  nenty 
eveiy  means  of  learning  what  was 
going  on  in  the  province,  much  less 
in  the  aflhhv  of  the  worid— the  lead- 
ing characters  of  the  neighbourhoods 
girthered  round  the  preacher,  after 
the  meetfaig  was  o^er,  at  the  fireride 
of  some  brother  of  the  Church,  to 
hear  the  latest  news,  to  get  tiie  last 
newspi^  or  pamphlet,  and  to  re- 
ceive his  oracular  opinions  upon  the 
measures  and  the  men  agitating  the 
countiy.  And  in  two-thirds  of  the 
districts  in  the  province,  these  preach- 
ers had  tot  jein,  unopposed  and  un- 
questioned, those  opportunities  of 
instilling  a  political  education— which, 
if  they  chose  to  make  use  of  them, 
would  enable  them  to  plant  a  crop, 
whether  of  good  or  of  evil,  for  or 
aninst  the  institutions  of  England, 
wholly  uneradkable, — were  Aere 
even  the  same  opportunities  afforded 


of  eniiicatiBg  it  Ikit  there  were  of 
sowing  it. 

For  five  successive  parliaments  la 
Upper  Canada,  previous  to  tiie  rebel- 
lion, each  party  had  altmnatdy  the 
mnori^  in  the  house— the  one  party 
bemg  known  as  the  Tory  or  Family 
Contact;  the  otiier  as  tibe  Ba^eal  or 
the  Saddle-bag  feetion--«  name  mom 
truthfully  than  el^fantiy  applied  to 
it,  on  account  of  its  owing  its  miyo* 
rity  to  the  exertions  of  these  same 
Methodist  preachers  in  its  fevour; 
and  from  their  mode  of  travelling 
tiDOOgh  the  country  bemg  on  horse* 
back,  with  Uu^  saddle-bagB  swong 
on  each  side  of  the  nag,  and,  by 
way  of  adding  to  the  pksturesquoi 
with  aleathera  vafise  strapped  on  im- 
mediately over  his  tail.  These  bags 
and  value,  it  was  alleged  by  tMr 
(^ponents,  were  always  filledr-witii, 
we  suppose,  the  neeessary  exception  of 
stowage  Unr  hymn-books,  and  tho 
otherp(ttfaphernaltaofiheireralt--with 
papers  and  pamphkts  against  the  mo- 
narchy, the  Church,  and  the  institu- 
tions of  England,  and  In  fevour  of  the 
democracy  of  the  States.  But  whether 
tiie  bags  and  valise  were  so  filled  or 
not;  or  whethw,  indeed,  these 
preachers,  at  tids  eariy  period,  had  it 
in  their  power  to  treat  tiieirfriwidB 
to  as  moiy  pamphlets,  and  papers, 
and  almana!cs-4br  the  la^  was  and  la 
a  method  of  disseminating  political 
opinions  much  nscnrted  to  hi  AoMrica 
^as  the^  were  accused  of ,  we  shafi  not 
undertdbe  fo  determine.  Thii,  how- 
ever, we  certainly  can  assert— that  if 
we  had  out  of  the  whole  world  to  select 
the  most  porfeot  embodimmit  of  the 
spirit  of  hostility  to  all  the  pon^,and 
IHide,  and  disthMstion,  and  deference  to 
rank,  faicident  to  monarchy,  wherev^ 
it  may  exist,  we  should  select  t^ese 
same  Methodist  preachers.  Educated, 
for  the  most  part,  in  the  United  States, 
or  In  Canada  by  Amcnrican  school- 
masters ;  wKli  thefar  conferences  hdd 
in  the  States;  the  seat  <^ their  diurch 
in  the  States;  thefar  mhiisterB  or- 
dahied  in  the  States;  thdr  bishops 
sent  fifom  there— for  th^  were  i^ 
at  this  time.  Episcopal  Methodists— 
and  the  great  body  <^  their  diuroh 
flourishing  ther^— they  imbibed,  from 
the  veiy  begfaming^  American  feelings 
6t  hostility  to  the  estkblished  Church 
of  ihigland,  and  to  the  pride  and  love 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


letf.j 


CMBeoohiiammA^Cmiadag. 


781 


«f  difltindios— to  att  the  dMraeter- 
Istics  wkick  mist  exhibit  thenuelTee 
whererer  Englith  eoeiet j  hea  «  foot- 
ing, end  £iglaid*s  monarchy  ft  re- 
preeentatiTe.    Hoetitity  to  these  waa^ 
m  truth,  the  very  geniiia  of  their  re- 
ligion.   Looked  upon  with  contempt 
by  Episeopal  dergymcn,  they  took  a 
piona  rerenge  in  wildly  dedaiming 
against  the  pride  and  arrogance  of 
those  who  derided  ^em,  ttod  ind- 
doitally  pointed  to   the  laxnrions 
grandeor  and  somptaeos  tiring  of  the 
^;reat  dignitariea  of  the  ehnrch,  while 
Its  poor  hard-working  cvatee  had 
scarcely  the  DMaas  of  iiring.  Traated 
with  oontnmely  by  tiie  few  edncated 
Fingiiah  who,   fimm   time   to   time, 
settled   among  thefar  hearera,  they 
pointed  hi  thdr  indignation  to  that 
eonntry,  and  to   those  institntiotta, 
where  one  man  waa  held  no  better 
than  another,  and  where  the  many 
oonld  soon  leT«l  the  pride  and  bring 
down  the  pretensions   of  the  ftw. 
Deprfred  by  law,  as  they  were  at  thia 
time,  of  nearly  all  tiie  rights  of  Chiis- 
tian  miniiterft— of  the  right  to  marry, 
and  all  aimilar  ones,  (for  both  the 
l^emmoitand  the  choroh  had  kmg 
contended  against  men  iHiom  they 
regarded  and  belieTed,  in  point  of 
education  and  eharaeter,  to  be  wholly 
onfit  to  exerelBe  these  sacred  fhnc- 
tioas,)  they  dedairaed  from  the  Tory 
bottom  of  thenr  hearts  against  the 
iliiberality  and  exdnaiveness  of  En- 
glish institntions,  of  En^^  Ibdings, 
and  of  Engiidi  pride,  in  deprir&g 
them  of  these  rights ;  and  they  ap- 
planded,  with  eqnal  earnestness,  that 
government  nnder  which,  their  ehnrch 
lonrished,  in  the  fUlest  exercise  of 
the  widest  priidleges  of  a  Christian 
denomination.  There  ia  no  exaggera- 
tkm  on  the  one  side  or  on  the  other 
in  this.    It  wonhi  be  offisnsiTe  to  tiie 
ofauth  and  to  its  adherents  to  say, 
that  they  regarded  these  preachers 
otherwiie  than  we  have  described.  It 
would  be  xmjivmt  to  the  Methodists  to 
say,  that  they  did  not  feel,  and  that 
they  ^  not  act,  as  we  haye  giren  them 
credit  for  doing. 

Bat  in  addition  to  the  effect,  poUti- 
cal  aad  national,  prodnoed  by  these 
preachers,  the  pecnliarity  of  the  Me- 
thodist charch-goremment  spread  tiie 
same  inioenees  by  many  nunor,  bat 
Botle»eflbctnalr«miacati<ms.  Eyeiy 


Uttie  sode^,  in  erery  neigfalMWihood, 
had  what  is  called  a  dass-leader,  or 
local  preacher,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
exercise  a  sort  of  half-reOgioos  and 
half-dvUdominatkm  over  the  part  of 
the  drarch  immediatdy  smrromiding 
him,  to  give  them  advice,  setUe  their 
diffiarences,  and  practisethe  arts  ef small 
orat<N7'  and  miaiatare  government. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  percdve  how 
this  system  must  have  fdmidied  a 
leader  to  every  little  ndghbourhood ; 
how  the  ambitimi  first  formed  by  a 
class-meeting  must  have  wished  the 
larger  sphere  of  a  pditical  one ;  aad 
how  the  eonsdoisness  of  abHity  to 
govern  a  congregation  naturally  led 
to  the  conviction  that  the  aame  abili- 
tiea  might  be  nsefnlly  employed  in 
tiie  Bfta|iBtraey,  or  even  hi  parliament. 
And  it  IS  a  signtficaat  &ct,  that  since 
the  friends  of  these  class-leaders  have 
bem  in  power,  in  every  neighbourhood 
where  the  Methodists  have  had  a 
footings  two-thirds  of  the  magistrates 
appointed  by  the  government  were, 
aadare,  these  very  dass-leaden  them- 
sdves.  But,  at  the  time  we  axe  speak- 
ing otf  the  idea  of  appohtting  a  person 
a  magistrate,  whose  only  qualification 
oonsteted  in  his  exhibiting  a  stentorian 
voice  at  Metlmdist  meet&gs,  or  being 
an  influential  member  <^  **  his  sodety,** 
was  utterly  repugnant  to  the  ^ddinga 
of  men  educated  to  dislike  such  per- 
sons, even  when  they  are  unpretend- 
ing, much  less  wlien  they  aspure  to 
offices  of  honour  and  dist&iction. 
Ko  dass-leadtfB,  therefore,  in  ndgh- 
bourfaoods  where  every  man  was 
aMke  a  lord  of  the  soil,  saw  them- 
selves looked  up  to  as  leaders  by 
the  many,  at  the  same  time  tiiat  they 
were  looked  down  upon  as  boorish* 
pretenders  by  the  few.  But  what 
galled  them  yet  more  was,  that  they 
oonstantiy  saw  the  few  placed  in 
offices  of  honour  and  emolument  over 
them,  and  thus  "  rubbing  in,"  as  tiiey 
termed  it,  the  insult  and  the  injustice 
of  their  own  exclusion.  Like  the 
preachers,  too,  they  pointed,  in  thdr 
indignaticm  and  revenge,  to  that  coun- 
try and  those  institutions  where  the 
people  could  raise  the  man,  and  not 
the  crown — where  they  could  not  only 
attain  what  th^  auned  at,  but  crush 
what  th^  abhorred. 

Partly  fitnn  this  system  of  religious 
and  pditical  education^  and  partiy 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


762 


CM  Swohiiion  in  <te  GuMute. 


[Jffiie, 


$rom  the  great  nomber  of  AmetioiAs 
who  settled  in  tJbe  proviiiee  imne* 
diately  after  the  revoUitipoary.  w«r, 
and  who  came  in  with,  and  at  ike 
sogg^tionof  QoTarnorSittcoe,  as  well 
as  thp  many  who  oame  in  without 
him— bat  mainly  ftom  the  tinge  of 
nationality  that  all  large  oommniifties 
Impart  to  small onesadjacenttothemr— 
the  manners,  the  customs,  the  accettt, 
and  even  the  prejudices,  of  the  rural 
native  populaUon  in  Upper  Canada, 
are  scarcely  distinguishable  from  the 
American.  Their  ve^  slang  words  are 
the  same,  and  their  dislilie  or  what  they 
term  ^^  blooded  critters," — namely, 
Englishmen,  who  cannot  help  evincing 
their  inveterate  dislike  of  either  asso- 
ciatmg  themselves,  or  allowing  their 
families  to  associate,  with  persons 
whose  education  and  habits  they  con- 
sider beneath  them.  Every  feature, 
indeed,  by  which  an  Englishman  can 
detect  the  influence  of  thelevelling  sys- 
tem in  the  States,  particularly  among 
the  farming  and  lower  classes,  he  can 
also  detect,  and  fully  to  the  same 
extent,  among  all  the  American,  the 
Dutch,  and  most  of  the  rural  native 
Canadianpopulation  in  Upper  Canada. 
It  would  be  digressing  too  far  from 
the  main  object  of  this  paper  to  bring 
forward  examples — and  we  know  hun- 
dreds— where  English  gentlemen  have 
been  subjected  to  innumerable  petty  an- 
noyances, (such  as  cutting  down  their 
fences,  and  letting  the  cattle  into  their 
com-nelds,^  merely  because  it  be- 
came hinted  about  the  neighbourhoods 
where  they  had  settled  that  they  were 
"  blooded  critters,"  and  refused  to  eat 
at  the  same  table  with  thcdr  labourers, 
and  associate  upon  an  equal  footing 
•with  their  neighbours,  irrespective  of 
their  habits,  character,  and  education; 
where  men  have  left  the  harvest-fields 
as  soon  as  they  discovered  that  two 
tables  were  set  in  the  house;  and 
where  families  have  been  obliged,  to 
avoid  inconveniences  that  coiSd  not 
be  endured,  to  conform,  if  not  alto- 
gether, at  least  for  a  time,  to  the  gen- 
eral visage  of  admitting  no  distinction 
between  master  and  man.  It  must 
suffice  for  oar  purpose  now,  to  say 
that  these  things  exist— that  they 
exist  to  the  extent  that  we  have  de- 
scribed them ;  and  without  going  into 
the  question  of  the  policy  or  the  im- 
policy of  lUigUshmen  not  conforming 


10  tlie  ^neral  and  M^vailiiiig  customs 
of  the  ooontry  In  which  ihey  Mttle,  or 
of  the  merit'Or  demerit  of  these  ca8t<yqia 
thcanselves,  all  we  wish  to  say  here  is, 
that  these  customs  are,  in  our  humble 
opinion,  inimiottl  to  all  moiiardbleal 
education— to  tiMl  state  of  sodety 
where  rank  must  be  reeogaifled,  re- 
i^eetabttity  distlngalsbed,  uid  refine- 
ment fneiarve^  or  monarchy  cease  to 
eodst,  or  beeome  a  mockeiy. 

But  what  was  the  strength  of  all 
these  natural  and  unmistakM>le  ele- 
ments of  hostility  to  monardiy  under 
any  form,  aod  to  a  people  bred  imder 
monarchical  institutions  In  any  cir- 
cumstances? WlMt  was  the  power 
of  the  Methodists,  in  so  far  i»  that 
was  used  against  the  government, 
over  the  eonstituracies  of  the  pro- 
vince ?  What  was  the  power  of  those 
who  were  not  Methoddsts,  but  who 
united  with  them  in  opposing  the 
government?  And  what  was  tiie  power 
of  the  really  honest  Yankees  in  the 
province,  who  never  hesitated  to 
avow  that  they  hated  the  British 
government,  root,  branches,  and 
all?  And  In  what  wa^  did  their 
united  floelings  and  intentions  develop 
themselves  ? 

Tor  upwards  of  a  quarter  of  a  oeo- 
tury  they  maintained, — ^with  all  the 
power  and  patronage  of  the  govtem- 
ment  against  them ;  with  most  of  tiie 
talent  bom  in  the  province,  and  tlie 
whole,  or  very  neariy  so,  of  that  im- 
ported into  it,  agahist  them ;  and  with 
seven-eighths,  yes,  nine-tenths,  of  the 
emigrants  who  were  able  to  purchase 
propertyyhen  they  came,  or  who  subse- 
quentiy  became  voters,  against  them, — 
alternate,and  more  than  alternate^  ma- 
jorities in  parliament.  Itcananswerno 
good  purpose  now,  it  nevet  answered 
any,  to  denyor  to  disguise  this  £ust. 
This  class  of  men  formed,  as  what  we 
have  ateea^  stated  must  have  satis- 
fied the  reader,  fully  two-tiurds  of  the 
electors  in  the  counties.  IntheHome 
District,  where  M^Kenaie,  who  headed 
the  rebellion  in  1887,  had  absolute 
control  over  the  elections;  in  the 
Midland  District,  where  Mr  BidweU, 
an  American  by  burth,  by  edncaftkm, 
and  fix>m  principle,  exercised  a  similar 
influence;  in  the  London  District, 
where  Duncombe,  who  also  headed 
the  rebels,  could  cany  any  man  Into 
parliament  he  i^eased;   what  was 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.] 


CivU  Revohaion  in  the  Canadas. 


733 


the  character  of  the  voters  in  the 
townships  and  counties  which  gave 
them  this  power?  They  were  the 
Methodists,  educated  as  we  have 
described ;  they  were  the  Americans 
and  Dutch,  with  strong  predilections 
in  favour  of  democracy,  and  still 
stronger  dislike  of  the  natural  and 
inevitable  characteristics  of  society 
which  arise  from  monarchy  itself. 
In  the  Grore  district,  in  the  Niagara 
district,  and  in  the  Newcastle  district, 
what  do  the  poll-books  exhibit  for  the 
counties  which*  sent  member  after 
member,  with  hardly  an  exception,  to 
support  M^Kenzie  in  the  parliament, 
and  some  of  them  to  support  him  in 
the  rebellion  ?  The  number  of  Heze- 
kiahs,  and  Jedediahs,  and  Jonathans, 
of  £liacums,  and  Ezekiels,  shows  pretty 
dearly  what  was  their  origin,  and 
what  were  their  political  predilec- 
tions. But  these  democratic  leanings 
were  by  no  means  arbitrarily  con- 
fined to  names,  for  there  was  both  a 
Duke  of  Wellii^rton  and  a  Horatio 
Nelson  in  the  Gore  District  gaol  for 
treason  in  1838.  The  Duke  was  a 
preacher,  and  regularly  held  forth  to 
his  fellow  prisoners,  until  the  scamp 
at  last — ^wesuppose  to  acquire  apracti- 
cal  idea  of  the  nature  of  sin — stole  a 
watch  from  one  of  his  companions, 
And  was  thereupon  regularly  deposed 
from  his  high  calling ;  and  the  scene 
of  his  labours  changed  from  among  the 
political  offenders  down  to  the  petty 
larceny  fraternity.  All  of  which  may 
.  be  found  duly  chronicled  in  the  records 
of  the  sheriff's  office  of  the  Gore  Dis- 
trict for  the  period. 

But  there  is  no  circumstance,  per- 
haps, that  we  could  mention,  thatcould 
conv^  a  better  idea  of  the  relative 
regard  for  England  and  the  United 
States,  of  the  dass  of  people  we  have 
been  describing,  than  the  fact—well 
known  to  every  person  who  has  lived 
<among  them — that  a  Yankee  school- 
master, without  either  education  or 
intelligence  —  with  nothing  on  earth 
to  recommend  him,  save  an  inve- 
terate propensity  for  vapouring  and 
meddling  in  the  affiurs,  religious  and 
political,  of  every  sect  and  dass 
wherever  he  goes — can,  and  ever  has, 
exercised  more  Influence  among  them 
in  a  few  months,  than  a  whole 
neighbourhood  of  English  gentle- 
men could  in  years,    ^d  we  speak 

VOL.  Lxv. — NO.  ccccrv. 


neither  from  hearsay  nor  conjecture : 
we  speak  from  what  we  have  seen  and 
know,  and  what  is  susceptible  of  fall 
proof. 

The  political  measures  of  this  party,, 
like  all  others,  soon  shaped  themselves 
into  an  embodiment  of  their  motives 
and  principles,  and  into  a  means,  the 
most  natural  and  the  most  certain,  of 
gaining  and  keeping  power.  Ambi- 
tion, mounted  between  two  saddle- 
bags, upon  a  jog-trot  pony,  was  not 
likely  to  shine  in  the  character  of  a 
courtier.  A  strong  nasal  accent,  and 
a  love  of  the  levelling  system,  were 
but  poor  recommendations  to  English 
gentlemen,  and  English  governors,  for 
offices  of  distinction  and  the  command 
of  her  Majesty's  militia  forces.  But 
both  were  powerful  at  the  hustings. 
What  they  could  not  win  from  the 
crown  they  could  gain  from  the  elec- 
tors.  What  monarchical  feelings  and 
a  monarchical  education  could  not 
brook,  democratic  voters  would  assur- 
edly elevate.  The  consequences  were 
such  as  may  be  conceived.  Their 
measures  became,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  democratic.  They  began 
by  requiring,  as  indispensable  to  the 
proper  **  image  and  transcript,"  as 
they  called  it,  of  the  British  constitn- 
tion,  that  the  legislative  council — ana- 
logous to  the  House  of  Lords— should 
be  rendered  elective ;  that  the  magis- 
tracy should  be  made  elective ;  that 
voting  by  ballot,  as  it  is  practised  in 
the  States,  should  be  introduced ;  and 
that  every  officer  in  the  country,  from 
a  colonel  to  a  constable,  should  be 
chosen  by  the  people.  How  much  of 
monarchy  would  have  been  left  after 
all  this — how  many  of  the  distinguish- 
ing characteristics  that  the  English  go- 
vernment imparts  to  a  British  people, 
would  have  been  discernible,  after  all 
these  measures  were  in  full  operation, 
it  would  not  have  been  very  difficult 
to  foresee. 

Lord  Durham,  in  speaking  of  this 
party,  and  of  that  which  opposed  it, 
observes : — 

"  At  first  sight  it  appears  mueh  more 
diffionU  to  form  an  aconnte  idea  \  '  ~ 
state  of  Upper  than  of  Lower  Cana^' 
yisible  and  broad  line  of 
which  separates  partii 
characters  of  ^ 

tence  in  U] 
one  of  an 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


734 


Cml  JUv^kdtoH  m  Ae  Camdat, 


[Jime, 


populftUon.  like  ill  sneh  qnantlsy  ift 
has^  in  U^i,  created  not  two  bat  se?e- 
nl  parties,  each  of  which  has  some  ob- 
jects in  common  with  some  one  of  those 
to  which  it  is  opposed.  They  differ  on 
one  point  and  agree  on  another ;  the  sec- 
tions which  unite  together  one  day  are 
strongly  opposed  the  next ;  and  the  rery 
party  whiob  acts  as  <Hie  agiinsi  a  com- 
Bion  oppomenty  is  ia  troth  eomposed  of  di-, 
TisioBS  seekiiig  mtterly  diflbreut  or  imok- 
patiUe  objaots.  It  is  Tory  difiUnlt  to 
make  out,  firom  the  arowals  of  parties,  the 
real  objects  of  their  stmggles ;  and  still 
less  easy  is  it  to  discover  any  cause  of 
such  importance  as  would  account  for  its 
uniting  any  large  mass  of  the  people  in 
an  attempt  to  orerthrow,  by  forcible 
means,  the  existing  form  of  goremment.'* 

There  could  not  have  been  anything 
more  mischievouBly  incorrect,  or  more 
likely  to  lead  to  mnfortunate  concla- 
sions,  than  these  statements.  We 
can  safely  challenge  the  whole  parlia* 
mentary  history  of  the  province,  the 
character  of  the  leading  measures  and 
of  the  leading  men,  and  the  result  of 
every  election,  for  twenty-five  years, 
to  find  even  a  reasonable  pretext  for 
them,  although  we  believe  they  were 
made  in  full  conviction  of  their  truth  by 
the  nobleman  who  made  thenu  Of 
course,  he  could  not  have  properly 
understood  what  he  was  writing  about. 
For  six  successive  elections  previous 
to  the  rebellion,  the  whole  history  of 
England  does  not  afibrd  an  example 
of  each  party's  going  to  the  hustings 
with  so  little  change  in  men,  mea- 
sures, principles,  or  feelings,  as  in 
every  one  of  these.  In  every  new 
House  of  Assembly  the  same  identical 
leaders,  and  the  same  followers,  singled 
out  the  same  men  four  years  iSter 
four  years;  and  neither  accidents  nor 
changes,  the  reproaches  of  treason  on 
the  one  side,  or  the  accusations  of  cor- 
ruption on  the  other,  caused  the  loss  of 
a  man  to  one  party  or  the  gain  of  one 
to  the  other.  The  whole  heart,  soul, 
and  hopes  of  the  two  parties  were  as 
distinct  and  opposite  as  those  of  any 
two  parties  that  ever  had  an  existence. 
Nor  could  ifhave  been  otherwise,  when 
the  tendencies  of  the  one  were  so  ma- 
nifestly against  the  existence  of  a 
fabric,  which  eveiy  feeling  <^  the  other 
urged  them  to  preserve  at  all  hazards 
and  under  all  circumstances. 

At  last  an  important  event  in  the 
hiitoiy  of  the  province  bron^  the 


contest  between  tiieae  parlies  to  ao 
issue.  When  Sir  Francis  Head  at- 
snmed  the  government  in  1836,  lie 
fonnd  the  party  which  had  opposed  it 
for  so  many  years  with  a  large  minority 
m  Parliament.  With  the  view,  if  poa- 
siUe,  of  recondiing  the  tw»  parties, 
and  of  getting  both  to  unite  with  lun 
in  furthering  the  real  interests  of  the 
province,  he  formed  an  executive 
council  of  the  leaders  of  both.  But 
the  council  had  scarcely  been  formed, 
before  the  leaders  of  the  party  which 
had  been  so  perpetually  in  opposition 
declined  remaining  in  it,  uidess  Sir 
Francis  would  surrender  up  to  them^ 
practically,  the  same  powers  that  are 
enjoyed  by  the  ministry  in  England. 
This  he  neither  could  nor  would  do. 
An  angry  correspondence  ensued. 
They  significantly  pointed,  in  the 
event  of  the  character  of  the  strog^ 
being  changed,  to  aid  firom  the  great 
democracy  of  America.  He  asserted 
that  the  great  right  arm  of  Rnglattd 
should  l^  wielded,  if  necessary,  to 
support  the  crown.  They  finally  c<m- 
duded  bv  stopping  the  supplies.  He 
dissdvea  the  house. 

In  the  election  contest  which  en- 
sued, it  was  distinctly  and  emphati- 
cally declared  by  the  government,  that 
the  contest  was  no  longer  as  between 
party  and  party  in  a  colony,  but  as 
between  monarchy  and  democracy  in 
America.  Monardiy  was,  in  fact  and 
in  truth,  the  candidate  at  the  ekx^on. 
And  whether  the  whole  of  the  party 
engaged  in  this  desperate  opposition 
participated  in  the  declaration  made 
to  Sir  Francis,  that  tJiey  would  look 
for  aid  to  the  States,  and  which  eli- 
cited firom  him  the  reply,  ^^  Let  them 
come  if  they  dare,*'  is  not  a  matter 
that  they  have  ever  enlightened  the 
public  upon.  But  that  he  was  forced 
and  obliged  to  make  monarchy  the 
candidate  in  this  election,  or  let  de- 
mocracy threaten  and  bully  him  out 
of  the  country,  is  a  hist<»rical  fact, 
and  incontrovertible  in  the  Canadas, 
but  most  grossly  and  most  unforta- , 
nately  misunderstood  in  England. 

The  government  party  gained  the 
Section.  But  after  the  contest,  the 
opposition,  seeing  their  hopes  of  suc- 
cess— ^which  were  founded  vpon  the 
plan  of  embarrassing  the  goremment 
into  their  meaiurea,  by  gaining  ma- 
jorities in  pariiament  and  stopping  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


CmiRevoktHonin^  Cemacbm, 


7S5 


Boppttes—aH  destroyed  by  the  resiilt  of 
this  election ;  and  knowing  that  immi- 
gration was  erery  year  ad^mg  to  the 
strength  of  their  opponents,  finally 
determined  to  change  the  struggle  from 
the  hustings  and  the  pariiament,  to 
the  camp  and  the  battle-field — to  risk 
all  in  a  bold  attempt  to  strike  down 
the  oak  at  a  blow,  instead  of  attempt- 
ing to  destroy  it,  branch  by  branch,  by 
democratic  measures  and  factions 
legislation.  That  there  were  men  of 
this  party  who  did  not  approTe  of  this 
desperate  step,  and  that  there  were 
others  who  thoii^titprematnre,  we  be- 
lieve and  know;  bnt  that  the  great 
body  of  the  party  itself  sympathised 
with  the  leaders  in  it,  and  wonld  have 
gloried  in,  and  contributed  by  all  the 
means  in  their  power  to  their  success, 
bad  it  been  attainable,  we  are  not 
only  sure  of,  bnt  could  prore  by  the 
histoiy  of  the  whole  affahr,  giyen  by 
those  who  had  the  best  means  oi 
imdersta&ding  it. 

When  Lora  Durham  arriyed  in 
Canada,  he  found  this  party  in  the 
situation  of  masses  of  threatenbg,  but 
scattered  clouds.  Some  had  yolun- 
tariiy  withdrawn  to  the  States;  others 
were  there,  either  to  escape  arrest^ 
or  from  consciotmsess  of  their  guilt 
in  the  rebellion.  Hie  great  body 
of  the  party  remained  in  the  pro- 
Tince,  with  all  those  feelmgs  towards 
England  and  her  loyal&ts,  that 
humbled  pride,  many  snfierings,  a 
contemptible  struggle,  and  a  morti- 
fying defeat,  were  Ukely  to  engender. 
But  though  the  storm  had  passed 
over,  the  clouds  were  nearly  all  left. 
The  party  had,  in  reality,  gained  by 
experience  much  more  than  it  had 
lost  in  numbers.  It  had  come  to  the 
understanding  that  Ent^d's  great 
right  arm  could  not  be  so  eanly 
broken.  It  had  learned,  and  its  friends 
in  tiie  States  had  learned— what  was 
most  usefhl  to  both  under  the  drcum- 
stances— that  if  England's  institutions 
were  to  be  destroyed  in  America,  it 
must  be  done  by  some  other  means 
than  by  blows  and  bayonets. 

And  it  was  with  this  party,  thus 
situated,  and  composed  of  the  mate- 
rials, and  influenced  by  the  considera- 
tions, we  have  mentioned,  that  Lord 
Duriiam  prc^NNied,  by  a  unkm  of  the 
provinces,  to  nentrafise  the  legidattre 
influence  of  tiie  Frendi   of  Lower 


Canada— to  destroy  thehr  supremacy, 
which  was  pregnant  with  rebellion, 
and  to  subvert  their  power,  which  had 
been  synonymous  with  decay.  For 
without  the  aid  of  this  party,  or  a  great 
portion  of  it,  the  loyalists  could  not  ac- 
eompluah  this ;  much  less  could  it  ever  be 
aecomi^shed  if  this  party  should  hap- 
pen to  mite  with  ^e  Freneh.  A  vast 
power,  too,  whether  for  good  or  fbr 
evil,  and  hitherto  vnknown  in  a  co- 
lony, was  thrown  among  them  idl  to 
be  scrambled  for.  We  mean  a  power 
analogous  to  that  of  the  ministry  in 
England,  and  known  by  the  name  of 
a  Responsible  Grovemment  in  Canada. 
Hiis  power,  always  held  in  England 
by  the  heads  of  great  parties — by 
men  of  lofty  intellects  and  great  char- 
acters—by men  who  were  literally  in- 
vested with  the  moral  worth,  the  in- 
telligence, the  rank,  and  the  honour 
of  millions — this  mighty  power  was 
tossed  up  in  the  Canadas  like  a  cap  in  a 
crowd,  to  fall  upon  the  head  of  whom- 
soever it  might  chance.  It  mattered 
not  Aether  it  was  a  Frenchman,  the 
dearest  object  of  whose  existence  was 
the  destruction  of  England's  power, 
that  gained  the  majority.  The  cap 
must  be  his.  It  mattered  not  whether 
it  was  a  democrat,  whose  secret  but 
highest  aim  was  tiie  annihilation  of 
Englhnd's  monarchy,  that  succeeded 
at  the  elections :  the  mantle  of  Eng- 
land's honour,  and  of  upholding  Eng- 
land's crown  in  America,  must  fall 
upon  him.  We  should  be  sorry  to  pro- 
pose the  curtailment  of  a  single  privi- 
lege of  a  single  Briton,  in  any  part  of 
the  worid  where  the  flag  of  his  country 
waves  over  him.  In  what  we  shall 
have  to  say  hereafter  as  to  the  govern- 
ment of  the  colonies,  we  do  not  intend 
doing  so.  But  iHiat  we  mean  to  say  of 
this  vast  power,  which  was  thrown 
amonff  the  people  to  be  scrambled  for 
at  this  time  in  the  Canadas,  is, 
that  what  in  England  must  have  been, 
firom  tiie  very  nature  of  things,  a 
guarantee  for  all  orders  in  the  state 
being  preserved  and  protected  under 
it,  was  in  the  Canadas,  equally  flnom 
the  nature  of  things,  precisely  the  re- 
verse. No  ministry  in  England  could 
be  ftmned  without  the  nobittty,  the 
gentry,  the  wealth— all  that  owed  its 
all  to  the  preservation  of  the  Institu- 
tions of  the  country— behtgrepratpHi^ 
in  it.    In   the  Canadas  a  r^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


rsG 


uyhARgvoiulion  in  AeCimadai. 


[Jinie^ 


could  be— y<«,  from  the  ¥iefj  imtnre 
of  thifigs;  a  miBflatry  orasl  be*^fonnod, 
where  Freuchmen,  who  hated  Edg- 
land — Where  democrtt^,  who  hated 
monarchy,  most  control  the  destinies 
of  England's  subjects— the  existence 
ol  England^s  empire  in  the  west.  Wo, 
would  not  l>e  understood,  therefore, 
a*  desiring  to  curtail  a  single  privilege ; 
but  we  would,  nerertbeleflSrkeep  edge- 
tools  out  of  the  hands  of  madmen  aiid 
enemies.  We  would  nbt  remove  the 
rope  fhmi  the  neck  of  another  to  put 
it  round  our  own. 

Extraordinary  though  it  seem  that 
human  credulity  could  go  so  far— if 
the  character  of  the  parties,  if  the 
character  even  of  the  measures  of  the 
parties,  in  Upper  Canada  was  under- 
gtood— as  to  expect  that  the  giving  to 
the  one  which  had  opposed  the  govern- 
ment, as  it  were  by  nature,  the  power, 
by  uniting  with  the  French,  of  crush- 
ing Its  enemies  for  ever,  that  it  would 
not  do  so ;  that  It  would  not  join  with 
Its  old  allies  in  dividing  the  spoils  of 
prospenty,  as  it  had  ah-eady  done  in 
sihanng  the  mortifications  of  defeat; 
that  it  would  not  join  them,  even  for 
ihk  purpose  of  having  revenge,  each  of 
its  ovtn  enemy  in  its  own  province  ;— 
yet  such  was  the  hope,  such  the  in- 
fatuation of  Lord  Durham.  He  let  a 
little  Stream  of  absti'act  right  fail  into 
a  whole  sea  of  French  pr^udices  and 
democratic  infatuations,  and  he  ex- 
pected that  it  Would  change  the  great 
face  of'  the  waters:  And  what  has 
>^een  the  result?  — that  the  Httle 
stream  has  been  lost  in  the  great' sea'; 
^hat,  instead  of  its  chtoging  the  sea, 
it  has  but  added  to  its  we^ht ;  that 
al!  the  prejudices,  all  the  infatuatloiiB 
are  left ;  and  the  poWer  that  was  e*- 
)[)ected  to  change  thetii  has  been' cow- 
Verted  into  tools  for  them  towork  with. 

Up  to  the  last'  electioil,  the  Fi^ench 
had  never  fairly  ^^veted  thdr  for- 
mer influence,  or  irather  had  not  *Wc 
opportunity  of  full v  eiertfng  fhelr 
powers  in  the  elections.  Vp  to  the 
same  period,  the  reform  "party,  as  they 
styled  tj^etnselves  in*  l^fpet  CImada, 
had  laboured  under  a  ^milar  dii^ad- 
vantage.  The  latter  had  rtfftt^d  ft^r 
£he  want  of  its  leaders,  threfe  df  whom 
were  outlaws  hi  the  ptat<^,  to  well 
as  frowr  other  6iiiu6efl.'  But  at  the 
last  eteci&on--<i  ftiir  ode  fbfall  parties 
—the  Frencn  rce<>veWd' aft  ih^  far- 


mer power,  and  Ihe  Upper  CaQftdinii 
pmty  all  Ita  ibrmer  oonnties.  The 
Freneb,  therefore;  were  middng  aU 
the  strides  thev  could  towards  Ihe 
domination  that,  aocordfnjg  to  Lord 
Durham,  was  pregnant  with  rebellion ; 
the  reform  party  had  just  the  oppor- 
tunity that  he  fondly  wished  for  them, 
of  checking  the  evil,  and  of  establish- 
ing an  enlightened  and  moderatei 
British  party  between  the  two  ex- 
tremes. JLad  what  did  they  do? 
The  measures  and  the  £aet8  must  speak 
for  themselves. 

The  following  resolution,  inovvd  by 
Mr  Lafontaine,  attorney-general  f&F 
Lower  Canada,  taken  in  the  ab- 
stract, would  seem  harmless  and  Mt 
enough : — 

^'  Resolved,  that  this  houf e  do  now  re- 
8oWe  itself  into  a  committee  to  take  into 
consideration  tiie  neeeseity  of  eeiaUishiii|( 
the  amonot  of  losses  indurred  by  eertain 
inhabitants  of  Lower  Canada  during 'the 
polUioal  tnmbUs  of  ldS7  and  1 838,  aAd<^ 
providing  for  the  payment  thelreof." 

But  when  the  following  commen- 
tary of  items,  intended  to  be  paid 
under  it,  is  ad^ed  to  it,  the  nature  of 
the  political  troubies  of  1837  and  1838, 
and  the  intentiou  of  the  ^esQlniion, 
will  be  better  understood  -.i—     : .  ,^., 

lUim  setected  frofn  tVe  PepoH'kif  the  Cdtif- 
mimoners  appoints  to  ^heria^n'tke 
Amonut  of  HebelHon  Loffni  in  Ui^ 
Canada^  and  theW  t)6ifCT-ww{oiif'»t4(*W- 

071.*—  '  "         •     I      M     ;" 

**No.  1109.  Woffi^NeI«oniMbtt!i«il. 
Prtperty  destroyed,  £28;i  09,  ISsrW-'^teft 
Dr  Nelson  deducto  the^aMoiitit^'ef tite 
BabiKtfes  {Jor  k*M  kit  tft^itofi^  Aaw 
elahmdy  or  map  dcHni)  eiid- bMIiaft^l1i% 
bnhince  only,  say  iJ12,&79, 12s.  TVfr    I'l 

« 108g.  Pierre  Beantihei^,  Sfe  'Oniii. 
£&P,  103.,  (fnarterhlg  ititfotgints  tinder 
the  commalrd  of  '  G^nt^riil  Mafhi6ti*^llin^ 
£\m,  $s.  8di  fot*  'ia^ribM«rob«t<'i|M% 
months  and  ninediiy^.  ^        ;  '■  'i'  .'''''."j 

**  nor.  JbtJ.  Gaiifloadi  CbateirtiWay, 
conviction  re<!Med:  9h«  '^fe  'bblite 
£8,  lOsJfot  tl^efurehilfle  of  th^  oonMated 
estate  bOttjsht by  he*.    <        -•  '  ^  '*'' ^ 

"P.N.  Pactftrd,TWW  Ilit«r«.'  "Ctfkim 
£40e'for^fake'iiDlpH8(Mtii«nt/aivd  £iib  Imt 
expenses  there^  atid  ^  ^8600  j4Ik^' alMMoe 
tnid  ^  PrdTfirt^,  t<^  4ydld  inM^  1^. 

«  ur.  J.  Dorion,  MJki  St  Ouifc  -  CUdtDs 
je^eo  as  dtie  fNltti  Vif  Ni4Mn*tt'>efttatit; 
£175  for  three  months' imprisonmettt^dbe. 

<' 82.i  ^rheopMl«'tRllb«ri;  MAitt«aI. 
OHitlbfton  t«ooM9d.  iOUImrr)eil5?filr 
loss  of  time  whibt  in  exilei' '     -"  '  "-  ' 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.a 


CwA  Baahtthn  intheCcakuku. 


737 


^  di:  OyviUo  BeaaaDkult,  Stott  aa* 
KedoUet.  UImibs  ^6268^  1-68,  fov  $iitef09t> 
and  i^30<^  luroftty  on  Uie  goodf  devtroj^ct 

"  2i77,  CUuroU  of  St  Cyprieo,  Napier* 
Yille,  The  eum  of  £3*27,  123.  6d.  waa 
takeu  from  the  treasury  of  the  Cliurch, 
forcibly,  by  Dr  Cote,  against  the  will  and 
remonstrance  of  the  churchwardens. 

'*398.  Jos,  Dumouchel,  Ste.  Martine. 
Contietion  recorded.  Glaim8£1878,lSs.9d., 
itttltidiog  £595  A)r  e<mip«nsation  for  seyen 
^ea«f8'  imprisoome&t  and  exile. 
-  ''564.  EtieDae  Langloia,  Blairfindie. 
Conviction  recorded.  Claima  £H6  for 
loiSs  of  time  while  in  exile,  and  £3i  pas- 
sage from  Sidney  to  Canada. 

'^  565.  Louis  Pinsonneau,  St  Re  mi. 
Conviction  recorded.  Claims£2*275,10s.9d., 
including  £855,  15s.  for  imprisonment 
and  exile. 

*'  €34.  Dayid  Blanchette,  St  Cyprien. 
Conviction  reeorded.  Claims  £520, 168.8d. 
for  iminifionmevt  and  exile. 

**  654.  Pierre  Layoia^St  Cyprien.  Con* 
yfatUm  recorded.  Claims  £8(M)  for  being 
exiied  six  years,  at  £50  per  annaBi. 

^  656.  Lonis  Laorelin,  St  Cyprien, 
claims  £50  for  imprisonment  and  ex- 
penses, having  been  acquitted. 

**  789.  Luo  H.  Masson,St  Benoit,  claims 
£450  for  the  interruption  of  his  business 
during  three  years. 

**  Euph.  Lamard,  St  lUme.  Conviction 
recorded.  Claims  £519,  including  £150, 
aix  years'  rent  of  property  destroyed. 

**  838.  Axchelaus  Welch,  West  Fam- 
ham,  claims  £80,  7s.  6d.  loss  on  sale  of 
timber,  on  account  of  the  troubles  in  1837. 

"*  850.  Theodore  B^hard,  Blairfrudie. 
CoBviction  recorded.  Claims  £670, 6s.  8d., 
value  of  his  estate  confiscated  and  pur- 
chased by  his  yyife. 

''  931.  Edouard  Major,  Ste.  Scholas- 
Uque,  claims  £921, 4s.  7d.,including  £250 
for  interest,  and  £150  for  the  loss  of  pro- 
fit>  in  discontinuing  business. 

''992.  Ldandre  Ducharme,  Montreal. 
Conviction  recorded.  Claims  for  impri- 
Boameiit  and  transportation,  living  in 
exile,  and  passage  home,  £262,  5s. 

**  1327.  B.  Vigor,  Boucherville,  claims 
£3000.    Exile  to  Bermuda. 

"  1651.  C.  Baiseune,  St  Benoit,  claims 
£150  for  three  years'  exclusion  from  his 
profession  as  a  notary,  owing  to  the  loss 
of  his  books,  when  prepared  to  pass  his 
examination  as  notary. 

''1812.:  J.  B.  Archambeault,  and  216 
others,  of  St  £ustaehe,#iaim  £489,  13s. 
for  gnns  taken  and  not  returned  to  the 
ownefs. 

"1^16.  Ninety  persons  of  St  Eustache, 
for  gnns  taken  and  not  returned, 
£205,  Os.  lOd. 

"1951.  F.  Dionne,  St  Cesaire,  claims 


£12  per  asvim^  er  £290  fer  hia  brother, 
who  lest  hiS)  senses  &eia  imprisonmeiit 
and  ill  usage. 

''2215.  H.  D'^hambaul^,  3pucher- 
ville,  claims  the  sum  of  £12,000,  as  part- 
ner of  Dr  Nelson,  for  the  creditors  of  the 
joint  estate;  but  as  the  separate  creditors 
have  filed,  or  will  file,  their  separate 
claims,  this  claim  is  not  inserted.  Dt 
Nelson  also  deducted  this  amount  from 
his  claim,  as  still  due  to  the  oorediters  of 
the  firm. 

"2174.  L.  Perrault,  Montreal,  claima 
£500,  absence  in  the  United  States,  and 
£1105,  loss  of  business.'' 

That  this 
charges  was  di 
be  paid  bj  h< 
ministry,  it  n 
satisfactoiy  to 
by  the  testimo: 
self,  than  by  an 

Mr  Merritt, 
council,  and  oc 
tion  in  tho  g 
that  Lord  Jol 
govenunent  ol 

to  his  constitnentSfWho  had  addressed 
him  on  the  subject,  and  remonstrated 
against  paying  these  charges : — **  On 
becoming  a  member  of  the  govern- 
ment (he  was  appointed  president  of 
the  council  upon  Mr  SuUivan^s  being 
raised  to  the  bench,  a  short  time  be- 
fore the  meeting  of  parliament)  I 
found  their  payment  determined  on  by 
Uie administration"  The  reader  will 
observe,  that  it  was  against  the  pay- 
ment of  the  items  above  quoted,  that 
Mr  Merritt^s  constitnents  remonstrat- 
ed. He  answered,  that  their  payment 
was  decided  upon  before  he  took  o£Sce. 
But  he  continues: — ^^My  first  im- 
pression was,  I  confess,  against  it; 
but  I  soon  became  convinced  that  they 
had  no  alternative.  I  neither  wish  to 
be  misunderstood,  nor  relieved  from 
responsibility.  Although  the  govern- 
ment approvedof  MrBonlton'samend- 
ment,  [which  was  an  amendment  of 
its  own  resolution,]  which  excludes 
those  who  were  sent  to  Bermuda,  I 
was  prepared  to  vote  for  excluding 
none."  That  is  to  8ay,--Mr  Merritt 
had  the  manliness  to  risk  his  charac- 
ter, by  voting  for  what  his  fellow- 
ministers  had  convinced  bim  was 
necessary.  They  wanted  the  man- 
liness to  do  what  they  had  previously 
convinced  him,  according  to  their 
ideas,  would  be  but  an  act  of  justice. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


788 


CimlIievokttMmiM4ikCkmadas. 


[Jnw. 


Bat  the  fact  vras,  her  Mi^esty^s 
CaoadiAii  Execniive  €o«imx1  had  dal- 
colated  too  highly  npou  thdr  own 
strength,  or,  having  provoked  the 
storm,  they  thnmk  back  in  terror  at 
its  violence  and  its  consequences. 
They  were,  therefore,  obliged  to  resort 
to  the  skin  of  the  fox,  to  make  up 
what  they  fonnd  they  wanted  of  that 
of  the  lion.  And  the  sobstitntion 
was  managed  after  the  following 
manner: 

The  amendment  alluded  to  by  Mr 
Merritt,  or  the  operative  part  of  it, 
was  in  these  words : 

"  That  the  losses,  so  far  only  as  they  have 
arisen  from  the  total,  or  parixally  unjust, 
unneoestaryf  or  wanton  destruction  of  the 
dwellings,  buildings,  property,  and  effects 
of  the  said  inhabitants  [of  Lower  Canada], 
and  by  the  seizare,  taking,  or  carrying 
away  of  their  property  and  efibeUi,  should 
be  satisfied  ;  pre?ided  that  none  of  the 
persons  who  hare  been  eoiiTictad  of  high 
treason,  alleged  to  have  been  committed 
in  that  part  of  this  province  formerly 
called  Lower  Canada,  since  the  first  day 
of  November  1847,  or  who,  having  been 
charged  with  high  treason,  or  other 
offences  of  a  treasonable  nature,  and  hav- 
ing been  committed  to  the  custody  of  the 
sheriff  in  the  gaol  of  Montreal,  submitted 
themselves  to  the  will  and  pleasure  of  her 
Majesty,  and  were  thereupon  transported 
to  her  Majesty's  island  of  Bermuda,  shall 
be  entitled  to  any  indemnity  for  losses 
sustained  during  or  after  the  said  rebel- 
lion, or  in  consequence  thereof." 

'  This  amendment  is  worded  carefully 
enough,  and,  like  Mr  Lafontaine's 
resolution,  is  apparentlyjust  and  harm- 
less in  its  abstract  signification ;  but  it 
proves,  like  tiie  former,  a  vastly  dif- 
ferent matter  when  its  intentions  come 
to  be  discovered  by  ks  practical  ap- 
pUcatioB. 

It  is  necessary  that  the  reader 
should  understand  that  there  were  a 
great  number  of  the  French  rebels, 
particularly  the  leading  characters, 
who  fled  the  country  immediately  after 
the  first  few  contests  were  over — and 
some  of  them  were  brave  enough  not 
even  to  wait  so  long— who  came  back 
under  the  amnesty,  and  consequently 
neither  submitted  themselves  to  the 
custody  of  tbe  sheriflf  of  Montreal, 
nor  were  prosecuted  in  any  way :  these 
are,  therefore,  no  matter  how  high,  or 
how  notorious  their  treason,  exempted 
fircHn  diaabilky ,  under  this  amendmeat, 


to  claim  rebaUioA  loasea.  Amon^ 
tiiete  was  m  Dootor  Wolfired  Neboo, 
who  was  oonunaader-in-cliief  of  Uie 
rebels  at  the  battles  of  St  DeniB  and 
St  Gharies ;  who  fon^t  with  them  as 
well  as  he  could ;  who  published  the 
declaration  of  independence  for  the 
Canadas ;  who,  after  he  had  made  his 
escape  to  the  States,  hovered  rooad 
the  borders  as  the  leader  (^  the  pintl«> 
cal  gangs  Uiat  devastated  tiie  countiy  ; 
and  whom  General  Wood  was  finally 
despatdMd  by  tiie  Umted  States  go- 
yemnienttoputdown.  Hiis  individual 
is  now  a  member  of  the  Canadian  par- 
liament for  a  Frendi  county,  and  is  an 
admitted  claimant,  under  Mr  Boulton's 
amendment,  for  twenty- three  thousuid 
pounds,  ybr  Ail  rebeBian  losses.  His 
own  words  in  the  debate  upon  the 
question  are  these: — *^  As  to  the 
claims  made  for  my  property,  I  had 
sent  in  adetaHed  acooont  of  the  losses 
whi<^  had  occurred,  and  which 
amounted  to  £28,000,  of  which  £11,000 
did  not  belong  to  me,  but  to  my  cre- 
ditors. I  mentioned  their  names,  and 
as  far  as  my  memory  would  serve, 
that  was  the  amount.*^  Now,  setting 
aside  the  doctrine,  subversive  even  (h 
all  traitors*  honour,  and  of  all  security 
under  any  government,  that  men  may 
first  hidf  destroy  a  country  by  rebel- 
lion, and  afterwards  nuJce  up  the 
other  half  of  its  destruction  by  claim- 
ing indemnity  for  incidental  losses; 
setting  aside  this  question,  and 
viewing  the  matter  in  the  abstract 
light,  that  all  claims  forinjuriesjshould 
be  paid,  we  should  like  to  know  who 
is  to  pay  the  creditors  of  the  poor 
widows  of  the  soldiers  and  the  loyal- 
ists whose  blood  stained  the  snows  of 
Canada  in  suppressing  Dr  Woifired 
Nelson's  rebellion?  Who  is  to  feed 
their  children,  who  are  at  this  mo- 
ment— we  can  vouch  for  the  tet 
in  at  least  one  instance — shoeiess 
and  houseless,  wandering  upon  the 
world?  Yet  Dr  Nelson's  creditors, 
on  account  of  Dr  Nelson's  crime, 
must  be  pud.  Who  is  to  pay  the 
creditors  of  the  merchants,  of  the 
millers,  of  the  lumberers,  who  were 
ruined  by  tbe  gweral  devastation  thai 
Dr  Nelson's  r^tMilion  brought  upmi 
Lower  Canada?  Still  Dr  Nebon's 
creditors  must  be  paid,  although  he 
spent  the  very  money  in  bringing  about 
other  people's  ruin.    Who  is  to  indem- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.] 


Ciml  Recoh^iom  m  tke  Otmmdm, 


760 


Bify  the  p6€j[)le  of  Epgknd  for  two 
miUiofiS  sterling  spent  in  putting  down 
Dr  NekMm's  rebeUioB  ?  Yet  Dr  Nel- 
eon's  property  mnst  be  made  good, 
and  Dr  Nelson's  creditors  mnst  be 
paid,  because  England  was  nnder  the 
necessity  of  patting  down  Dr  Nelson's 
insarrection.  And  will— can  England 
look  on  with  indifference  while  Upper 
Canada — whose  loyalists,  when  she 
was  without  a  soldl^  to  hoist  her 
^Agy  did  it  for  her— whose  p«Ofrie  freely 
and  s^adly  sacrificed  thek  lives,  as 
well  in  tbe  hardships  as  in  the  struggle 
with  the  traitor  and  the  assassin, 
and  whoie  trade  and  property  were 
weltakigh  mined  by  this  Dr  Wol- 
fred  Nelson's  rebellion — ^is  now  called 
spon  to  make  good  to  him  money 
he  spent  in  carrying  it  on,  and  pro- 
perty that  shared  but  the  common 
ruin  he  brought  upon  the  whole  coun- 
try? Yet  DrNelBen's  pigment  is  now 
decided  upon  by  tbt  parliament  of 
Canada ;  and  as  the  climax  of  such 
imheard-of  legidation,  he  TOted  for 
It  himself. 

When  sncfa  a  omch^aBd-fonr  as  this 
em  walk  through  Mr  Boulton's 
mmenduMBt,  it  is  seedless  io  spend 
tone  upon  smaller  fry.  The  loyalists 
^  Canada  have  now,  or  will  have,  if 
Hie  governor,  or  the  British  govern- 
ment assents  to  the  measure,  to  pay 
for  the  very  torch  that  was  employed 
to  set  fire  to  their  homes ;  for  the 
IfUBs  that  were  used  to  shoot  them 
down  by  the  wayside;  for  the  shoes 
that  aa  eaemy  who  challenged  them 
te  fight,  wore  o«t  in  nmning  away ; 
for  tiie  Mme  that  men  who,  assassin- 
like, estafaUflhed  hunters'  lodges  in 
the  States,  for  the  purpose  of  cutting 
4omti  the  A^eiMdess,  and  burning  up 
the  miprotected,  were  >engaged  in  the 
eeoceptton  and  execution  of  their  dia- 
belicid  dengns.  These  may  be  strong 
■iaitwnents,  but  tiiey  are  facts.  We 
need  go  no  farther  than  Dr  Nelson's 
4ase,  wlio  claims  indemnity  for  the 
▼cry  money  he  spent  in  bnying  pow- 
der and  Mb  to  destroy  her  Majesty's 
subjects,  and  who  claims  £12,000  for 
mjnry  to  his  property,  whMe  he  him^ 
self  was  at  the  head  of  gangs  of  dee- 
peradoes  laying  waste  the  whole 
^sonthem  frontier  of  the  province  to 
sustain  them. 

Bnt,  to  convey  as  idea  to  the  English 
reader  of  the  full  OKtent  to  whkh 


payment  may  be,  and  is  contemplated 
to  be^  made  to  parties  engaged  in  the 
rebellion,  under  this  amendment,  we 
need  bnt  quote  the  questions  that 
were  put  to  Mr  Lafontaine,  before  the 
final  vote  was  taken  on  the  question, 
and  the  manner  in  which  he  treated 
them. 

^In  committee  last  night,  Celonel 
Prince  statted  that  a  great  deal  of  un- 
certainty existed  as  to  the  olaas  of  persons 
whom  it  was  intended  by  the  ministry  to 
pay,  Wider  the  measure  introduced  by 
them,  and  he  begged  Mr  Attorney  Gene- 
ral Lafontaine  to  settle  the  matter  ex- 
plicitly by  replying  to  certain  questions 
which  he  would  put  to  him.  Colonel 
Prince  promised,  on  bis  part,  to  regard 
the  repUes  as  final,  and  affer  receiring 
them,  he  would  allude  no  further  to  the 
rebellion  elatms. 

"  He  ^en  put  ^  following  queetions 
in  a  deliberate,  solemn  manner,  pausing 
between  each  for  an  answer. 

«<  Do  you  propose  to  exelude,  in  your 
instructions  to  the  commissioners  to  be 
appointed  under  this  act,  all  who  aided 
and  abetted  in  the  re1>ellion  of  1837- 
18381* 

"  No  Reply. 

"*Do  you  propose  to  exclude  those, 
who,  by  their  admissions  and  ooafessionSi 
admitted  their  participation  in  the  re- 
bellion t ' 

"  No  Reply. 

"  *  Do  you  mean  to  exclude  those  whose 
admission  of  guilt  is  at  this  very  moment 
in  the  possession  of  the  goTemment,  or  of 
the  courts  of  law,  unless  these  admissions 
hare  been  destroyed  with  the  conni  ranee 
of  honourable  gentlemen  opposite  1* 

**  No  Reply. 

<<  *  Do  yon  mean  to  exclude  any  of  those 
800  men  who  were  imprisoned  in  the  jail 
of  Montreal,  for  their  participation  in  the 
rebellion,  and  who  were  subsequently 
discharged  from  custody  through  the 
clemency  of  the  goremment,  and  whose 
claims  I  understand  to  exceed  some 
£70,000!' 

'*  No  Reply. 

** '  Do  you  not  mean  to  pay  eyery  one, 
let  his  participation  in  the  rebellion  have 
been  what  it  may,  except  the  very  few 
who  were  convicted  by  the  courts- martial, 
and  some  sU  or  seyen  who  admitted  their 
guilt  and  were  sent  to  Bermuda !' 

♦*  No  Reply.*' 

Montreal  Oazette. 

But  what  course  did  the  enlightened 
reformers  of  Upper  Canada  take  in 
this  business--4id  that  party  which 
Lord  Durham  expressly  stated  was 
made  np,lbr  the  most  piart,  of  men  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


740 


CieaMmMionmtk^Canadu. 


[Jm^f 


strong  firidsh  IMiiigB,  and  hf  whoat 
aid  the  French  domitiaAton  was  to  be 
craabed?  Gat  of  the  strongest  ma- 
jority-^-ovt  of  the  meat  united  and 
efleetiTe  representaliion  of  the  whole 
psrtj  that  has  ever  beea  had  since 
Sir  Fnuieis  Head  aasnmed  the  govern- 
ncnt  of  the  provmee,  one  only  YOted 
against  the  French;  seventeen  voted 
irith  them,  and  fi?e  found  it  convenient 
to  be  absent. 

Bat,  bad  as  this  measure  is,  and 
plainly  as  it  shows  that  England's 
friends  have  been  rendered  politically 
powerless  in  the  provinces,  it  is  even 
better  than  the  representation  scheme, 
which  these  two  parties  have  still 
more  unitedly,  and,  if  anything,  more 
determhaedly  endeavoured  to  push 
through  nariiament  The  following 
extracts  irom  the  leadhig  journals  of 
both  provinces,  will  convey  an  idea 
of  the  intention  of  this  measure,  and 
what  it  is  likely  to  lead  to : — 

*^The  rehclHon  claims  which  haye 
roossd,  in  erery  SogKsh  breast,  a  feeling 
of  strong  antipathy  against  the  French 
Canadiaaraee,  is  bat  an  affair  of  akirmiflh- 
i°g>  preparatory  to  the  great  battle  for 
perpetual  domination  in  Canada  by  the 
French  Canadian  race  over  those  whom 
Mr  Lafontaine  has  styled  their  '  natural 
enemies.'  It  is  the  Representation  scheme 
that  is  to  raise  over  us,  for  eyer,  our 
*  French  Masters.'  As  an  affkir  of  money, 
that  of  the  Rebellion  Losses  is  an  injury 
and  insult  to  every  man  who  obeyed  the 
order  of  the  goyemment  in  its  time  of 
need.  It  has  planted  deeply  the  seeds  of 
a  neyer-dying  irritation, but  it  inyolyes  not 
our  national  existence.  The  Represen- 
tation scheme  is  a  triple  iniquity,  and 
will  cement,  if  the  madness  of  party  be 
strong  enough  to  carry  it,  all  the  little 
differences  of  parties  among  Englishmen, 
into  one  settled,  determined  hatred  of  the 
French  race.  It  is  a  triple  iniquity — an 
injury,  an  insult,  and  slayery  to  our  chil- 
dren."— if ofUffo/  OazeUe, 

**  By  the  Blinisterial  scheme,  then,  it 
is  proposed  to  give  the  British  Canadian 
population,  say  13  members — as  follows  : 
"-Ottawa  2,  Argenteuil  1,  Drummond 
(doubtful)  1,  Sberbrooke  2,  Sheffbrd  1, 
Huntingdon  1,  Megantic  1,  Missisqnoi  I, 
Gaspe  1,  Stanstead  1,  Sberbrooke  Town 
I.  Thus  leaying  62  members  for  the 
Franco-Canadians — giying  the  former  an 
increase  on  their  present  number  of  8  and 
the  latter  of  80  !  Can  this  be  called  a 
just  proportion  !  It  cannot." — Montreal 
Herald, 

**  That  measure  extends  oyer  the  whole 


of  the  pfoyfoee — Lnt^  as  welt  as  Wpp^ 
Ouuida  9  and  «m  Of  its  lea(Kng  fetA;ttrt» 
being,  aoeording  to  the  testimony  of  Mr 
Hitkclwy  to  iasure  to  the  French  Caoadlanft 
the  perpetuation  of  their  asoendency  in 
the  tegisialore,  as  a  distinct  race,  we 
may  look  forwnd  in  ftitore  to  the  mflic' 
tion  of  the  most  oppressiye  measures,  upon 
the  colontsts  of  British  origin,  Whtdi  Uie 
masters  of  the  Union  may  choosy  to  dic- 
tate. Tliese  ire  the  fhiits  of  'radlinil 
ascendency  in  the  executfye  and  the 
legislature,  from  Uj»per  Canada,  mA  She 
prostration  of  those  of  BrHirfi  orighi  1* 
Lower  OMntdfk/'-'BMth  Cohkim,  T^ 
romto. 

Fortunately,  however*— ft>rlanstely* 
even  for  those  it  was  intended  t» 
invest  witli  so  great  a  power^  thta 
measure  did  not  pass.  For  to  ^ve  % 
naturstlly  nnprogresshe  raee  tegisla" 
tive  superiority  over  an  Inevitably* 
progressive  one,  is  but  to  pnoton^  • 
contest,  or  make  more  desperate  sa 
immediate  struggle.  The  naoe  that 
advances  will  not  perpelnally  atnvp 
with  a  rope  ronnd  its  neck,  era  cbaia 
round  its  leg.  If  it  cannot  loonek*- 
self,  it  will  tnm  remMl  and^tto 
holders.  The  Frttch  migbs  iiav)» 
bound  die  English,  but  they  would 
have  had  to  Ight  thjem.  A  miss, 
however,  is  as  good  as  a  mile.  It 
requured  a  vote  of  two-thirds  of  the 
whole  house  to  make  such  a  change 
in  the  representation.  Fifty*  six 
voters  would  have  done  it ;  they  had 
but  fifty-five ;  so  that  this  part  of  the 
storm  at  all  events  has  passed  over. 

But  how  did  the  enlightened  re- 
formers of  Upper  Canada  act,  upon  a 
measure  avowedly  and  undisgnisedly 
intended  to  perpetuate  French  donu- 
nation  ?  Every  man  of  them  voted 
for  it.  What  a  meUmcholy  com- 
ment this  is  upon  the  following — 
the  dosing  reflection  of  Lord  Dur- 
ham, upon  the  government  of 
Canada.  What  a  comment  it  is  upon 
the  attempt  to  change  a  people  by  a 
measure ;  to  purge  out  of  Frenchmen 
errors  as  strong  as  their  nature — out 
of  democrats  feelings  as  large  as  theur 
souls,  by  a  single  pill  of  abstract  right 
in  the  shape  of  responsible  govern- 
ment. 

**  In  the  state  of  mind  in  which  I  have 
described  the  French  Canadian  popula- 
tion, as  not  only  now  being,  but  as  likely 
for  a  long  while  to  remain,  the  trusting 
them  with  an  entire  control  over  this 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ISiSUl 


CivU:JS0VOiuiiQnin^A•^^^CaMdaB4 


m 


lug  »  rabel^Mi.  I^wer  GiMd»  vutti  be 
goTf  med  BOW)  M  it  moBl  be  hMeaHei^  by 
ao  fii^Usli  popolaiioa ;  And  tbos  i\k . 
policy  wJ^eb  tbe  iMc^eiisiiiea  «f  the  hm^ 
meat  ibcoe  on  us,  is  in  aooordanee  witb 
thafe  Mg^ssted  by  a  c<kmpreb«iu5lT«  view 
of  the  future  and  permanent  imp roTement 
of  tbe  pjfOYince."— iitfjcK^  Can.  JSL^  p^  127. 

Bat  it  }3  not  alone  that  Britisli 
prosprily  is  now  crashed  by  the 
doffimuiop  of  a  retiogresslYe  race, 
but  it  is  tiiat  a  British  people  are 
obliged  to  feel  the  galling  and  on* 
natural  fact,  that  the  power  of  the 
government  of  England  k  wielded  to 
keep  up  iastitati^ns  in  America,  to 
the  destcaotion  of  which,  In  £arope,  it 
owea  its  freedom  and  its  greatness.  lb 
is  not  alone  that  loyalty  is  sickened 
to  the  very  death  in  Upper  Canada, 
lit  aeoing  the  best  gifts  of  the  <ax>w]i 
hsAded  ovei  to  political  pickpockets-- 
foriwe  hold  CTei^  mani  aid  we  can  call 
npoAtallAmefica  to  second  as  in  it^ 
as  Jio  b^ter  than  a  political  pick* 
potkaftf  who  ia  a  democrat  in  his 
heart  and  lool,  and  whines  oat  *^  God 
aare  the  Qoeen,"  to  {tillage  her  Ma-^ 
jestj^  treasaiy^it  is  not  alone  that 


'  t 

ItANiipTON,  Canada  Wkst. 

'K 

•  li.i      '    ti  " 

■" 

-w;      1           ,           : 

r     /    ,     ■    - 

7      |.  .  ■       ■                          ■         ' 

1. 

I'.n.,-   I  -L ,              .      ; 

V 

S^ 

ilo'^    iu  •    >    \.<    r''  \<          '     \ 

-lllM*-        /      '    ■   HI      '       J          i    •     ,     •    // 

leg^alty  is  galled  to  msydness  ai  Ahisv 
bat  it  is  that  loyalty  ift  obli^d  to  eeo 
that,  howerer  maoh  it  may  beat  these 
men  ait  the  hnstingty  and  by  virtue 
of  the  eonstitntion,  they  can  still 
laagh  at  aU  its  efi^orts  as  long  as 
they  can  pky  the  pait  of  Froieh  tools* 
In  all  history,  in  sfacrt»  there  is  not  a 
parallel  to  the  state  of  things  at  pre- 
sent existing  in  the  Canadas.  To  men 
whose  very  accents,  whose  very  faces 
area  livuig  libel  upon  all  loyalty  Jto 
England,  England  has  by  her  le^la- 
tion  given  power  to  trampleander  their 
feet  the  only  fjriends  she  had  In  the 
lioorofheraeed.  TooEienwhoaKecon- 
tending  for  the  perpetuation  of  insti-* 
tntions  which  all  Europe  was  obliged 
to  throw  off  before  it  conki  breathe  a 
free  breath,  or  extend  a  free  arm, 
.  England  has  by  her  legislation  given 
the  power,  not  only  to  drive  luer 
diildren  into  the  sloagh  of  despond, 
butto  mount  upon  thetrshooldera  there, 
ami  sink  them  irretrievab^.  Eng- 
land has  literally  in  the  Canadas 
made  her  loyalists  politioal  slares; 
her  enemies  their  political  task'^ 
mafiters. 


i      .    •  '*  1 


u  *>- -  -I    *-.'<  .   •    . 
i\    I'J  ^i.     ^    /    -i 


■Xftxi  I 


ni 


.    .  ' .      >  n. .:»!,>  I'Mfi  .?at 
'.s'jiz^  *tiu3B^ni  liidT** 


Digitized  by 


G 


ooyie 


742  Okratopher  mnthr  Cmmmt.  [Jne, 

No.  I. 
CHRISTOPHER  UNDER  CANVASS. 


ScENB — Chdkh^  Lochawe-Bide. 
Toor-Smirm. 


VORTH. 

^^  Under  the  (^teniaifeyelidfl  of  the  Mom!"  MefeeU,  Amid,  «tihls  mo* 
ment,  the  charm  of  that  Impersonation.  Slowly  awaking  from  iAeep — 
scarcely  conscious  of  her  whereabouts — ^bewildered  fe^  tiie  beanty  of  the  rsTe- 
lation,  nor  recognising  her  beloved  lochs  and  monntams— risionaiy  and  name- 
less all  as  if  an  uncertain  pn^oogataon  of  her  Smtmer^  Night^i  Dream. 

SBWAKD. 

I  was  not  going  to  speak,  my  dear  sir. 

NORTH. 

And  now  she  is  broad  awake.  She  sees  the  heaven  uid  the  earth,  nor 
thinks,  God  bless  her,  that  'tis  herself  that  beautifies  them  I 

SEWARD. 

Twenty  years  since  I  stood  on  this  knoll,  honoured  sir,  by  your  side— i 
twenty  years  to  a  day— and  now  the  same  perfect  peace  possesses  me — ^mya« 
terious  return— as  if  all  the  intervening  time  slid  away — and  this  were  not  « 
renewed  but  a  continuous  happiness. 

NORTH. 

And  let  it  slide  away  into  the  still  recesses  of  Memory— the  Present  has  its 
privileges — and  they  may  be  blamelessly,  wisely,  virtuously  enjoyed—and 
without  irreverence  to  the  sanctity  of  the  Past.  Let  it  slide  away — ^but  not  into 
oblivion — no  danger,  no  fear  of  oblivion— even  joys  will  return  on  their  wings 
of  gossamer ;— sorrows  may  be  buried,  but  they  are  immortal. 

SEWARD. 

I  see  not  the  slightest  change  on  this  Grrore  of  Sycamores.  Tw^ty  yeara 
tell  not  on  boles  that  have  for  centuries  been  in  their  prime.  Yes — that  one 
a  little  way  down— and  that  one  still  farther  off— have  grown—- and  those 
striplings,  then  but  saplings,  may  now  be  called  Trees. 

BUIXBR. 

I  never  heard  such  a  noise. 

NORTH. 

A  cigar  in  your  mouth  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  I    Well— well, 

BULLSlt. 

There,  my  dear  sir,  keep  me  in  countenance  with  a  Manilla. 

NORTH. 

The  Herb!  You  have  high  authority— Spenser's— for  "  noise." 

BULLER. 

I  said  Noise — because  it  is  Noise.  Why,  the  hum  of  bees  overhead  is  abso- 
lutely like  soft  sustained  thunder— and  yet  no  bees  visible  in  the  umbrage. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Id49.]  CknrtofAer  umder  Cknmm.  748 

The  sound  is  like  that  of  one  single  bee,  and  he  mnst  be  a  giant.  Ay— there 
I  see  a  fewworkiBgKke  nuid— and  I  gaessthere  mnst  be  Bi3rriadi.  The  Grove 
must  be  fall  of  bees*  nests. 

XrORTH. 

Not  one.  Hadreds  of  smokes  are  stealing  vp  from  hidden  or  apparent 
tsottages— for  the  region  is  not  nnpopnlons,  and  not  a  garden  without  its  hives 
— and  early  risers  though  we  be,  the  tnoMines  ape$  are  still  before  ns,  and  eo 
are  the  birds. 

BUIXEB. 

They,  too,  are  making  a  noise.  Who  says  a  shilfa  cannot  sing?  Of  the 
fifty  now  "  ponring  his  throat,"  as  the  poet  well  says,  I  defy  yon  to  tell  which 
filngs  best.  That  splendid  fellow  on  the  burch-tree  top— or  yonder  gorgeous 
tyke  <m  tiie  yeOow  oak— ^r 

NORTH. 

'*  In  shadiest  covert  hid"  the  leader  of  the  chorus  that  thrills  the  many- 
nested  underwood  with  connubial  bliss. 

SEWARD. 

Mot  till  this  moment  heard  I  the  waterfall 

BULLER. 

Yon  did,  thoogli,  all  along — a  felt  accompaBiment. 

NORTH. 

I  know  few  dens  more  beautiful  than  Cladich-Cleugh  1 

BULLER. 

Pardon  me,  sir,  if  I  do  not  attempt  that  name. 

NORTH. 

How  mellifluous !— Cladich-Cleugh ! 

BULLER. 

Great  is  the  power  of  gutturals. 

K(»rTH. 

It  is  not  InaeoeBsible.  B«t  you  mnst  skirt  it  till  you  reach  the  meadow 
where  the  cattle  are  beginning  to  browse.  And  then  threading  your  way 
through  a  coppice,  where  you  are  almost  sure  to  see  a  roe,  you  come  down 
upon  a  series  of  little  pools,  in  such  weather  as  this  so  dear  ti&at  you  can 
count  the  trouts ;  and  then  the  verdurous  walls  begin  to  rise  on  either  side 
and  right  before  yon;  and  yon  begin  to  feel  that  the  beanty  is  becoming  mag- 
nificence, for  the  pools  are  now  black,  and  the  stems  are  old,  and  the  cliffs  in- 
tercept the  sky,  and  there  are  caves,  and  that  waterfiUl  his  dowiinion  in  the 
gloom,  and  there  is  sublimity  in  the  sounding  solitude. 

BULUCR. 

C^a^Oek^oMlL 

MOBXH. 

A  miserable  fiulure. 
Oladig-Cloog. 
lf«snr«Dd  wHter. 


0BWARD. 

Asy^Mtpatfa^sIr? 

NORTH. 

Tea— ^EV  the  roe  and  the  goat. 

BUnXR. 

And  the  Man  of  the  Cmtdi. 

NOR3H. 

Good.    But  I  speak  of  days  when  the  Crutch  was  in  its  tree-bole 

BULLER. 

As  the  Apollo  was  in  its  marble  block. 

NORTH. 

Not  so  good.    But,  believe  me,  gentlemen,  I  haw  deoa  it  with  the  Cmtch. 

SBWAR9. 

Ay,  sir,  and  could  do  it  j 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


744  Christopher  under  Canvass.  [JiBe, 

NORTH. 

No.  But  you  two  are  yet  boys— on  the  sunny  side  of  fifty— and  I  ktw 
you,  Seward,  to  act  the  guide  to  BuHer  up  Cladich-Cleagb. 

BUtX£ll. 

Pray,  Mr  North,  what  may  be  the  name  of  that  sheet  of  water? 

NORTH. 

In  Scotland  we  call  it  Loch-Owe. 

BULLER. 

I  am  so  happy — ^sir— that  I  talk  nonsense. 

KORTH. 

Much  nonsense  may  you  talk. 

BtJIXER. 

Twas  a  foolish  question— but  you  know,  sir,  that  bv  some  dtrange  fto&r 
or  another  I  have  been  three  times  calted  away  from  Scotland  without  harfcj 
seen  Lock- Owe, 

NORTH. 

Make  good  use  of  your  eyes  now,  sirrah,  and  you  will  remember  It  all  dw 
days  of  your  life.  That  is  Cruachan— no  usurper  he— by  divine  right  a  kiuf. 
The  sun  is  up,  and  there  is  motion  in  the  clouds.  Saw  yon  ever  socb  shi- 
dows  ?  How  majestically  they  stalk !  And  now  how  beautifully  they  gfi<fe ' 
And  now  see  you  that  broad  black  forest,  half-way  up  the  mountain? 

BUIXER. 


I  do. 

You  are  sure  you  do. 

lam. 


NORTH. 
BTJIXER. 


NORTH. 

Ton  are  mistaken.  It  is  no  broad  black  forest — it  is  mere  glooD- 
shadow  that  in  a  minute  will  pass  away,  though  now  seeming  steadfast  as  tbe 
woods. 

BULLEB. 

I  could  swear  it  is  a  forest. 

NORTH.  ^^ 

Swear  not  at  all.    Shut  your  ajes.    Open  them.    Where  now  your  wow- 

BUIXER. 

Most  extraordinary  ocular  deception. 

NORTH.  ^^ 

Quite  common.  Yet  no  poet  has  described  it  See  again.  The  same  fbrest 
a  mile  off.  No  need  of  trees— sun  and  cloud  make  our  viaionaiy  monnttnj 
sylvan :  and  the  grandest  visions  are  ever  those  that  are  transitory-** 
your  soul. 

BULLEB. 

Your  Manilla  is  out,  my  dear  sir.    There  is  the  case. 

NORTH. 

Caught  like  a  cricketer.  You  must  ascend  Cruachan.  "  This  mormngP^ 
us  promise  of  a  glorious  day ;"  you  cannot  do  better  than  take  time  by  the  rore- 
lock,  and  be  off  now.  Say  the  word— and  I  will  myself  row  you  overtM 
Loch.  No  need  of  a  guide :  inclining  to  the  left  for  an  hour  or  two  after  yoa 
have  cleared  yonder  real  timber  and  sap  wood— and  then  for  an  hoar  or  W 
to  the  right— and  then  for  another  hour  or  two  stndght  forwards— and  tDflJ 
you  will  see  the  highest  of  the  three  peaks  within  an  hour  or  two's  T^  ^ 
you— and  thus,  by  mid-day,  find  yourself  seated  on  the  summit. 

BULLEB. 

Seated  on  the  summit  I 

NORTH. 

Not  too  long,  for  the  air  b  often  very  sharp  at  that  altitude— and  bo  i««t 
that  I  have  heard  tell  of  people  fainting. 

BULLEB. 

I  am  occasionally  troubled  with  a  palpitation  of  the  heart — 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


184.9»]  C3tmtqpber  under  CanvoM,  745 

Poob,  nonseoM.    Only  Uie  stomacli. 

BULLSR. 

And  occaaionaliy  with  a  determinatioQ  of  blood  to  the  head — 

NORTH. 

Pooh,  nonsense.  Only  the  stomach.  Take  a  calker  every  two  hours  on  your 
way  up— and  I  warrant  both  heart  and  headr^ 

BUIXER. 

Not  to-day.    It  looks  cloudy. 

NOBTH. 

^Yhy,  I  don't  much  care  though  I  should  accompany  you— 

BULLKR« 

I  knew  you  would  offer  to  do  so,  and  I  feel  the  delicacy  of  putting  a  decided 
negative  on  the  proposal.  Iiet  us  defer  it  till  to-morrow.  For  my  sake,  my 
dear  sir,  if  not  for  your  own,  do  not  think  of  it ;  it  will  be  no  disappointment 
to  me  to  remain  with  you  here — and  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  your  fainting 
on  the  summit.    Be  advised,  my  dear  sir,  be  advised— 

NOBTH. 

Well  then,  be  it  so — ^I  am  not  obstinate ;  but  such  another  day  for  the 
ascent  there  may  not  be  during  the  summer.  On  just  such  a  day  I  made  the 
ascent  some  half-centuiy  ago.  I  took  it  from  TyanuUt — ^having  walked 
Chat  morning  from  Dalmally,  some  dozen  miles,  for  a  breathing  on  level 
ground,  before  facing  the  steepish  shoulder  that  roughens  into  Loch  Etive. 
The  fox- hunter  from  Gleno  gave  me  his  company  with  his  hounds  and  ter- 
riers nearly  half-way  up,  and  irfter  killing  some  cubs  we  parted— not  without 
a  tinful  of  the  creature  at  the  Fairies'  Wdl — 

BULLER. 

A  tinful  of  the  creature  at  the  Fairies'  Well  I 

NORTH. 

Tea— a  tinrul  of  the  creature  at  the  Fairies*  Well  Now  I  am  a  total- 
abstinent — 

BUUUER. 

A  total- abstinent ! 

NORTH* 

!  By  heaveijs  I  he  echoes  me.  Ple^ant,  but  mournful  to  the  soul  is  >he 
memory  of  joys  that  are  past  f  A  tinful  of  the  unchristened  creature  to 
the  health  of  the  Silent  People.   Oh !  Buller,  there  are  no  Silent  People  npw. 

BULLER. 

.^  Jft,jjfpj:jc(^m^waj^  air,  I>m  always  willing  to  be  a  list^er.  .    , , 

feuj/r  ■    '     /  ,       '    '  NORTH.  .      ,*        *  /'.... 

^^jvv^w'I'flewasonwingg.  .     ,,      ..       'i 

'      '  '         BULLER. 

What!  UpCruackan? 

.   ,       NORTH.  .    ,  -   ^    .^,     .      / 

On  feet,  then,  if  you  will ;  but  the  feet  of  a  deer. 

:.;;<to;au-Wsr    ,■;.'*'•  '  '      '  ,' 

..„     ■    v.,    :  ^       '    .    .    NORTH.  *  , 

/X^^^sbnipCimfes  on  att-fpurs.  On  all-fours,  like  a  fr6g  In  his  prime,  cledi*- 
*;m  jtlny  obstructions  with  a  spang.  On  all-four$,  like  an  ourang-outang;, 
^yv^p;  jn^  difficult  j?laceSi  brings  his  arms  into  play.    On  allrfours,  l^te  therr  \ 

\.     '  .\'         .  /  '  .   BULLER.  ,  ,  \ 

'''  1  cry  you  tnercy. 

'  '  NORTH.  -        .  . 

Without  palpitation  of  the  heart;  without  determination  of  blood  to  the 
head ;  without  panting ;  without  dizziness ;  wi^  merely  a  sllgnt  kcceleraBon 
^tiie  breaUi,  ^4  now  and  then  something  like  a  gasp  after  a  rufi  to  a  knowe 
wnfcfi  T^'e  foresaw  as  a  momentary  resting-place— w^eTeit  that  we  werO  con- 
quering Cruachan !  Lovely  level  places,  like  platforms— level  as  if  wat^r  haA 
formed  them,  floiyinj^  up  just  so  far  continually,  and  then  ebbing  back  to  some 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


746  Ckituttpher  wmtkr  Ckmpau.  [ JiBn, 

unimaginable  sea— awaited  onr  arrind,  that  on  them  we  might  lie  down,  and 
from  l^  of  state  survey  onr  empire,  for  our  empire  it  was  feh  to  be,  fiir 
away  into  the  lowlands,  with  many  a  hill  between — many  a  hill,  that,  in  its 
own  neighbonrhood,  is  believed  to  be  a  mountain— joet  as  mny  a  man  of 
moderate  mental  dimensions  is  believed  by  those  who  live  beneath  his  shade 
to  be  of  the  first  order  of  magnitvde,  and  with  fanaral  honovs  is  interred. 

BULUDU 

Well  for  him  that  he  is  a  hill  at  all— eminent  on  a  flat,  or  among  humbler 
undulations.    All  is  comparative. 


Just  so.  From  «  site  on  a  moutain's  aide-^ar  finom  tiie  silmntft— the 
ascender  hath  sometimes  a  sublimer— often  a  lovelier  vision — ^than  from  its 
most  commanding  peak.  Yet  stiU  he  has  the  fbtttng  of  aKSBsion— stifle 
that,  and  the  discontent  of  insofficiaftcy  dwafft  and  darkens  all  that  lies 
below. 

BUIXEB. 

Words  to  the  wise. 

NOKTH. 

We  fear  to  asoesd  h^her  lest  we  slKmld  lose  what  we  comprehend :  yet  we 
will  ascend  higher,  though  we  know  the  clouds  are  gathenng,  and  we  ava 
ahready  enveloped  in  mist.  But  there  were  no  clouds— no  mist  on  that  da^ 
—and  the  secret  top  of  Cruachan  was  dear  as  a  good  man's  consdenoe,  asd 
the  whole  world  below  Mke  the  promised  land. 

BUIXBR* 

Let  us  go— let  vs  go— let  us  go^ 

N<Hrni. 

All  knowledge,  my  dear  boy,  may  be  likened  to  stupendous  ranges  of 
mountains — clear  and  clouded,  smooth  and  precipitoas ;  and  yon  or  I  in.yonUi 
assail  them  \ri  joy  and  pride  of  soui,  not  blind  but  blindfolded  often,  and 
ignorant  of  their  inclination  \  so  that  we  (rften  are  met  by  a  beetimg  diff" 
with  its  cataract,  and  must  keep  ascending  and  descending  ignorant  dT  our 
whereabouts,  and  summit-seeking  in  vain.  Yet  all  the  while  are  we  glorified. 
In  maturer  mind,  when  experience  is  like  an  instinct,  we  asoertam  levels 
without  a  theodolite,  and  know  assuredly  where  dwell  the  peaks.  We  know 
how  to  ascend— sideways  (nr  right  on ;  we  know  ^^och  are  midway  heights ; 
we  can  walk  in  mist  and  cloud  as  turdy  as  in  light,  and  we  leant  to  know 
the  Inaccessible. 

BUIXBB. 

I  fear  you  will  fttigne  yourself— 

NOBXB. 

Or  another  image.  You  sail  down  a  stream,  my  good  Butter,  which  widens 
as  it  flows,  and  will  lead  through  inland  seas— or  lochs— down  to  the  mighty 
ocean :  what  that  is  I  need  not  say :  you  sail  down  it,  eometimes  "vritii  hoi«^ 
sail — sometimes  with  oars — on  a  quest  or  mission  all  undefined ;  but  often 
anchoring  where  no  need  is^  and  IcMing  adiore,  and  engaging  in  pneraits 
or  pastimes  forbidden  or  vain — wiik  me  natwet — 

BULLEB. 

The  natives  I 

KOBTH. 

Nay,  adopting  their  dress— t^ugfa  dress  it  be  none  at  all  aad  beeommg 
one  of  themsdves— nataralised ;  forgetting  your  mission  dean  o«t  of  mind  f 
Fishing  and  hunting  with  the  natives — 

BULLEB. 

Whom? 

yOKTH. 

The  natives— when  yon  on^^t  to  hava  been  pindng  your  voyage  on— on 
-Hm.  Sneharevooth's  pasSflMsalL  But  you  had  not  deserted—aot  yta : 
and  yon  return  or  your  own  accord  to  tibe  sh^ 

WXTLUOL 


What  ship? 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  Chrutopker  under  Catmau.  747 

HORTR. 

The  ship  of  life— leaving  some  to  lament  yon,  who  knew  yon  only  as  a 
jolly  mariner,  who  was  bound  afar !  They  belieyed  that  yon  nad  drawn  up 
your  pinnace  for  ever  on  that  shore,  in  that  lovely  little  haren,  amcmg  reeds 
and  palms — unknowing  that  you  would  relanndi  her  some  difty  soon,  and, 
bounding  in  her  over  the  biUows,  rejoin  your  ship,  wutmg  for  yon  in  the 
offing,  and  revisit  the  simple  natives  no  more  I 

BULLBB. 

Methii^  I  uiderstand  now  your  mysterious  meaning. 

NOKIH. 

You  do.    But  where  was  I  ? 

BUXXSB. 

Ascending  Cruackan,  and  near  the  summit. 

NORTH. 

On  the  summit  Not  a  whit  tired— not  a  bit  fatigued;  strong  as  teit— 
active  as  twenty  ownselves  <m  the  flat— divinely  drunk  on  draughts  of  ether 
— hapi^  a  thousand  times,  greater  and  more  glorious,  than  Jufnter,  with  all 
bis  gods,  enthroned  on  Olympus. 

SUIXBR. 

Moderately  speaking. 

XfOBTH. 

In  imagination  I  hear  him  barking  now  as  he  barked  then— a  sharp,  short, 
savage,  angry  and  hungry  bark — 

BULLSB. 

What?    A  dog?    A  Fox? 

KOBTH. 

No— no— no.  An  'Egt^A^-Ab^  Golden  Eagle  from  Ben-Slarive,  known— no 
mistaking  him— to  generations  of  Shepherds  for  a  hundred  years. 

BULLEB. 

Do  you  see  him? 

NORTH. 

Now  I  do.  I  see  his  eyes — for  he  came — ^he  comes  soghing  dose  by  me — 
and  there  he  shoots  up  in  terror  a  thousand  feet  into  the  sky. 

BULLEB. 

I  did  not  know  the  Bird  was  so  timid— 

NQBTH. 

He  is  not  timid— he  is  bold;  but  an  Eagle  does  not  like  to  come  all  at  once 
within  ten  yards  of  an  unexpected  man — any  more  than  you  would  like  sud- 
denly to  face  a  ghost. 

BULLBB. 


What  brought  him  there  ? 
Wings  nhie  foet  wide. 
Has  he  no  sense  of  smdl  ? 
What  do  yon  mean,  sir? 
No  offence. 


NORTH. 
BULLEB. 
N<»KTH. 
BULLBB. 


NORTH. 

He  has.  But  we  have  not  always  all  our  senses  about  us,  Buller,  nor  our 
wits  either— he  had  been  somewhat  scared,  a  leaffue  up  Glen  Etive,  by  the 
Huntsman  of  Gleno— the  scent  of  powder  was  in  his  nostrils ;  but  fury  fol- 
kme  fear,  and  in  a  n^nte  I  heard  his  bark  again— as  now  I  hear  it— on 
the  highway  to  Benlnia. 

BULLBB. 

He  most  have  had  enormooB  talons* 

NORTH. 

My  hand  is  Bone  of  the  smallest— 

BULLEB. 

God  bless  you,  my  dear  sir,— give  me  a  gcasp. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


748  ChfiiU^er  under  Camnus.  [June, 

KORTH. 
ThOTG* 

BULLKB. 

Oh!  thnmbikins! 

HOBTH. 

And  one  of  his  son^s  talons-^whom  I  shot— was  tince  the  length  of  mine ; 
his  yellow  knobby  loof  at  least  as  broad — and  his  leg  like  my  wrist.  He  killed 
a  man.  Knocked  him  down  a  precipice,  like  a  cannon-ball.  He  had  the 
credit  of  it  all  over  the  country — ^bnt  I  believe  his  wife  did  the  bosiness,  for 
she  was  half-again  as  big  as  himself;  and  no  deyil  like  a  she-devil  fighting  for 
her  imp. 

BULLER. 

Did  yon  ever  rob  an  Eyrie,  sir  ? 

NORTH. 

Did  you  ever  rob  a  Lion's  den?  No,  no,  Bnller.  I  never — except  on  duty 
— ^placed  my  life  in  danger.  I  have  been  in  many  dangerous-looking  places 
among  the  Mountains,  but  a  cautious  activity  ruled  all  my  movements — I 
scanned  my  cliff  before  I  scaled  him — and  as  for  jumping  chasms — though  I 
had  a  spring  in  roe — I  looked  imaginatively  down  the  abyss,  and  then  sensibly 
turned  its  flank  where  it  leaned  on  the  greensward,  and  the  liberated  streamlet 
might  be  forded,  without  swimming,  by  the  silly  sheep. 

BULLER. 

And  are  all  those  stories  lies? 

NORTH. 

All.  I  have  sometimes  swam  a  loch  or  a  river  in  my  clothes— but  never 
except  when  they  lay  in  my  way,  or  when  I  was  on  an  angling  excursion — 
and  what  danger  could  there  possibly  be  in  doing  that  ? 

BULLER. 

You  might  have  taken  the  Cramp,  Sir. 

NORTH. 

And  the  Cramp  might  have  taken  me — ^but  neither  of  us  ever  did — and  a 
man,  with  a  short  neck  or  a  long  one,  might  as  well  shun  the  streets  in  per- 
petual fear  of  apoplexy,  as  a  good  swimmer  evade  water  in  dread  of  being 
drowned.  As  for  swimming  in  my  clothes — had  I  left  them  on  the  hither, 
how  should  I  have  looked  on  the  thither  side  ? 

BULLER. 

No  man,  in  such  circumstances,  could,  with  any  satisfaction  to  himself, 
have  pursued  his  journey,  even  through  the  most  lonesome  places. 

BULLER. 

Describe  the  view  from  the  summit. 

NORTH. 

I  have  no  descriptive  power — but,  even  though  I  had,  I  know  better  than 
that.  Why,  between  Cruachan  and  Buchail-Etive  lie  hundreds  on  hundreds  of 
mountains  of  the  first,  second,  and  third  order— and,  for  a  while  at  first,  your 
eyes  are  so  bewildered  that  you  cannot  see  any  one  in  particular ;  yet,  in  your 
astonishment,  have  a  strange  vision  of  them  all — and  might  think  they  were 
interchanging  places,  shouldering  one  another  off  into  altering  shapes  in  the 
uncertain  region,  did  not  the  awful  stillness  assure  you  that  there  they  had 
all  stood  in  their  places  shice  the  Creation,  and  would  stand  till  the  day  of 
doom. 

BULLER. 

You  have  no  descriptive  power ! 

NORTH. 

All  at  once  dominion  is  given  you  over  the  Whole.  You  gradually  see 
Order  in  what  seemed  a  Chaos— you  understand  the  character  of  the  Region — 
its  Formation— for  you  are  a  Geologist,  else  you  have  no  business— no  right 
there ;  and  you  know  where  the  valleys  are  singing  for  ioy,  though  you  hear 
them  not — ^where  there  is  provision  for  the  cattle  on  a  hundred  hills — ^where 
are  the  cottages  of  Christian  men  on  the  green  braes  sheltered  by  the  momi- 
tains— and  where  may  stand,  beneath  the  granite  rocks  out  of  which  it  was 
built,  the  not  nnfrequent  House  of  Qod. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


NORTH. 
BULLER. 


1849.]  Cbri8i9pher  wuier  Ckmvass.  749 

BUCLKR. 

To-morrow  we  shall  attend  Divine  Service— 

370RTH. 

At  Dalmall  J. 

BULLER. 

I  long  ago  learned  to  like  tiie  ritual  of  the  Kiric.  I  shoukl  like  to  believe 
in  a  high-miBded  purified  Calvinist,  who  could  embrace,  in  his  brotherly 
heart,  a  hi^-minded  purified  f^lish  Bishop,  with  all  his  Episcopacy. 

NORTH. 

And  why  should  he  not,  if  he  can  recognise  the  Divine  Spirit  flowing 
through  the  two  sets  of  sensible  demonstrations?  He  can;  unless  the  con- 
stitution of  the  Anglican  Christian  Religion  wars,  either  by  its  dogmas  or  by 
it^  ecclesiastical  ordinances,  against  his  essential  intelligence  of  Christianity. 

BULLER. 

And  who  shall  say  it  does? 

Many  say  it — not  I. 

And  you  are  wise  and  good. 

NORTH. 

Many  thousands-— and  hundreds  of  thousands,  wiser  and  better.  I  can 
easily  suppose  a  Mind—strong  in  thought,  warm  in  feeling,  of  an  imagination 
susceptible  and  creative— by  magnanimity,  studv,  and  experience  of  the 
worid,  disengaged  from  all  sectarian  tenets — ^yet  holding  the  absolute  con- 
viction of  religion— and  contemplating,  with  reverence  and  tenderness,  many 
different  ways  of  expression  which  this  inmost  spiritual  disposition  has  prov 
duced  or  put  on— having  a  firmest  holding  on  to  Christianity  as  pure,  holy, 
august,  divine,  true,  l^yond  all  other  modes  of  religion  upon  the  Earth — 
partly  from  intuition  of  its  essential  fitness  to  our  nature— partly  from  intense 
gratitude — ^partly,  perhaps,  from  the  original  entwining  of  it  with  his  own 
faculties,  thoughts,  feelings,  history,  being.  Well,  he  looks  with  affectionate 
admiration  upon  the  Scottish,  with  affectionate  admiration  on  the  English 
Churdi— old  affection  agreeing  with  new  affection — and  I  can  imagine  in  him 
as  much  generosity  reqmred  to  love  his  own  Church — the  Presbyterian— aa 
yours  the  Episcopalian — and  that,  Latitudinarian  as  he  may  be  called,  he 
loves  them  both.  For  myself,  you  know  how  I  love  England— all  that  belongs 
to  her— all  that  makes  her  what  she  is— scarcely  more— surely  not  less— Scot- 
land. The  ground  of  the  Scottish  Form  is  the  overbearing  consciousness,  that 
religion  is  immediately  between  man  and  his  Maker.  All  hallowing  of  things 
outward  is  to  that  consciousness  a  placing  of  such  earthly  things  as  interpo- 
sitions and  separating  intermediates  in  that  interval  unavoidable  between 
the  Finite  and  the  Infiiiite,  but  which  should  remain  blank  and  dear  for  the 
immediate  communications  of  the  Worshipper  and  the  Worshipped. 

BULLBR. 

I  believe,  sir,  you  are  a  Presbyterian? 

NORTH. 

He  that  worships  in  spfarit  and  in  truth  cannot  endure— cannot  imagine, 
that  anything  but  his  own  un  shall  stand  betwixt  him  and  God. 

BULLER. 

Tkaiy  until  it  be  in  some  way  or  another  extinguished,  shall  and  must. 

NORTH. 

True  as  Holy  Writ.  But  intervening  saints,  images,  and  elaborate  rituals 
-rthe  contrivance  of  human  wit— all  these  the  fire  of  the  Spirit  has  consumed  > 
and  consumes. 

BULLER. 

The  fire  of  the  Presbyterian  spirit  ? 

NORTH. 

Add  history.    War  and  persecntion  have  afforded  an  element  of  human 

hate  foe  strengthening  the  sternness 

VOL.  Lxv.— NO.  ccccrv.  3  B 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


750  Cli'iaiyiqriMufar  (Ommm.  [JTa 

BTJLLSB. 

Of  Presbjterian  Scotland. 

NOBTSU 

Drop  that  word— for  I  more  than  doabt  if  yon  understand  it 


I  b^  pacdont  «ir. 

IfOSTH. 

The  Scottiah  aervice,  Mr  Boiler,  oomiM^heBdt  Payer,  Praita,  ] 
three  necessary  verbal  acts  amongst  Christians  met,  bnt  each  in  i 
plicity. 

BUU.KB. 

Epi80<q[Hilian  as  I  am,  that  eimi^icity  I  hare  felt  to  be  most  i 

VOBTH. 

The  Praise,  which  unites  the  voioes  of  the  congregation,  must  be  wrilta. 
The  Prayer,  which  is  the  boming  towards  God  of  the  tool  of  tba  fHiap^rd 
npon  the  behalf  of  the  Flock,  and  upon  his  own,  most  be  nnwritten — impupie 
ditated — else  it  is  not  Prayer.  Can  the  heart  ever  want  fitting  wafda?  Tke 
Teaching  mnst  be  to  the  ntmost,  forethon^t,  at  some  time  or  at  another,  as  t» 
the  Matter.  The  Teacher  mnst  have  secured  his  inteUlgeace  of  (he  Mattor  en 
he  opens  his  month.  But  the  Form,  whieh  is  of  expediency  only,  he  maj  ▼err 
loosely  have  eonaiderad.    That  is  the  Theory. 

BUIXBR. 

Often  liable  in  practice,  I  should  fear,  t6  sad  abuse. 

NOBTH. 

May  be  so.    Bnt  it  presumes  that  capable  men,  full  of  zeal,  aaoid 
and  love— fervent  servants  and  careful  shepherds — have  been 
higher  guidaace.    It  supposes  the  holy  fire  of  the  new-born  Eefa 
the  Dfiwly-ingeDerated  Church 


Kirk. 

NGETH. 

Of  the  newly-regenerated  Church,  to  continue  undamped,  j 

BUIXBB. 

Andiflitso? 

NOBTH. 

The  Fact  answers  to  the  Theory  more  or  less.  The  original ' 
plicity  of  worship— is  to  the  utmost  expressed,  when  the  chased  < 
are  met  on  the  greensward,  between  the  hillside  and  the  bran 
under  the  coloured  or  uncoloured  sky.    Understand  that,  when  their  c 
ants  meet  within  walls  and  beneath  roofs,  they  kouU  worship  after  tbe 
ner  of  their  hunted  ancestors. 

BUIXBB. 

I  wish  I  were  better  read  than  I  am  in  the  history  of  Sootlaadt  dwH  aad 
ecclesiastical. 

NORTH. 

I  wish  you  were.  I  say,  then,  my  excellent  Mend,  that  the  Bitnal  and 
whole  Ordering  of  the  Scottiab  Church  is  moulded  upon,  or  issues  oat  of,  the 
human  spirit  kindling  in  conscious  communication  of  the  Divine  Spirit.  ThiB 
power  of  the  Infinite — that  is,  the  Sense  of  Infinitude,  of  Etenuty — reigns 
there ;  aad  the  Sense  in  the  inmost  soul  of  the  sustaining  contact  with  Omni- 
potence, and  self-consciousness  intense,  and  elation  of  Divine  favour  person- 
ally voochaafed,  and  joy  of  anticipated  everiasting  bliss,  and  trium^  over 
Satan,  death,  and  hell,  and  immeasurable  desire  to  win  souls  to  tiie  SjDg  of 
the  Worlds. 

BUIXBB. 

In  England  we  are,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  ill  infermad  oo 

NOBTH. 

In  Scotland  we  are,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  ill  faJMned  on 

BULLBB. 

But  go  on,  sir. 


Digitized  by 


1M9.]  CM&iQpherMmhr  Ckmam,  751 

HOKTH. 

What  plaoe  is  there  fnriVmos  of  any  kmd  hi  theinreMBoe  of  these  hnmense 
oyerpowermg  Realities?  ForForms,  Bailer,  are  of  the  Imagiimtion;  theFaonlty 
that  inhales  and  lives  by  the  Unreal.  Bat  some  concession  to  the  hnmanity 
-of  oar  natnre  intnides.  Imaghiation  may  be  eabordinated,  sabjngated,  but 
will  not,  oM^Btt,  forego  an  Mb  rights.  Therefore,  Esfms  and  haUowmgaBso- 
ciatiiMK  enter. 

BUULKR. 

into  aU  Wonhip. 

Form,  too,  is,  in  part.  Necessary  Order. 

BUItLEB. 

Ferfai^s,  sir,  yon  may  be  not  onwiHing  to  say  a  ftivr  words  of  our  Ritual. 

HOBIH. 

I  tremble  to  speak  of  yonr  Ritual ;  for  it  i^ypears  to  me  as  bearing  an  its 
ftont  an  exoellenoe  whi(m  might  be  fonnd  incompatiUe  with  religions  troth 
joid  shioerity. 


I  confoas  that  I  hardly  nnderstand  yon,  sir. 

KORTH. 

The  liturgy  looks  to  be  that  wfaidi  the  old  Chmtshes  are,  tiie  Work  of  a 
FmeArt. 

BUIXBB. 

Yon  do  not  nige  that  as  an  ot^ection  to  it,  I  trust,  irir? 

NOBTH. 

A  Poetical  sensibility,  a  wakeful,  just,  delicate,  simple  Taste,  seems  to 
have  ndad  o?er^e  composition  of  eadi  Prayer,  and  the  ordering  of  the  whole 
Service. 

BUIXEB. 

You  do  not  urge  that  as  an  objection  to  it,  I  trnst,  sir? 

NORTH. 

I  am  not  nrring  objections,  sir.  I  seldom — never,  indeed — ^nrge  objections 
to  anything.    I  desire  only  to  place  all  things  in  their  tme  light. 

BULLBB. 

Don't  frown,  sbv- smile.    £noQgh. 

NORTH. 

Hie  whole  composition  of  the  Service  is  copions  and  varions.  Hnman  Sap- 
plication,  tiie  lifting  np  of  ^e  hands  of  the  <»«atare  knowing  his  own  weak- 
ness, dependence,  lape^,  and  liability  to  slip— man*s  own  part,  dictated  by 
hie  own  experience  of  himself,  is  the  basis.  Readings  from  the  Old  and  New 
Volame  of  the  Written  Word  are  ingrafted,  as  if  (Sod  aadiUy  spoke  in  his 
own  House  ;  the  Authoritative  added  to  the  Supplicatory. 

BUIJAB. 

Finely  true.  We  Church  of  England  men  love  you,  Mr  North— we  do 
indeed. 

NORTH. 

The  hymns  of  the  sweet  Singer  of  Israel,  in  literal  translation,  adopted  as  a 
holier  inspired  language  of  the  heart. 

BUIXBR. 

These,  sir,  are  surely  three  powerfnl  elements  of  a  Ritual  Service. 

NORTH. 

Threnghout,  the  People  divide  the  service  with  the  Minister.  They  have  in 
it  thehr  own  personal  function. 

BULLER. 

Then  the  Homily,  sur. 

NORTH. 

Ay,  the  Homily,  which,  one  might  say,  interprets  between  Sunday  and  the 
Week— fixes  the  holiness  of  the  Day  in  precepts,  doctrines,  reflections,  which 
may  be  carried  home  to  guide  and  nourish. 

BULLKB. 

Altogether,  sir,  it  seems  a  meet  work  of  worshippers  met  hi  thehr  Christie- 


Digitized  by  > 


Google 


752  Chriitop^  under  Cqnvau.  [Jnnt, 

Land,  upon  the  day  of  rest  and  aspiration.  The  Scottish  worship  might  seem 
to  remember  the  name  and  the  aword.  the  perseeoted  Iconoclasts  of  twO' 
centuries  ago,  live  in  their  descendants. 

NORTH. 

But  the  Bitnal  of  England  breathes  a  divine  calm.  Yon  think  of  the  People 
walking  through  ripening  fields  on  a  mild  day  to  their  Church  door.  It  is  the 
work  of  a  nation  sitting  in  peace,  possessing  their  land.  It  is  the  worii:  of  a* 
wealthy  nation,  that,  by  d^cating  a  part  of  its  wealth,  consecrates  the  re- 
mainder—that acknowl^ges  the  Fountain  from  which  all  flows.  The  prayers 
are  devout,  humble,  fervent.  They  are  not  impassioned.  A  wondemil  tem- 
perance and  sobriety  of  discretion  ;  that  which,  in  worldly  things,  would  be 
called  good  sense,  prevails  in  them ;  but  you  must  name  it  better  in  things 
spiritn^.  The  framers  evidentljr  bore  in  mind  the  continual  condctousness  of 
writing  for  ALL.  That  is  the  gmdingi  tempering,  calming  spirit  that  keeps  in 
the  "miole  one  tone — ^that,  and  the  hallowing,  d^astening  awe  whidi  subdues 
vehemence,  even  in  the  asking  for  the  Infinite,  by  those  who  have  nothing  but 
that  which  they  earnestly  ask,  and  who  know  that  unless  they  ask  infinitely, 
they  ask  nothing.  In  every  word,  the  whole  Congregation,  the  whole  Nation 
prays — ^not  the  Individual  Minister ;  the  officiating  Divine  Functionaiy,  not  the 
Man.  Nor  must  it  be  forgotten  that  the  received  Version  and  the  Book  of 
Common  Prayer-— observe  the  word  Common,  expressing  exactly  what  I 
affirm— are  beautiful  by  the  words — that  there  is  no  other  such  English — 
simple,  touching,  apt,  venerable — hned  as  the  thoughts  are — musical — the  most 
English  English  that  is  known— of  a  Hebraic  strength  and  antiquity,  yet  lucid 
and  gracious  as  if  of  and  for  to-day. 

BULLEB. 

I  trust  that  many  Presbyterians  sympathise  with  you  in  these  sentiments. 

NOBTH. 

Not  many — few.    Nor  do  I  say  I  wish  they  were  more. 

BULLER. 

Are  you  serious,  sir  ? 

NORTH. 

I  am.  But  cannot  explain  myself  now.  What  are  the  Three  Pillars  of 
the  Love  of  any  Church?  Iimate  Religion  —  Humanity — Imagination. 
The  Scottish  worship  better  satisfies  the  first  Principle — that  of  Eng- 
land the  last ;  the  Roman  Catholic  still  more  the  last — and  are  not  your 
Cathedrals  Roman  Catholic  ?  I  think  that  the  Scottish  and  English,  better 
than  the  Roman  Catholic,  satisfy  the  Middle  Principle— Humanity,  being 
truer  to  the  highest  requisitions  of  our  Nature,  and  nourish  ourfaculUes  better, 
both  of  Will  and  Understanding,  into  their  strength  and  beautyr.  Yet  what 
divine- minded  Roman  Catholics  there  have  been — and  are— and  will  be  I 

BVLLBB. 

Pause  for  a  moment,  sir, — here  comes  Seward. 

NOBTH. 

Seward  I  Is  he  not  with  us  ?  Surely  he  was,  an  hour  or  two  ago— but 
I  never  missed  him — ^your  conversation  has  been  so  interesting  and  instructive. 
Seward !  why  you  are  all  the  world  like  a  drowned  rat  ? 

8EWABI>. 

Bat  I  am  none— but  a  stanch  Conservative.  Would  I  had  had  a  Protec- 
tionist with  me  to  keep  me  right  on  the  Navigation  Laws. 

NOBTH. 

What  do  you  mean  ?    What's  the  matter  ? 

SEWABD. 

Why,  your  description  of  the  Pools  in^Cladich-Cleugh  inspired  me  with  a 
passion  for  one  of  the  Naiads. 

NOBTH. 

And  you  have  had  a  duckbg! 

SEWABD. 

I  have  indeed.  Plashed  souse,  head  over  heels.  Into  one  of  the  prettiest 
pools,  from  a  slippery  ledge  some  do^sen  feet  above  the  sleeping  beauty — ^were 
5^ou  both  deaf  that  you  did  not  hear  me  bawl  ? 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  Chiiiapher  under  Camm$.  753 

irOBTH. 

I  hare  a  faint  recollection  of  hearing  something  bray,  bat  I  suppose  I 
thought  it  came  from  the  Gipsies'  Camp. 

BULLEB. 


Are  yon  wet  ? 
Come — come— Boiler. 
Why  so  dry? 
Sahr  drooket. 
IVhere'syonrTUe? 
I  hate  slang. 


SKWARD. 
BULLER. 
NOBTH. 
BULLBR. 
SEWARD. 


^  BULLEB. 

Why,  yon  hare  lost  a  shoe— and  much  delightftil  conversation. 

^  NORTH. 

I  mnst  say,  Seward,  that  I  was  hnrt  by  yonr  withdrawing  yourself  from 
-our  Colloquy. 

^  SEWARD. 

I  Sir,  you  were  beginnhug  to  get  so  prosy 

-(  BULLEB. 

I  insist,  Seward,  on  your  maldnff  an  apdogy  on  your  knees  to  our  Father 
for  your  shocking  Impiety— I  shudder  to  repeat  the  word— which  you  must 
swfldlow — p — B— o— e — Y ! 

I  SEWARD. 

On  my  knees !    Look  at  them. 

irORTB. 

My  dear,  dearer,  dearest  Mr  Seward — ^you  are  bleeding— I  fear  a  fracture. 
Let  me 

SEWARD. 

[  I  am  not  bleeding— only  a  knap  on  the  knee-pan,  sir. 

BULLER. 

Not  bleeding !  Why  you  must  foe  drenched  in  blood,  yonr  face  is  so  white. 

NORTH. 

A  nan  sequiiur,  Buller.  But  from  a  knap  on  the  knee-pan  I  have  known  a 
man  alamiter  for  life. 

SEWARD. 

I  lament  the  loss  of  my  Sketch-Book. 

BULLER. 

It  is  a  judgment  on  you  for  that  Caricature. 

NORTH. 

What  caricature? 

BULLEB. 

Since  tou  will  fbrce  me  to  tell  it,  a  caricature  of ^Youbselt,  sir.    I  saw 

him  working  away  at  it  with  a  most  wicked  leer  on  his  face,  while  jrou  supposed 
he  was  taking  notes.  He  held  it  up  to  me  for  a  moment— clapped  the  boards 
together  with  the  grin  of  a  fiend — and  then  o£f  to  Cladick-Cloock— where  he 
met  with  Nemesis. 

VAUXW 

Is  that  a  true  bill,  Mr  Se 

On  my  honour  as  a  gentli 
most  malignant  misrepresen 

It  was  indeed. 

It  was  no  caricature.  I 
the  illustrious  Mr  North ;  ai 
flided  attitudes 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


754  Chmhpket  umder  Omm&m.  [Jiqie, 

HOBTH. 

Tbeael  is  tobejiidgedbjtlieiiitentioA.  Yon  are  aeqidtted  <rf  the  ditrge. 

BULLBR. 

To  make  a  caiicatore  of  You,  sir,  under  any  drcnoistances,  and  for  any 
purpose,  wonld  be  sufficiently  shocking ;  but  here  and  now,  and  that  he 
might  send  it  to  his  Wife — so  transcends  all  previous  perpetration  of  crimen 
Ubs<b  majestatis^  that  I  am  beginniug  to  be  incredulow  of  what  theae  eyes 
beheld — nay,  to  disbeUeve  what,  if  tohl  to  any  human  being,  however 
depraved,  would  seem  to  him  impossible,  even  in  the  mystery  of  iniquity, 
and  an  insane  libel  on  our  fallen  nature. 

SEWARD. 

I  did  my  best.  Nor  am  I,  sir,  without  hope  that  my  Sketch-Book  may  be 
recovered,  and  then  you  will  judge  for  yourself,  sir,  if  it  be  a  caricalve.  A 
failure,  sir,  it  assuredly  was,  for  what  artist  has  succeeded  with  tou  ? 

NORTH. 

To  the  Inn,  and  put  on  dry  clothes. 

SEWABD. 

No.  What  care  I  about  dry  or  wet  clothes  I  Here  let  me  lie  down  and 
bask  in  this  patdi  of  intenaer  smshiiie  at  your  feet.  Don't  stir,  afar ;  the^ 
Crutch  is  not  the  least  in  the  way. 

We  must  be  all  up  and  doing—the  Hour  and  ^e  Mhn.  The  Gavalcabe. 
Hush  1   Hark !  the  Bagpipe  I  The  Cavalcade  can't  be  more  than  a  mile  off. 

SEWABD. 

Why  stadag  thus  like  a  Goriiawk,  sbr? 

BULLER. 

I  hear  nothing.    Seward,  do  you  ? 

SEWARD. 

Nothing.  And  what  can  he  mean  by  Cavalcade  ?  Yet  I  belieye  he  has 
the  Seeond  Sight.    I  have  heacdit  is  in  the  FamUy. 

NORTH. 

Hear  nothing?  Then  both  of  yon  must  be  deaf.  But  I  forget — we  Moun- 
taineers are  Fine-Ears^yoor  sense  of  hearing  has  been  educated  on  the 
Flat.  Not  now?  ^^  The  Campbells  are  coming," — that's  the  march— that'a 
the  go — that's  the  gathering. 

BULLBR. 

A  Horn — a  Drum,  sore  enongh^ — and^-and — diat  incomprshensibie  mix- 
ture of  groans  and  yells  must  be  the  Bagpipe. 

KORTV. 

See  yonder  they  come,  over  the  hill*  top— the  nfaith  mUe-stooe  fhnn  Li- 
veraryl  There's  the  Van,  by  the  Road-Surveyor  lent  me  for  the  occasion, 
drawn  by  Four  Horses.  And  there's  the  Waggon,  once  the  property  of  the 
lessee  of  the  Swiss  Giantess,  a  noble  Unicom.  And  there  the  Six  Tent- 
Carts,  Two-steeded;  and  there  the  Two  Boat-Carrla.gk8— horeed  I  know 
not  how.  But  don't  ye  see  the  bonny  Barges  aloft  in  the  air?  And  Men 
on  horseback— eoont  them^^there  should  be  Four.  Yon  hear  the  Bagpipe 
BOW— sarely— **The  Campbells  are  ooming."  And  here  is  the  whole  Con- 
eem,  gentlemen,  dose  at  hand,  deploying  across  the  Bridgo. 

B0LLER. 

Has  he  lost  his  senses  at  last? 

SBWARD. 

Have  we  lost  ours?    A  Cavalcade  it  is,  with  a  vengeance. 

north. 

One  mtmite  past  Seven !  True  to  their  time  within  sixty  seconds.  This^ 
way,  this  way.  Here  is  the  Spot,  the  Centre  of  the  Grove.  Bagpipe— 
Drum  and  Horn — ^music  all— silence.  Silence,  I  cry,  will  nobody  assist  me 
in  crying  silence  ? 

SEWARD  AND  BtJLLER. 

SBence— sHence — sOence. 

north. 
Give  me  the  Speaking-Trumpet  that  I  may  call  Silence. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  ekH$lophet  wndet  Ctmwm.  755 

8EWARD. 

Stentor  maj  pat  down  the  Dram,  the  Horns,  the  Fifes,  and  the  Serpent,  bat 
the  Bagpipe  is  above  him — ^the  Drone  is  deaf  as  the  sea — ^the  Piper  moves  in 
a  sphere  oi  his  own— 

BULLER. 

I  don't  hear  a  syllable  yon  are  saying ah !  the  storm  is  dead,  and  now 

what  a  BLESSED  CALM. 

JTOBTB. 

Wheel  into  line— Prepare  to— 

PrrcHTsirrs. 

Enter  the  Field  of  (he  Sycamore  Orove  on  Rorsehack—uihered  by  Archy  M'Ckd^ 
lum — Harrt  Se ward— M  arm apuke  Buller — ^Yallance  Voluseke 
— ^Nepob  Woodburn.  Van^  Waggon^  Carriages^  and  CortBy  &Cy/bmt 
a  Barricade  between  the  Rear  of  the  Grove  and  the  road  to  Dahnalfy, 

AdjataalAitfayM'Callaml  call  the  BoU  of  the  Troops 

ADJirrAKT. 

Peter  of  the  Lodge,  Sewer  and  Senescbid— iSbv.  Peterson  ditto.  Comp- 
troller of  the  Cellars— ^«re.  Kit  Peterson,  Tiger  there— ilene.  Michael 
Dods,  Cook  at  that  Place — Here,  Ben  Brawn,  Manciple — Here,  Roderick 
M'Crimmon,  King  of  the  Fipes- —Here,  Pym  and  Stretch,  Body-men  to 
the  yoang  Eoglishers— fT^re,  Here.  Tom  Moody,  Hantsman  at  Under-cUfiT 
Hall,  North  Devon — Here,  The  Cornwall  Clipper,  Head  Game-keeper  at 
Pendragon — Here.  Billy  Balmer  of  Bowness,  Windermere,  Commodore — 
Here. 

IVOBTH. 

Attention !  Each  man  will  be  held  aasweraUe  for  his  sabordbmtai.  The 
roll  will  be  called  an  hoar  after  sanriae,  and  an  hoar  before  sanset.  Men, 
remember  yon  are  ander  martial  law.  Camp-master  M^Kellar— l/<re.  Let 
the  Mid  Peak  of  Craachan  be  year  pitching  point.  Old  Dee-side  Tent  in  the 
centre,  right  in  Front.  Dormitories  to  the  east.  To  the  west  the  Pavilion. 
Kitchen  Kange  in  the  Bear.  Donald  Dhn,  late  Serseant  in  the  Black  Watch, 
see  to  the  Barricade.  The  ImipedimeBta  in  yoor  charge.  Li  tinree  hoars  I 
command  the  Encampment  to  be  complete.  Admittance  to  the  Field  on  the 
Qneen's  Birth-day.  Crowd  I  disperse.  Old  Boys  I  What  do  yon  think  of 
this?  Ton  have  often  called  me  m  Wisard^a  Waiiock— no  ^amonr  here 
—'tis  real  all— and  all  the  Work  or  the  Crutch.  Sons— yonr  Fathers  I 
Fathers— yoor  Sonsw     Yomr  hawi,  YolaBene— «id,  Woodbnm,  yonrs^ 

SEWARD^ 

Hal,  how  are  yon? 

BULLER. 

How  are  yon,  Marmy  ? 

MORTH. 

On  the  Stage— in  the  Theatre  of  Fictitioas  Lifo-nrach  a  Meeting  as  this 
woald  reqaire  explanation— bat  in  the  Drama  of  Real  Life,  on  the  Banks  of 
Lochawe,  it  needs  none.  Friends  of  my  sool  t  yon  wUl  come  to  understand 
it  all  in  two  minates'  talk  with  yoar  Progeny.  Progeny — welcome  for  yoor 
Sires'  sakes — and  yoar  Lady  Mothers' — and  yoar  own— to  Lochawe-side. 
I  see  yon  are  two  Tramps.  Yolasene — Woodbam — ^firom  yoor  faces  all 
well  at  home.  Come,  my  two  old  Backs— let  is  Three,  to  be  oat  of  the 
bnstle,  retire  to  the  Inn.  Did  yon  ever  see  Christopher  fling  the  Cratch  ? 
There — ^I  knew  it  wonld  clear  the  Sycamore  Grove. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


756  C3vri$t(fphef¥!iui«r  CoMi'ajM,  CJmi«, 

Scene  n. — Interior  of  the  PavUion. 

TocB— TVro  P.M. 

NoKTH— Seward— BuLLER. 


SEWARD. 

Still  at  his  Siesta  in  his  Swing-Chair.  Few  faces  bear  to  be  looked  on 
asleep. 

DULLER. 

Men*s  faces. 

SEWARD. 

His  bears  it  well.  Awake,  it  is  sometimes  too  fall  of  expression.  And 
then,  how  it  flnctnates  1  Ferpetnal  play  and  interchange  as  Thought,  Feeling, 
Fancy,  Imagination 

DULLER. 

The  gay,  the  grave,  the  sad,  l^e  serions,  the  pathetic,  the  hnmoroos,  the 
tragic,  the  whimsical  rales  the  minnte — 

"  Tis  eyerything  by  fits,  and  nothing  long.** 

SEWARD. 

Don^t  exaggerate.    An  inapt  quotation. 

DULLER. 

I  was  merely  carrying  on  yonr  enlogium  of  his  wide-awake  Face. 

SEWARD. 

The  prevalent  expression  is  still— the  Benign. 

DULLER. 

A  singalar  mixture  of  tenderness  and  truculence. 

SEWARD. 

Asleep  it  is  absolutely  saint-like. 

DULLER. 

It  reminds  me  of  the  faces  of  Chantry^s  Sleeping  Children  in  Litchfield 
Cathedral. 

SEWARD. 

Composure  is  the  word.    Composure  is  mute  Harmony. 

DULLER. 

It  may  beso^but  you  will  not  deny  that  his  nose  is  just  a  minim  too  long— 
and  his  mouth,  at  this  moment,  just  a  minim  too  open — and  the  crow-feet 

SEWARD. 

Enhance  the  power  of  those  large  drooping  eyelids,  heavy  with  meditation 
--of  that  high  broad  forehead,  with  the  lines  not  the  wrinkles  of  age. 

DULLER. 

He  is  much  balder  than  he  was  on  Deeside. 

SEWARD. 

Or  fifty  years  before.  They  say  that,  in  youth,  the  sight  of  his  head  of 
hair  once  fenced  Mirabeau. 

DULLER. 

Why,  Mirabeau's  was  black,  and  my  grandmother  told  me  North's  was 
yellow— or  rather  green,  like  a  star. 

KORTH. 

Your  Grandmother,  Buller,  was  the  finest  woman  of  her  time. 

DULLER. 

Sl6^)ers  hear.  Sometimes  a  single  word  from  without,  reachhig  the  spiritual 
region,  changes  by  its  touch  the  whole  current  of  their  dreams. 

NORTH. 

I  once  told  you  that,  Buller.    At  present  I  happen  to  be  awake.    But 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1649.]  Ckmtopher  wtdar  Camfoss.  767 

sorely  a  man  may  sit  on  a  swing-chair  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  his  month  open, 
without  inoorring  the  charge  of  somnolency.    Where  have  yon  been? 

SEWABD. 

Yon  told  ns,  sir,  not  to  disturb  yon  till  Two-^^ 

NORTH. 

But  where  hare  yon  been  ? 

8BWABD. 

We  have  written  onr  despatches-^^ad  onr  London  Papers— and  had  a  pull 
in  Outia  Percka  to  and  from  Port  Sonachan. 

NOBTH. 

How  does  she  pull  ? 

BULLKR. 

,     Like  a  winner.    I  have  written  to  the  builder— Taylor  of  Newcastle— to 
match  her  against  any  craft  of  her  keel  in  the  kingdom. 

NORTH. 

Sit  down.    Where  are  the  Boys. 

SBWARD. 

Off  hours,  ago  to  Kilchum.  They  have  just  signalised—'*  Two  o'clock. 
1  Salmo  Fbbox,  lb.  12—20  Yellow  fins,  lb.  15—6  Pikb,  lb.  36." 

NOBTH. 

And  not  bad  sport,  either.    They  know  the  dinner  hour?    Seren  sharp. 

8EWABD. 

They  do— and  they  are  not  the  lads  to  disregard  orders. 

NOBTH. 

Four  finer  fellows  are  not  in  Christendom. 

SEWABD. 

May  I  presume  to  ask,  sir,  what  volumes  these  are  lying  open  on  your 
knees? 

NOBTH. 

The  Llia]>— and  Pabadisb  Lost. 

SEWABD. 

I  fear,  sir,  you  may  not  be  disposed  to  enlighten  ns,  at  this  hour. 

NOBTH. 

But  I  am  disposed  to  be  enUghtened.  Oxonians— and  Double  First-Class 
Men— nor  truants  since— you  will  find  in  me  a  docile  pupil  rather  than  a 
Teacher.    I  am  no  great  Grecian. 

BULLEB. 

But  you  are,  sir;  and  a  fine  old  Trojan  too,  methinksl  What  audacious 
word  has  esci^ied  my  lips  I 

NOBTH. 

Epic  Poetry  I  Tell  but  a  Tale,  and  see  Childhood— the  harmless,  the 
trustful,  the  wondering,  listen — ^^  all  ear ;"  and  so  has  the  wilder  and  mightier 
Childhood  of  Nations,  listened,  tmstftil,  wondering,  '^  all  ear,"  to  Tales  lofty, 
profound— Micf,  or,  as  Art  grew  up,  iung. 

SEWABD. 

EIIE,  Sayor  TeU. 

BULLEB. 
AEIAE,  Sing. 

NOBTH. 

Yes,  my  lads,  these  were  the  received  formulas  of  beseeching  with  which  the 
Minstrels  of  Hellas  hivoked  succour  of  the  divine  Muse,  when  their  burning 
tongue  would  fit  well  to  the  Harp  transmitted  Tales,  fraught  with  M  heroic 
remembrance,  with  solemn  belief,  with  oracular  wisdom.  EIIE,  Tell,  EII02, 
The  Tale.  And  when,  step  after  step,  the  Harp  modelling  the  Verse,  and 
the  Verse  charming  power  and  beauty,  and  splendour  and  pathos*— like  a 
newly-created  and  newly-creat^ig  soul— into  its  ancestral  Tradition— when 
insensibiy  the  benign  Usurper,  the  Muse,  had  made  the  magnificent  dream 
rightly  and  wholly  her  own  at  last— EHOS,  The  Suno  Tale.  Hcweb,  to 
aU  following  ages  the  chief  Master  of  Eloquence  whether  in  Verse  or  in 
Prose,  has  yet  maintained  the  simplicity  of  T^img. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


756  Cknttopkm'  wuhr  Cmmui.  Poi^ 

<<  FUtf  he  CMM  baildii  tt0  tvift  ihipi  of  te  AdMBMi, 
FropoeiBg  to  ttlmm  his  daoghtery  aad  briugmg  iaiMiim  nomi  ;, 
Haying  in  his  hjuid  the  fillet  of  the  fur-shooting  Apollo, 
On  the  golden  rod  :  and  be  implored  of  the  Achieaui, 
And  the  eons  of  Atrens,  most  of  all,  Che  two  Orderen  of  the  People.'' 

These  few  words  of  a  tongue  stately,  resplendeBt,  MnoroMr  and  nammnmsj 
more  than  onrs — and  already  the  near  Scamandrian  Field  feels,  and  fears, 
and  tvemblea.  MiltomI  The  world  has  roUed  round,  and  agatn  ronnd, 
from  the  day  of  that  earlier  to  that  of  the  later  Mftonidea.  All  th«  aooL- 
wealth  hoarded  in  words,  which  mereifiil  Hme  held  aloft,  nnsnbmerged  by 
the  Gothic,  by  the  Ottoman  inundation ;  all  the  light  shriaed  in  the  Second, 
the  Intellectual  Ark  that,  divinely  built  and  guided,  rode  tilting  oyer  the 
tempettoous  waste  of  waters;  all  the  mind,  trod  and  fostered  l^IFew  Bvope, . 
down  to  within  two  hundred  years  of  (his  year  tiiat  mm :  Theae  have  pot 
differences  between  the  Iliad  and  the  Parabisb  Lost,  in  matter  and  ia 
style,  which  to  state  and  illustrate  would  bold  me  speaking  till  { 

BULUUL 

And  18  Uitenbig. 


The  Fall  of  Hector  and.of  his  Troy  1    The  Fall  of  Adam  and  of  his  Worldr 

BVLLMSk 

What  concise  expression  1    MuUmm  m  parvo,  indeed,  Seward. 

irOBTH. 

Men  and  gods  mingled  in  glittering  oonflict  upon  the  ground  that  spreads 
between  Ida's  foot  and  the  Hellespont  I  At  the  foot  of  the  Ono^^otent 
Throne,  archangels  and  angels  distracting  their  native  Heaven  with  arms, 
and  Heaven  disborthening  her  kp  (tf  her  self-kMt  sons  for  tka  peof^tng  of 
HeU! 

SnWABD. 

Hushl  Buller— hushi 

JIOWfH. 

In  way  of  an  Bpiioda  yUf  an  £paod»--0ea  tbe  flaventii  Book— eur 
Visible  Universe  willed  into  being ! 

anwABD. 
Hush!  Buller— fanskl 

NORTH. 

For  a  few  risings  and  settings  of  yon  since-bedimmed  Sun — Love  and 
celestial  Bliss  dweumg  amidst  the  shades  and  flowers  of  Bden  yet  sinless — 
then,  from  a  mobs  fatal  apple,  Discord  clashing  into  and  sabvertiag  ths 
harmonies  of  Creation. 

^  Sin,  and  her  shadow,  Death  ;  and  Misery, 
Death's  Harbinger." 

The  Diad,  indeed! 


I  wish  yon  could  be  persuaded,  sir,  to  give  us  an  Edition  of  Miltoa. 

XOKTH. 

No.  I  must  not  take  it  out  of  the  Doctor's  hands.  Then,  as  to  IGItsn's 
style.  If  the  Christian  Theologian  must  be  held  bold  who  has  dared  to  mix 
tiieD^Tered  Writinfi  with  his  own  InventionB— bold,  too,  was  he,  the  heir  of 
the  mind  that  was  nursed  in  tiie  Aristotelian  Schools,  to  unite,  as  he  did,  on^ 
the  other  hand,  the  giH  of  an  mderatanding  aeconidished  in  logic,  witii  tb» 
spontaneous  and  unstudied  step  of  Poetry.  The  style  of  Milton,  gsntlemen^ 
has  been  praised  ibr  tkapUcity ;  and  it  is  trae  that  tiie  style  of  the  Paradiss 
Lost  has  often  an  austere  simplicity;  but  one  sort  of  it  yoo  aiss^the  prc^MS 
Epic  simplicity— that  Homeric  sknpUdty  of  the  Tetfm^ 

SKWAXD. 

Perhaps,  sb,  in  sueh  a  Peon  sach  simplicity  eoidd  not  be. 

JIOBTH. 

Perhaps  not.    Homer  adds  thought  to  thoogfat,  and  so  boilds  np.    Milton 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  C3^mi€pkerwfderCmmm.  709 

involyes  thought  with  thought,  and  so  coostrocts.  Relation  is  with  him  argn> 
mentative  also,  and  History  both  Philosophy  and  Oratory.'  This  was  una* 
voidable.  He  brought  the  mind  of  the  latter  age  to  the  Form  of  Composition 
produced  by  the  primitiye  time.  Affain,  the  style  is  fitted  to  the  general  in- 
tention of  a  Poem  essentially  didactic  and  argumentative.  Again,  the  style  l» 
'  personal  to  himself.  He  has  learnedly  availed  himself  of  all  antecedent  Art 
— minutely  availed  himself,  yet  he  is  no  imitator.  The  style  is  like  no  other — 
it  is  intensely  and  completely  original.  It  expresses  hims^.  Lofty,  capa- 
cious, acute,  luminous,  thoroughly  disciplined,  ratiocinative  powers  wonder- 
fUly  blend  their  aotkm  with  an  imagination  of  the  most  delicate  and  profound 
sensibility  to  the  beautiful,  and  of  a  subUmity  that  no  theme  can  excel. 

SBWARD. 

LordBioon,  siiv  I  biileye,  hat  deteed  Poetry, Feigned  Wstor^-^nM  he  not? 

i  1K»ITB. 

I  He  has  -ond  no  wender  tk«t  he  thought  much  of  **  Fdgned  History^— for 

I  be  had  a  view  to  Epos  and  Tragedy^the  Diad  and  Odyss^F— the  Attie 
Theatre— the  £neid— Dante— Ariosto—Tasso-^he  Romances  of  Chivaby— 
mofeever,  the  whole  Immense  Greek  Fable,  wliereof  part  and  parcel  remain, 
bn^  mote  is  periiriMd.  VHdeh  Fables,  you  know,  existed,  and  were  traosmitled 

i  in  Prose,— dat  is,  by  Oral  Tradition,  in  the  words  of  the  relator,— long  be^ 
fore  th^  came  into  Homeric  Verso— or  any  verse.  He  saw,  Seward,  the 
Memory  of  Mankind  possessed  by  two  kinds  of  Histefy,  bet^  onoe  alike  cre- 
dited.   True  History,  which  remains  True  History,  and  Fabulous  History, 

I         BOW  a^Bowledged  as  Poetry  only.  It  is  no  wonder  that  oCAer  Poetry  vanished 

,         from  importance  fai  his  estknatien. 

P  BULLER. 

I  I  follow  you,  shr,  with  some  difBculty. 

IfORTH. 

Yon  mi^  Willi  ease.    Fabulons  History  holds  pfawe,  side  by  side,  witi» 
True  History,  as  a  rival  hi  digai^,  credence,  and  power,  and  in  peopUng  the 
Earth  with  Persons  and  Events.  For,  of  a  verity,  the  Personages  and  Events 
,  orbited  by  Poesy  h<rfd  place  in  ear  Mind— not  in  our  Imagination  only,  butin 

our  Understanding,  along  with  Events  and  Personages.  historicaUy  remem-^ 
bered. 


An  imposiag  Pandlelism  f 

JVOBTU. 

It  is— b«t  does  it  bold  good?    Andif  itdoes— wiAi  wlMtttmitMtiens? 


With  what  Ifanhations,  sfr? 

BOBTV. 

I  wish  Lord  Bacon  were  here,  that  I  might  ask  Mm  to  expUis.  Take 
Homer  and  Thuey  dideo— tiie  IMad  and  the  History  of  the  Pelopennesiaa  War. 
We  thus  sever,  at  the  widest,  tira  Tdling  of  Callk^  flrem  the  Tettiaf  of  Clkv 
holding  each  at  the  height  of  honour. 

BUIXBB. 

At  the  widest? 

weBTsr. 

Tes :  for  how  for  iW>m  Thucydides  is,  at  once,  the  Book  of  the  Games  t 
Look  through  the  Hied,  and  see  how  much  and  minute  depicturiBg  of  a  WofM 
with  which  the  Historian  had  nothing  to  do !  Shall  the  Histortan,  in  Prose, 
of  the  Ten  Years'  War,  stop  to  describe  the  Funeral  Games  of  a  Patrodns  ? 
Yes;  if  he  stop  te  describe  the  Buryhig  of  every  Hero  who  foils.  Butthe 
Histcnrian  hi  Prose  assumes  tiiat  a  People  know  their  own  MaBners;  and  there* 
fore  he  omits  painting  their  manners  to  themselves.  The  Historian  in  Verse 
assumes  the  same  thing,  and,  thereforty  strange  to  say,  he  paints  the  manners  t 
See,  then>  hi  the  Iliad,  how  much  memorising  of  a  whole  departed  scheme 
ef  human  existence,  with  which  the  Prose  Historian  had  nomng  to  d0|  the 
Historian  in  regulated  Metre  has  had  the  inspiratton  aad  the  skiH  to  f 
in  the  narrative  of  his  ever-advancing  Action. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


760  Christopher  under  Canvass,  [Jane, 

BULLBR. 

Would  his  lordship  were  with  us  I 

NOBTH. 

GIto  all  this  to— the  Hbxamster.  Bemember  always,  mj  dear  Seward, 
the  shield  of  Achilles— itself  a  world  in  siiniatare— a  compenditun  of  the 
world. 

SEWABD. 

Of  the  universe. 

NORTH. 

Even  so ;  for  Sun,  and  Moon,  and  Stars  are  there,  Astronomy  and  all  the 
learned  sisteriioodi 

SEWARD. 

Then  to  what  species  of  narrative  in  prose — to  One  removed  at  what  interval 
from  the  history  of  the  Peloponnesian  Wi^r,  belongs  that  scene  of  Helen  on  the 
Walls  of  Troy?  That  scene  at  the  Scaean  gate?  In  the  tent  of  Achilles, 
where  Achilles  sits,  and  Priam  kneels  ? 

NORTH. 

Good.  The  general  difference  is  obviously  this— Pnblidty  almost  solely 
stamra  the  Thncydidean  story — Privacy,  more  than  in  equal  part,  interftised 
with  Publicity,  the  Homeric.  You  nfust  allow  Publicity  and  Privacy  to  dgnify, 
besides  that  which  is  done  in  public  and  in  private,  that  which  proceeds  of  the 
Public  and  of  the  Private  will. 

SEWARD. 

In  other  words,  if  I  apprehend  you  aright,  the  Theme  nven  being  some  affair 
of  Public  moment,  Prose  tends  to  gather  up  the  acts  of  the  individual  a^ts, 
under  general  aspects,  into  masses. 

NORTH. 

Just  so.  Verse,  whenever  it  dare,  resolves  the  mass  of  action  into  the 
individual  acts,  puts  aside  the  collective  doer— the  PuUic,  and  puts  forward 
individual  persons.    Glory,  I  say  again,  to  the  Hexameter  ! 

BULLER. 

Glory  to  the  Hexameter  I  The  Hexameter,  like  the  Queen,  has  done  it 
all. 

NORTH. 

Or  let  us  return  to  the  Paradise  Lost  ?  If  the  mustering  of  the  Fallen 
Legions  in  the  First  Book — ^if  the  Infernal  Council  held  in  the  Second — ^if  the 
Angelic  Rebellion  and  Warfare  in  the  Fifth  and  Sixth— resemble  Public  His- 
tory, civil  and  military,  as  we  commonly  speak— if  the  Seventh  Book,  relating 
the  Creation  by  describing  the  kinds  created,  be  the  assumption  into  Heroic 
Poetry  of  Natural  History— to  what  kind  of  History,  I  earnestly  ask  you 
both,  does  that  scene  belong,  of  Eve's  relation  of  her  dream,  in  the  Fifth 
Book,  and  Adam's  consolation  of  her  uneasiness  under  its  involuntvy  sin  ? 
To  what,  in  the  Fourth  Book,  her  own  innocent  relation  of  her  first  impres- 
aions  upon  awaking  into  Life  and  Consciousness? 

BULLER. 

Ay  I— to  what  kind  of  History  ?    More  easily  asked  than  answered. 

NORTH. 

And  Adam's  relation  to  the  Affable  Archangel  of  his  own  suddenly-dawned 
morning  from  the  night  of  non-existence,  aptly  and  hi^pily  crowned  upon 
the  relation  made  to  him  by  Raphael  in  the  Seventh  Book  of  his  own  forming 
under  the  Omnipotent  Hand? 

SEWARD. 

Simply,  I  venture  to  say»  sir,  to  the  most  interior  aatobiographv- to  that 
confidence  of  audible  words,  which  fiows  when  the  face  of  a  filena  sharpens 
the  heart  of  a  man and  Raphael  was  Adam's  Friend. 

NORTH. 

Seward,  you  are  right.  You  speak  well— as  you  always  do— when  you 
choose.  Behold,  then,  I  beseech  you,  the  comprehending  power  of  that  little 
magical  band — Our  Accentual  Iambic  Pentameter. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


18:19.]  Christqpker  under  Canvass.  761 

SEWARD. 

"  Glory  be  wiih  them,  and  eternal  praise^ 
The  Poete  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  Truth  and  pure  Delight  by  heayenly  lays !" 

NORTH. 

Glory  to  Verse,  for  its  power  is  great.  Man,  from  the  garden  in  Eden,  to  the 

Purifying  by  &re  of  the  redeemed  £arth->-the  creation  of  things  Visible — Angels 
Iprigfat  and  Fallen — and  Higher  than  Angels — all  the  Begions  of  l^ace — 
Infinitude  and  Eternity — the  Universality  of  Being — this  is  the  copious  mat- 
ter of  the  Song.  And  herein  there  is  place  found,  proper,  distinct,  and  large, 
and  prominent,  for  that  whispered  call  to  visit,  in  the  freshness  of  morning,  the 
dropping  Myrrh — to  study  the  opening  beauty  of  the  Flowers — to  watch  the 
Bee  m  her  sweet  labour — ^which  tenderly  dissipates  from  the  lids  of  Eve  her 
ominously-troubled  sleep— free  room  for  two  tears,  which,  falling  from  a 
woman's  eyes,  are  wiped  with  her  hair — and  for  two  more,  which  her  pitying 
husband  kisses  away  ere  they  fall.  All  these  things  Verse  disposes,  and  com- 
poses, in  One  Presentment. 

BUIXER. 

Glory  to  Verse,  for  its  power  is  great— glory  to  our  Accentual  Iambic  Pen- 
tameter. 

NORTH. 

Let  us  return  to  the  Iliad.  The  Iliad  is  a  hlstonr  told  by  a  mind  that  is 
arbiter,  to  a  certain  extent  only,  of  its  own  facts.  For  Homer  takes  his  decennial 
War  and  its  Heroes,  nay,  the  tenor  of  the  story  too,  from  long-descended 
Tradition.  To  his  contemporary  countrymen  he  appears  as  a  Historian— not 
feigning,  but  commemorating  and  glorifying,  transmitted  facts. 

SEWARD. 

Ottfried  Miiller,  asking  how  frur  Homer  is  tied  up  in  his  Traditions,  ventures 
to  suspect  that  the  names  of  the  Heroes  whom  Achilles  kills,  in  such  or  such 
a  fight,  are  all  traditionary. 

NORTH. 

Where,  then,  is  the  Feigned  History?  Lord  Bacon,  Ottfried  MUller,  and 
Jacob  Bryant,  are  here  not  in  the  main  unagreed.  "  I  nothing  doubt,"  says 
Bacon,  *^  but  the  Fables,  which  Homer  having  recdved,  transmits,  had  origin- 
ally a  profound  and  excellent  sense,  although  I  greatly  doubt  if  Homer  any 
longer  knew  that  sense." 

BULLER. 

What  right,  may  I  ask,  had  Lord  Bacon  to  doubt,  and  Ottfried  Miiller  to 
suspect 

NORTH. 

Smoke  your  dgar.    Ottfried  Miiller 

BULLER. 

"Whew !— poo! 

NORTH. 

Ottfried  Miiller  imagines  that  there  was  in  Greece  a  pre-Homeric  Age,  of 
which  the  principal  intellectual  employment  was  Myth-making.  And  Bryant, 
we  know,  shocked  the  opinion  of  his  own  day  by  referring  the  War  of  Troy 
to  Mytholoj^.  Now,  observe,  Buller,  how  there  is  feignmg  and  feigning— 
Poet  after  Poet— and  the  Poem  that  comes  to  us  at  last  is  the  Poem  of 
Homer ;  but  in  truth,  of  successive  ages,  ending  in  Homer 

SEWARD. 

Who  was  then  a  real  living  flesh  and  blood  Individual  of  the  human  species. 

NORTH. 

That  he  was 

SEWARD. 

And  wrote  the  Iliad. 

.NORTH. 

That  be  did— but  how  I  have  hinted  rather  than  told.  In  the  Paradise 
Lost,  the  part  of  Milton  is,  then,  infinitely  bolder  than  Homer's  in  the  Iliad. 
He  is  far  more  of  a  Creator. 


Digitized  by 


GoQQle 


76S  CMalopkmr  tmtkr  Ommmt.  UmB, 


Can  an  innermost  bond  of  Uniiy,  sir,  bo  riKnm ior  tte  Iliad? 

KORTH. 

Yes.  Thb  Iluld  is  a  Talb  of  a  Wrong  Riohtbd.  Zens,  upon  the  secret 
top  of  Olympns,  decrees  this  Riohtino  with  his  omnipotent  Nod.  Upon  the 
topofldaheeeiidoctBit.  But  that  is  done,  and  the  Fates  resome  th^  teoor. 
Hector  £iUl8,  and  Troy  shall  faU.  That  is  again  the  BumiMa  of  a  Wmma^ 
done  amongst  mom.    This  is  the  broadiy-wzitten  adaonftlon :  *'  Dascm 

JUBTXTXAM." 

SKWABD. 

Yon  aie  alwajs  great,  sir,  on  Homer. 

MOKTH. 

Agamemnon,  in  insoknoe  of  self-will,  offmds  Ghryias  and  a  Qod.  He  re- 
fosed  Chjseis — He  robs  Achilles.  In  Agamemnon  the  Insolence  of  Hnmaa 
Self-will  is  hnmbled,  first  nnder  the  hand  of  Apollo — then  of  Jnpiter— saj, 
altogether,  of  Heft^en.  He  snffors  and  submits.  And  now  Achilles,  who  has  no 
less  interest  in  the  Courts  of  Heaven  than  Chryses — ^indeed  higfaer— in  orer- 
weening  anger  fa^ons  ont  a  redress  for  himself  which  the  Father  of  Gods  and 
Men  grants.  And  what  follows?  Agamenwton  again  anfEiori  and  submits. 
For  Achilles — Patrodns*  bloody  corse !  Ktmu  Uarpoickos — ^that  is  the  Toice 
that  rings !  Now  he  accepts  the  proffored  reconciliation  of  Agamemnon,  be- 
fore sooraftiUy  reftised;  and  in  the  son  of  Thetis,  too,  the  Insolonee  of  Human 
fietf-will  is  chastanad  under  the  hand  of  Hearien. 

SBWARD. 

He  suffers,  but  submits  not  till  Hector  lies  transfixed — till  Twetre  noble 
youths  of  the  TrMans  and  their  Allies  haye  Ued  on  Patroohis*  Pyre.  And 
does  he  submit  then?  No.  For  twelve  days  ever  and  anon  he  drags  the 
insensible  ooise  at  his  horses'  heels  roond  that  sepulchral  earth. 


Mad,  if  ever  a  man  was. 

NORTH. 

The  Gods  mannur--and  will  that  the  unseemly  Beveegeeease.  Joresends 
Thetis  to  him — and  what  meeter  messenger  for  minkter  of  mefey  than 
a  mother  to  her  son  1  God-bidden  by  that  voice,  he  submits — he  remits  his 
Revenge.    The  Hnman  Will,  infuriated,  bows  aiider  the  Heavenly. 

SEWARD. 

Touched  by  the  prayers  and  the  sight  of  that  kneeling  gray-haired  Father, 
he  has  given  him  back  his  dead  son — ^and  from  the  ransom  a  oostiyjMdl  of 
honour,  to  bide  the  dead  son  from  the  fiither's  eyes^and  of  his  own  \¥m  and 
Power  Twelve  Days*  truce ;  and  the  days  have  expired,  and  the  Funeral  Is  per- 
formed— and  the  pyre  is  burned  out — and  the  mound  over  the  slayer  €ii  Pa* 
troclus  is  heaped — and  the  Dlad  is  done — and  this  Moral  indelibly  writes  itself 
on  the  heart — the  words  of  Apollo  in  that  Council — 

The  Fatbs  hayb  apfoditbd  to  mortals  a  Spinrr  that  ssall  submit  and 

■NDUXB. 

IffOBTH. 

Right  and  good.  IV^  is  more  than  ^shaU  snfi'er."  It  is,  that  shall 
accept  suffering— that  shall  bear. 

SEWARD. 

Compare  this  one  Verse  and  the  Twentv-four  Books,  and  you  have  the 
poetical  simi^dty  and  the  poetical  multiplicity  side  by  shle. 

BULLRR. 

Right  and  good. 

KORTH. 

Yes,  my  firiend^,  the  Teachmg  of  the  Iliad  is  Piety  to  the  Gods^ 

SBWARD. 

RsTepenee  for  the  Rights  of  Men— 

HORTH. 

A  Will  humUed,  conformed  to  the  Will  of  Heaven- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ldM9.2  Omtiopkmrtmder  Commit.  768 

BULIiBR. 

That  the  £ar^  is  jiiBtty  governed. 

KOftTH. 

Dim  fbreshadowingSf  whidi  Milton,  I  donbt  not,  diMerned  and  dnrished. 
The  Iliad  wis  the  natoral  and  apiritnal  father  of  ^  PaMdiae  Loat — 

SBWABD. 

And  the  son  is  greater  than  the  sire. 

NORTH. 

I  see  in  the  Iliad  the  lore  of  Homer  to  Greece  and  to  hnmaokfaid.  He  was 
a  legislator  to  Greece  before  Solon  and  Lycmrgna— greater  than  either— after 
the  manner  ilAbled  oS  Orphena. 

SSWABD. 

Spnngfirom  the  bosom  of  heroic  life,  tiie  Iliad  asked  heroic  Ustenera. 

NORTH. 

See  with  what  large-hearted  love  he  draws  the  Men^Hector,  and  Priam, 
and  Saipedon— as  well  as  the  Woman  Andromache— enemies  I  Can  he  so 
paint  hnmaaity  and  not  hnmanise?  He  hnmanises  m — ^who  have  literatare 
and  refined  Greece  and  Bome-— who  have  Spenser,  and  Shakspeare,  and  Mil- 
ton—who are  Christendom. 

aSWABD. 

He  loves  tiie  inferior  creatores,  and  the  feee  of  natore. 

NORTH. 

The  Iliad  has  been  called  a  Song  of  War.  I  see  in  it — a  Song  of  Peace. 
Think  of  all  the  fiery  Iliad  ending  m — ^Reconciled  Sabmiaaion  1 

aSWARD. 

^^Mmderlmpoasibilitj,^  and  believe  that  there  mi^  have  been  an  Iliad 
or  a  Paradise  Lost  in  Prose. 

NOBTH. 

It  conld  never  have  been,  by  hnman  power,  our  Paradise  Lost.  ¥rhat  would 
have  become  of  the  Seventh  Book  ?  This  is  now  occupied  with  describUig  the 
Six  Days  of  Creation.  A  few  verses  of  the  First  Chapter  of  Genesis  extended 
into  somanyhnndredlines.  The  Bo<^  as  it  stands,  has  rail  poetical  reason.  First, 
it  has  a  soffident  motive.  It  founds  the  existence  ci  Adam  and  Eve,  whidi  is 
othowise  not  doly  led  to.  The  revolted  Angels,  yon  know,  have  fallen,  and  the 
Aimi^ty  will  create  A  new  race  of  worshippers  to  sopply  their  place— Mankind. 

SBWARD. 

For  this  race  that  k  to  be  created,  a  Home  is  previoosly  to  be  bnilt — or 
this  World  is  to  be  created. 

NORTH. 

I  initiated  you  into  Milton  nearly  thirty  years  ago,  my  dear  Seward ;  and  I 
rcjofce  to  find  tiiat  you  still  have  him  by  heart.  Between  the  Fall  of  the 
Angda,  and  that  inhabiting  of  Paradise  by  our  first  parents,  which  is 
lar^ly  related  by  Raphael,  there  would  be  in  the  histoif  which  the  poem 
undertakes,  an  unfilled  gap  and  blank  without  this  book.  The  chain  of  events 
which  is  unroUed  would  be  broken — ^interrupted— incomplete. 

SEWARD. 

And,  sir,  when  Raphael  has  told  the  Rebellion  and  Fall  of  the  Angels, 
Adam,  with  a  natural  movement  of  curiosity,  asks  of  this  *^  Divine  Inteipre- 
ter"  how  this  firame  of  things  began  ? 

NORTH. 

And  Raphael  answers  by  declaring  at  large  the  Purpose  and  the  Manner. 
The  Mission  of  Raphael  is  to  strengthen,  if  it  be  practicable,  the  Human 
Pair  in  their  obedience.  To  this  end,  how  apt  his  discourse,  showing  how 
dear  they  are  to  the  Universal  Maker,  how  eminent  in  his  Universe  I 

SBWARD. 

The  causes,  then,  of  the  Archangelic  Narrative  abound.  And  the  personal 
interest  with  which  the  Two  Auditors  must  hear  such  a  revelation  of  wonders 
firom  soeh  a  Speaker,  and  that  so  intimately  concema  themselves,  falls  nothing 
short  of  what  Poetiy  justly  requires  in  relations  put  mto  the  month  of  the 
poetical  Persons. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


764  Chri$topher  undtr  CamHUS.  [June, 

NOBTH. 

And  can  the  interest — not  now  of  Raphael's,  bat  of  Milton's  **fit  andlence** 
— ^be  sustained  throoghont?  The  answer  is  triomphant.  The  Book  is,  from 
beginning  to  end,  a  stream  of  the  most  beantinil  descriptive  Poetrj  that 
ez^ts.    !Not  however,  mind  jon,  Seward,  of  stationary  description. 

SEWARD. 

Sir? 

NORTH. 

A  proceeding  work  is  described ;  and  the  Book  is  replete  and  alive  with 
motion — with  progress— with  action — y^  of  action — of  an  order  nnnsnal  in- 
deed to  the  Epos,  bnt  unexcelled  in  dignity — the  Creative  Action  of  Deity ! 

SEWARD. 

What  should  hinder,  then,  but  that  this  same  Seventh  Book  should  have  beeoi 
written  in  Prose  ? 

NORTH. 

Why  this  only-4hat  without  Verse  it  could  not  have  been  read  I  The 
Verse  makes  present.  You  listen  with  Adam  and  Eve,  and  you  hear  the 
Archangel.  In  Prose  this  illusion  could  not  have  been  carried  through  such 
a  subject-matter.  The  conditio  sine  qud  nan  of  the  Book  was  the  ineffable 
charm  of  th^  Description.  But  what  would  a  series  of  botanical  and  zoologi- 
cal descriptions,  for  instance,  have  been,  in  Prose?  The  vivida  vis  that  is 
in  Verse  is  the  quickening  spirit  of  the  whole. 

BULLBR. 

But  who  doubts  it? 

NORTH. 

Lord  Bacon  said  that  Poetry— that  is.  Feigned  History— might  be  worded  in 
Prose.    And  it  may  be ;  but  how  inadequately  is  known  to  Us  Three. 

BUIXER. 

And  to  all  the  world. 

NORTH. 

No— nor,  toXhe  million  who  do  know  it,  so  well  as  to  Us,  nor  the  reason  why. 
But  hear  me  a  moment  longer.  Wordsworth,  in  his  famous  Pref^ace  to  the  Ljrrical 
Ballads,  asserts  that  the  language  of  Prose  and  the  language  of  Verse  differ 
but  in  this— that  in  verse  there  is  metre— and  metre  he  calls  an  adjunct.  With 
all  reverence,  I  say  that  metre  is  not  an  adjunct— but  vitality  and  essence ;  and 
that  verse,  in  virtue  thereof,  so  transfigures  language,  that  it  ceases  to  be  the 
language  of  prose  as  spoken,  out  of  verse,  by  any  of  the  children  of  men. 

SEWARD. 

Remove  the  metre,  and  the  language  will  not  be  the  language  of  prose  ? 

NORTH. 

Not— if  you  remove  the  metre  only— and  leave  otherwise  the  order  of  the 
words— the  collocation  unchanged— and  unchanged  any  one.  of  the  two  hundred 
figures  of  speech,  one  and  all  of  which  are  differentiy  presented  in  the  language 
of  Verse  from  what  they  are  in  Prose. 

SEWARD. 

It  must  be  so. 

NORTH. 

The  fountain  of  Law  to  Ck>mpodtion  in  Prose  is  the  Understanding.  The 
fountain  of  Law  to  Composition  in  Verse  is  the  Will. 

SEWARD. 
NORTH. 

A  discourse  in  prose  resembles  a  chain.  The  sentences  are  the  successive 
links — all  holding  to  one  another — and  holding  one  another.    Att  is  bound, 

SEWARD. 

Well? 

NORTH. 

A  discourse  in  verse  resembles  alnllowy  sea.  The  verses  are  the  waves 
that  rise  and  fall — to  our  apprehension— each  by  impulse,  life,  will  of  its  own. 
Ali  is/ree. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  Christopher  under  Ctmvass.  766 

SEWARD. 

Ay.    Now  jonr  meaning  emerges. 

NORTH. 

Eprofundis  ciamavi.  In  eloquent  prose,  the  feeling  fits  itself  into  the  pro- 
cess  of  the  thinking.  In  true  verse,  the  thinking  fits  itself  into  the  process  of 
the  feeling. 

BEWARD. 

I  perpend. 

NORTH. 

In  prose,  the  general  distribution  and  composition  of  the  matter  belong  to 
the  reign  of  Necesftsity.  The  order  of  the  part8,  and  the  connexion  of  part  with 
part,  are  obliged — logically  justifiable — say,  then,  are  demonstrable.  See  an 
Oration  of  Demosthenes.  In  verse,  that  dUtribution  and  composition  belong  to 
the  reign  of  Liberty.  That  order  and  connexion  are  arbitrary — passionately 
justifiable — say,  then,  are  delectable.    See  an  Ode  of  Pindar. 

SEWARD. 

Publish— publish. 

NORTH. 

In  prose  the  style  is  last — in  verse  first ;  in  prose  the  sense  controls  the 
sound — in  verse  the  sound  the  sense ;  in  prose  you  speak — in  verse  you  sing ; 
in  prose  you  live  in  the  abstract — in  verse  in  the  concrete ;  in  prose  you  pre- 
sent notions — in  verse  visions ;  in  prose  you  expound — in  verse  you  enchant ; 
in  prose  it  is  much  if  now  and  then  you  are  held  in  the  sphere  of  the  fasci- 
nated seifses — in  verse  if  of  the  calm  understanding. 

BUIXER. 

Will  you  have  the  goodness,  sir,  to  say  all  that  over  agfdn  ? 

NORTH. 

I  have  forgot  it.  The  lines  in  the  countenance  of  Prose  are  austere.  The  look 
is  shy,  reserved,  governed—like  the  fixed  steady  lineaments  of  mountains.  The 
fanes  that  sufiuse  the  face  of  her  sister  Verse  vary  faster  than  those  with  which 
the  western  or  the  eastern  sky  momently  reports  the  progress  of  the  sinking, 
of  the  fallen,  but  not  yet  lost,  of  the  coming  or  of  the  risen  sun. 

BULLER. 

I  have  jotted  that  down,  sir. 

NORTH. 

And  I  hope  yon  iiriU  come  to  understand  it.  Candidly  speaking,  His  more 
than  I  do. 

SEWARD. 

I  do  perfectly— and  it  is  as  true  as  beautifhl,  sir. 

BULLER. 

Equally  so. 

NORTH. 

I  venerate  Wordsworth.  Wordsworth's  poetay  stands  distinct  in  the  worid. 
That  which  to  other  men  is  an  occasional  pleasure,  or  possibly  delight,  and  to 
other  poets  an  occasional  transport,  the  sekino  this  visible  universe, 
is  to  him — a  Life — one  Individual  Human  Life — namely,  his  Own — travel- 
ling its  whole  ioumey  from  the  Cradle  to  the  Grave.  And  that  Life — for 
what  else  could  he  do  with  it  ? — he  has  versified — sung.  And  there  is  no 
other  such  Song.  It  is  a  Memorable  Fact  of  our  Civilisation — a  Memorable 
Fact  in  the  Hbtory  of  Human  Kind— that  one  perpetual  song.  Perpetual 
but  infinitely  various — as  a  river  of  a  thousand  miles,  traversing,  from  its 
birthplace  in  the  mountains,  diverse  regions,  wild  and  inhabited,  to  the 
ocean-receptade. 

BULLER. 

Confoundedly  prosaic  at  times. 

NORTH. 

He,  more  than  any  other  true  poet,  approaches  Verse  to  Prose— nevar,  I 
believe,  or  hardly  ever,  quite  blends  them. 

BULLER. 

Often — often— often,  my  dear  sir. 

VOL.  LXV. — NO.  CCCCIV.  3  C 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


766  Christopher  under  Canvaee.  [Jime, 

NORTH. 

Seldom — seldom— seldom  if  ever,  my  dear  sir.  He  tells  his  Life.  His 
Poems  are,  of  necessity,  an  Autobiography.  The  matter  of  them,  then,  is  his 
personal  reality ;  but  Prose  is,  all  over  and  properly,  the  language  of  Personal 
Realities.  Even  with  him,  however,  so  peculiarly  conditioned,  and,  as  well 
as  I  am  able  to  understand  his  Proposition,  against  his  own  Theory  of  writ* 
ing.  Verse  maintains,  as  by  the  laws  of  our  insuppressible  nature  it  always 
will  maintain,  its  sacred  Right  and  indefeasible  Prerogative. 

To  conclude  our  conversation — 

BULLER. 

Or  Monologue. 

NORTH. 

Epos  is  Human  History  in  its  magnitude  in  Verse.  In  Prose,  Nationml 
History  offers  itself  in  parallelism.  The  coincidence  is  broad  and  unques- 
tioned ;  bat  on  closer  inspection,  differences  great  and  innumerable  spring  up 
and  unfold  themselves,  until  at  last  you  might  almost  persuade  yourself  that 
the  first  striking  resemblance  deceived  you,  and  that  the  two  species  lade 
analogy,  so  many  other  kinds  does  the  Species  in  Verse  embosom,  and  so 
escaping  are  the  lines  of  agreement  in  the  instant  in  which  you  attempt 
fixing  them. 

BULLER. 

Would  that  Lord  Bacon  were  here ! 

NORTH. 

And  thus  we  are  led  to  a  deeper  truth.  The  Metrical  Epos  Imitatsa 
History,  without  doubt,  as  Lord  Bacon  says — it  borrows  thence  its  mould, 
not  rigorously,  but  with  exceeding  bold  and  free  adaptations,  as  the  Iliad 
unfolds  the  Ten  Years*  War  in  Seven  Weeks.  But  for  the  Poet,  more  than 
another,  all  is  in  alu 

SEWARD. 

Sir? 

NORTH. 

What  is  the  Paradise  Lost,  ultimately  considered  ? 

BULLER. 

Oh  I 

NORTH. 

It  is,  my  fnends,  the  arguing  in  verse  of  a  question  in  Natural  Theology. 
Whence  are  Wrong  and  Pain  ?  Moral  and  Physical  Evil,  as  we  call  them,  m 
all  their  overwhelming  extent  of  complexity  sprung  ?  How  permitted  in  the 
Kingdom  of  an  All- wise  and  Almighty  Love?  To  this  question,  concerning 
the  origin  of  Evil,  Milton  answers  as  a  Christian  Theologian,  agreeably  to  his 
own  understanding  of  his  Religion,— so  justifying  the  Univers^  Government 
of  God,  and,  in  particular,  his  Government  of  Man.  The  Poem  is,  therefore. 
Theological,  Argumentative,  Didactic,  in  Epic  Form.  Being  in  the  consti- 
tution of  his  soul  a  Poet,  mightiest  of  the  mighty,  the  intention  is  hidden 
in  the  Form.  The  Verse  has  transformed  the  matter.  Now,  then,  the 
Paradise  Lost  is  not  a  history  told  for  itself.  But  this  One  Truth,  in  two 
answering  Pix)positions,  that  the  Will  of  Man  spontaneously  consorting  with 
God's  Will  is  Man's  Good,  spontaneonsly  dissenting,  Man's  EvU.  This  is 
created  into  an  awful  and  solemn  narrative  of  a  Matter  exactly  adi^ted,  and 
long  since  authoritatively  told.  But  this  Truth,  springing  up  in  the  shape  of 
narrative,  will  now  take  its  own  determination  into  Events  of  unsurpassed 
magnitude,  now  of  the  tenderest  individuality  and  minuteness;  and  all  is, 
hence,  in  keeping — as  one  power  of  life  springs  up  on  one  spot,  in  oak-tree, 
moss,  and  violet,  and  the  difference  of  stature,  thus  understood,  gives  a  deep 
harmony,  so  deep  and  embracing,  that  none  without  injury  to  the  whole  oould 
be  taken  away. 

BULLER. 

What's  all  this  I  Hang  that  Drone— confound  that  Chanter.  Burst,  thou 
most  unseasonable  of  Bagpipes  I  Silence  that  dreadful  Drum.  Draw  in  your 
Horns — 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


1849.]  ChrUtopher  under  Canvass.  767 

SEWAHD. 

Masquetrj  I  canDon !  bnzzas  !  The  enemy  are  storming  the  Camp.  The 
Delhis  bear  down  on  the  Pavilion.  The  Life  is  in  danger.  Let  us  save  the 
King. 

NORTH. 

See  to  it,  gentlemen.  I  await  the  issue  in  my  Swing-chair.  Let  the  Bar- 
barians but  look  on  me  and  their  weapons  will  drop. 

BUI«LEIU 

Airs  right.    A  false  alarm. 

NOBTR. 

There  was  no  alarm. 

BULLER. 

Twas  but  a  Salute.  The  Bots  have  come  back  from  Kilchnm.  They 
are  standing  in  front  beside  the  spoil. 

NORTH. 

Widen  the  Portal.  Artistically  diaposed  I  The  Whole  like  one  hnee  Star- 
fish. Salmo  ferox,  centre — Pike,  radii — Yellow-fins,  cu*curaference--Weight 
I  should  say  the  tenth  of  a  ton.  Call  the  Manciple.  Manciple,  you  are 
responsible  for  the  preservation  of  that  Star-fish. 

BULLER. 

Sir,  yon  forget  yourself.  The  People  must  be  fed.  We  are  Seven.  Twelve 
are  on  the  Troop  Roll — Nine  Strangers  have  sent  in  their  cards — the  Gillies 
are  growing  upon  us — the  Camp-followers  have  doubled  the  population  since 
mom,  and  the  circumambient  Natives  are  waxing  strong.  Hunger  is  in  the 
Camp— but  for  this  supply,  Famine;  Jliacos  intra  muros  peccatur  et  extra: 
Bods  reports  that  the  Boiler  is  wroth,  the  Furnace  at  a  red  heat.  Pots  and 
Pans  a-simmer — the  Culinary  Spirit  impatient  to  be  at  work.  In  such  cir- 
cumstances, the  tenth  of  a  ton  is  no  great  matter ;  but  it  is  better  than  no- 
thing. The  mind  of  the  Manciple  may  lie  at  rest,  for  that  Star- fish  will 
never  see  to-morrow's  Sun ;  and  motionless  as  he  looks,  he  is  hastening  to  the 
Shades. 

NORTH< 

Sir,  you  forget  yourself.  There  is  other  animal  matter  in  the  world  besides 
Fish.  No  penury  of  it  in  camp.  I  have  here  the  Manciple's  report.  "  One 
dozen  plucked  Earochs — one  ditto  ditto  Ducklings— d.  d.  d.  March  Chick — 
one  Bnbblyjock — one  Side  of  Mutton— four  Necks — six  Sheep-heads,  and  their 
complement  of  Trotters— two  Sheep,  just  slaughtered  and  yet  in  wholes — 
four  Lambs  ditto — the  late  Cladich  Calf— one  small  Stot — two  lb.  40  Rounds 
in  pickle — four  Miscellaneous  Pies  of  the  First  Order — six  Hams — four  dozen 
of  Rein- deer  Tongues— one  dozen  of  Bears'  Paws — two  Barrels  of " 

BULLER. 

Stop.    Let  that  suffice  for  the  meanwhile. 

NORTH. 

The  short  shadow-hand  on  the  face  of  Dial-Cmachan,  to  my  instructed  sense, 
stands  at  six.  You  young  Oxonians,  I  know,  always  adorn  for  dinner,  even 
when  roughing  it  on  service ;  and  so,  V.  and  W.,  do  you.  These  two  elderly 
gentlemen  here  are  seen  to  most  advantage  in  white  neckcloths,  and  the  Old 
One  is  never  so  like  himself  as  in  a  suit  of  black  velvet.  To  your  tents  and 
toilets.    In  an  hour  we  meet  in  the — ^Deesidb. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


INDEX  TO  VOL.  LXV. 


Acnloho,  atonning  of,  139. 

Africa,  physical  oonfonnation  of,  408. 

Aftbb  a  tear's  repubucanism,  275. 

aobicultuki,  sasntific  and  pracncal, 
256. 

Albuqaerqae,  minister  to  Pedro  the 
Cruel,  career  of,  889,  et  m^— his  fall, 
843,  et  ita. 

Alcherias,  Jehan,  the  works  of,  on  paint- 
ing, 441,  442. 

Alexandropol,  great  fortress  at,  582. 

Algeria,  rbtisw  of  works  on  the  war 
IN,  20. 

Alphonso,  king  of  Castile,  337, 338. 

Alps,  chain  of  the,  408. 
^America,  the  colonisation  of,  416. 
-^American  thoughts  on  European  rxto- 

LUTI0N8,  190. 

Ancient  practice  op  painting,  436. 

Angels,  the  representation  of,  in  earlj 
art,  182. 

AngouUme,  the  dnchess  d',  597. 

Anne,  empress  of  Russia,  cruelties  of,  674. 

Apennines,  chain  of  the,  408. 

Arabs,  hatred  of  the,  to  the  French,  25. 

Ararat  and  the  Armenian  Hiqblaitds, 
577. 

Arboutille's  village  doctor,  542. 

Aristocratic  annals,  468. 

Ariingconrt,  the  Tioomte  d',  ^'Dien  le 
Veut"  by,  599. 

Armenian  Highlands,  the,  577. 

Arms,  origin^  connexion  of  all  nobility 
with,  713. 

Army,  proposed  reduction  of  the,  360. 

Art  and  artists  in  Spain,  63. 

Art,  SACRED  and  legendary,  175. 

Art,  peculiarities  of  the  early  history  of, 
in  England,  64 — state  of,  during  the 
middle  ages,  486. 

Asia,  the  table-lands,  &c.  of,  408. 

Australia,  physical  conformation,  &«.,  of, 
414. 

Austria  and  Hungary,  614.— Part  II. 
697. 

Austria,  the  rcTolutionary  moTement  in, 
2— reaction  in,  4~her  administration 
in  Dalmatia,  204, 206 — progress  of  con- 
servatism in,  857— system,  &c^  of 
education  in,  567,  569 — composition, 
growth,  &0.  of  the  empire  of,  614  y— 


oharacter  of  the  officers  of  her  army, 
204 — ignorance  in,  regarding  Hungary, 
702. 

Austrian  empire,  statistics  of  the,  706. 

Bacon,  lord,  on  history  and  poetry,  759, 
et  uq. 

Baden,  statistics  of  education  in,  568. 

Bairam,  the  feast  of,  in  Egypt,  50. 

Ban,  African  kingdom  of,  60. 

Bathyanyi,  eount  Louis,  Hungarian  minis* 
ter,  697,  698. 

Bavaria,  system,  &o.,  of  education  in, 
568, 569. 

Beaton,  cardinal,  114, 115— his  mnrderj 
116. 

Beathe's  life  of  Campbell,  review  of, 
219. 

Belgium,  system,  &c.,  of  education  in, 
568,  569 — its  revolt  from  Austria, 
615. 

Bengal,  Macaulay's  description  of,  390. 

Beni- Abbes,  extermination  of  the  tribe  of, 
28. 

Biography,  remarks  on,  21 9. 

Black-hole  of  Calcutta,  Macaulay's  pic- 
ture of  the,  389. 

Blake  the  painter,  183. 

Blanc,  A.,  bis  history  of  ooNSPiRAass, 
&,c.,  reviewed,  664. 

Blanche  of  Bourbon,  marriage  of  Pedro 
the  Cruel  to,  345— her  murder,  351. 

Blue  Nile,  the,  47. 

Bohemia,  despotic  power  of  Austria  in/ 
615 — its  attempted  revolt,  618. 

Bolognese  MS.  on  painting,  the,  442. 

Bolotnikoff,  a  Russian  impostor,  669. 

Bonald,  M.  de,  537. 

Bonnetat,  the  Abbtf,  on  the  religions  state 
of  France,  539. 

Book  op  the  FARM,review  of  the,  255. 

Bordeaux,  the  Duke  de,  his  claim  to  the 
.  throne  of  Fran<ie,  194— general  inclin- 
ation toward  him,  284 — Didier's  ac- 
count of  him,  592,  et  teq. 

Bordeaux,  the  duchess  de,  598. 

Borgona,  Juan  de,  65. 

Boris  Godunoff,  usurpation  of  the  Rus- 
sian throne  by,  666. 

Borneo,  the  island  of,  415. 

Borrer's  campaign  in  the  Kaby lie,  review 
of,  20, 28. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Index, 


769 


Bothwell,  the  dake  of,  bis  marriage  to 
Mary,  Slo.,  121. 

Boagie,  French  colony  of,  80. 

Bourbon,  isle  of,  bird  resembling  ike  Dodo 
found  in,  96. 

Bonrbons,  era  of  the,  in  France,  6 — reac- 
tion in  France  in  their  fbToor,  190~on 
their  prospects  there,  690. 

Boorgoing,  M.,  on  the  policy,  Ac,  of  Ros- 
sia,  709. 

Brandon,  Charles,  career  of,  478. 

Bribery,  parliamentary,  under  William 
III.,  401. 

Brussels  MS.  on  painting,  the,  442. 

BuDDLi,  T.,  Lbttcrs  to  thb  Rst. 
Charlu  Fustian,  by — Letter  I.,  679 — 
Letter  II.,  683— Letter  III.,  688— 
Letter  IV.,  694. 

Bngeaod,  marshal,  his  atrocities  in  Alge- 
ria, 21,  26,  et  teq. 

Burke,  E.,  on  the  religions  spirit  of  Eng- 
land, 536. 

BuEKB's  ANBCDOTKS  of  thb  ABI8T0C&ACT, 

rcTiew  of,  468. 
Bubkb's  cblbbratbd  trials,  reriew  of, 

468. 
Cabardia,  inroad  of  Chamyl  into,  142. 
Cabezon,  siege  of,  by  Peter  the  Cmel, 

352. 
Cabrera,  renewed  insurrection  nnder,  248 

— his  character,  250. 
'"Califomian  gold  country,  probable  effects 

of  the  discoTery  of  the,  416,  ef  seq. 
Cambraso,  Luca,  69. 
Cambridge  oniyersity,  reforms  proposed 

at,  238. 
Camel,  flesh  of  the,  57. 
Campbbll,  Bbattib's  upb  of,  roTiewed, 

219. 
Canadas,  revolutions  in  progress  in,  cir- 
cumstances which  have  led  to  it,  &c., 

727. 
^-Canadian  rebeUion,  causes,  &c.,  of  the, 

727 — compensation  proposed  to  actors 

in,  736. 
Cano,  Alonzo,  the  Spanish  artist,  76. 
Capita],  Prudhon  on,  310. 
Cablists  in  Cataix>nia,  the,  248. 
Castellane,  general,  on  the  atrocities  in 

Algeria,  21. 
Cat,  the  Nubian,  54. 
Catalonia,  the  new  Carlist  outbreak  in, 

248. 
Cattle,  on  the  management  of,  266 — 

names  of,  at  different  ages,  268. 
Caucasus,  the,  409. 

Caucasus  and  thb  Cossacks,  the,  129. 
Caxtons,  the.  Part  IX.  chap,  xzxix.,  38 

—chap,  xl.,  34— chap,  xli.,  36— chap.  - 

xlii.,    39— chap,    xliii..    My    father's 

crotchet  on  the  Hygeienic  chemistry  of 

books,  40— chap.  xHt.,  42 — chap,  xlv., 

44— Part  X.  chap.  xItI,  147 — chap. 

xlTii.,  150~chap.  xlWiL,  151 — chap.  . 

xlix.  156— chap.  L,  158— chap,  li.,  160 


—Part  XL  chap,  lii.,  287— chap,  liii., 
291— chap,  liv.,  292— chap.  W.,  298— 
chap.  iTi.,  294— chap.  Irii.,  298 — chap. 
iTiii.,  300— Part  XII.  chap,  lix.,  420-^ 
chap.  Ix.,  422 — chap.  Ixi.,  424 — chap. 
IxiL,  426 — chap.  Ixiii.,  428 — chap.  Ixi  v.. 
Letter  fh>m  Pisistratns  Caxton  to  Al- 
bert Trevanion,  Esq.,  430— Reply,  432 
—chap.  IxT.  435— PartXl  II.  chap.  IxrLy 
637 — chap.  Ixvii.,  638— chap.  Ixviii., 
639— chap.  Ixix.,  640— chap.  Ixx.,  644 
— chap.  Ixxi.,  645— chap.  Ixxii.,  647— 
chap.  IxxiiL,  being  a  chapter  on  house- 
tops, 648~chap.  Ixxi  v.,  650— chap. 
IxxT.,  653— chap.  Ixxri.,  654 — chap. 
IxxTii.,  657— chap.  IxxTiiL,  660— chap. 
Ixxix.,  661. 

Cellini,  crucifix  by,  for  the  Escurial,  68. 

Chamyl  Bey,  the  Caucasian  chief,  130 
note,  181,  «(M9.,  139. 

Changamier,  general,  276,  277. 

Charles  L,  MiMwulay's  views  on,  394. 

Charles  II.,  picture  of  England  nnder, 
398. 

Chartists,  revolutionary  agitation  of  the, 
2. 

Chasi  Mollah,  a  Caucasian  chief,  131. 

Chateaubriand,  auguries  of,  relative  to 
the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  196. 

Chateaubriand's  Gtfnie  du  Christianisme, 
on,  537,  538. 

Chemistry,  important  of,  to  agriculture, 
5. 

Chora-Beg,  a  Caucasian  chief,  135. 

Christian  art,  superiority  of,  to  Greek, 
179. 

Christophbb  undbr  Canvass,  742. 

Church,  fostering  of  art  by  the,  in  Spain, 
64. 

Circassians,  sketches  of  the,  and  their 
struggles  against  Russia,  129. 

Civil  Rbvolution  in  thb  Canadas, 
727. 

Chkdich-Clengh,  description  of,  742. 

Claudia  and  Pudbn8,487. 

Clergy,  the  Armenian,  584. 

Clive,  lord,  Macaulay  on,  387. 

Coats  of  arms,  proposed  restrictions  re* 
garding,  726. 

Cobden,  falsification  of  the  predictions  of, 
as  to  the  pacific  character  of  the  era, 
5— his  financial  schemes,  362. 

Cocks,  Mr,  his  translation  of  Quhiet's 
Ultramontanism,  531, 532. 

Coello,  Alonso,  the  Spanish  painter,  69^ 
Claodio,  77. 

CoLLBOB,  the,  a  sketch  in  verse,  601. 

CoUo  dance,  the,  209. 

Colonial  government,  defects  in  the  ex- 
isting system  of,  524. 

Colonies,  Whig  policy  regarding  the,  15 
— threatened  abandonment  of  them, 
363. 

Colonisation,  Mr  Wakefield's  theory  of, 
509. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


770 


Index. 


ColoniaatioD,  remarks  oo,  416-*FreBch9 

in  Algeria,  SO,  et  teg. 
Oeloare,  earlj,  need  in  painting,  449. 
Commercial  policj,  change  in  the  system 

of,  by  the  Whigs,  15. 
Cemmeree,  English  policy  directed  to  the 

encouragement  of,  10— its  state,  874,  et 

mg. 
Committee  of  defenoe,  the  Hungarian, 

698. 
Compensation  bill,  the  Canadian,  736. 
Conservatism,  reaction  abroad  in  f^Toor 

of,  529. 
Constitutional  association  of  Montreal, 

the,  728. 
Continent,  decreased  consideration  of  Bri- 
tain on  the,  365. 
Cony,  N.,  murder  of,  480. 
CooPKA,  Sin  AsTLBT,  Part  I.,  491. 
Coronel,  Alonzo,  rebellion  and  death  of, 

343. 
Correggio,  the  angels  of,  184. 
Corruption,  system  of,  introduced  by  Wil« 

liamIII.,400,  401. 
Cossacks,  sketches  of  the,  184, 135. 
Council  of  Trent,  political  influence  of  the, 

533. 
Country  gentlemen,  proposed  Tolunteer 

force  from  the,  718. 
CoTBNAirrKBS*  Night-hymn,  by  A,  244. 
Craik's  Romance  op  thb  Pkebagb,  re- 

Tiew  of,  468. 
Creation,  on  the  modem  theories  of,  406. 
Critical  essay,  the,  introduced   by  the 

Edinburgh  Review,  384. 
Croatia,  the  reyolt  of,  against  Hungary, 

630. 
Croats,  numbers,  Slo^  of  the,  703, 704. 
Crocodile,  flesh  of  the,  57. 
Cromwell,   examination  of    Macanlay's 

Tiews  regarding,  396. 
Cmachan,  Ben,  ascent  of,  &c.,  744,  it  $eq. 
Currency,  Whig  policy  regarding  the,  15. 
Currents,  oceanic,  on,  4 1 1,  d  ieq, 
Dadian,  Prince,  degndation  of,  144. 

DaLMATIA  and  MONTBNaOBO,  202. 

Dances,  national,  on,  209. 

Daniloff,  Demetrius,  672. 

Dargo,  defeat  of  the  Russians  at,  140. 

Darien,  the  isthmus  of,  the  projected  oa* 
nalat,417. 

Delta,  the  CoTsnanters'  Night-hymn  by, 
244— the  sycamine,  by,  274. 

Demetrius,  the  Russian  impostor,  career 
of,  666,  it  ieq. 
'Democracy,  spread  of,  in  Canada,  729. 

De^jobert,  A.,  on  the  war  and  the  atroci- 
ties in  Algeria,  21, 24. 

Didier*s  risit  to  the  Dnke  de  Boideanx, 
reriew  of,  590. 

DiBiBoBXALii.  No.  I.  Christopher  n&dcr 
Canyaas,  742. 

Diet,  the  Hungarian,  620. 

Diodetiaa,  the  retreat  6f,  208. 

Discipline,  the  Russian  system  of,  144. 


D'lsraeli,  speech  of;  on  the  fooposed  re- 
duction in  the  army,  &c,  369,  371— on 
the  sUte  of  trade,  376. 

Dirision  of  labour,  Prudhon  on,  309. 

DoDO  AND  ITS  Kindred,  tub,  81. 

Dolgorucki,  prince,  fortitude  of,  675. 

Dnguesclin,  Bertrand,  855,  356. 

Durham,  lord,  policy,  &c.  of^  in  Canada, 
733,  736,  740. 

DuTiTier,  general,  on  the  atrooities  in 
Algiers,  25. 

Dyeing,  early  history  of,  448. 

Edinburgh  Review,  influence  of  the,  on 
general  literature,  383. 

Education,  systems  of,  in  various  eonn- 
tries,  567,  <t  9eq, 

Education  committee,  prooeedings  of  the, 
in  Scotland,  569. 

Education  scheme,  the  Church  of  Soot- 
land's,  573. 

Edward  the  Black  Prince  in  Spain,  355. 

Edwards,  signor,  MS.  of,  on  painting, 
442. 

Egypt,  sketches  in,  47. 

Emigrant,  value  of  a  knowledge  of  agri- 
culture to  the,  263. 

Emigration,  advantages  of,  to  Great  Bri- 
tain, 509— duties  of  government  regard-t 
ing,511. 

England,  peculiarities  of  the  early  history 
of  ait  in,  64— Maoaulay's  History  of, 
reviewed,  883— capabilities  of,  for  colo- 
nisation, 509 — long  resistanoe  of,  to  the 
Papacy,  533. 

English  Univbrsitibi  and  their  rb- 
FORMS,  thb,  235. 

English  and  French  Revolutions,  contrast 
between  the,  536. 

English  ritual,  Christopher  on  the,  75K 

Epic,  on  the,  its  origin,  characteristica, 
&C.,  757,  et  teq. 

Episcopacy,  Christopher  on,  749. 

Eraclius,  MS.  of,  on  painting,  442. 

Erivan,  fort  of,  582,  683. 
^■-Ernest,  American  thoughts  on  European 
^    revolutions  by,  190— the  rtaetioa,  or 
foreign  conservatism,  by,  529. 

£sooffier,  captivity  of,  among  the  Aiabti 
22. 

Escurial,  the,  68. 

Eshmiadsini,  convent  of,  588, 584. 

Essay,  remarks  on  the,  388. 

Ethnography,  remarks  on,  418. 

Europe,  decreased  consideration  Kii  Bri* 
tain  throughout,  365. 

European  revolutions,  Ambricam 
thoughts  on,  190. 

Evangelists,  the  early  repreeentatioiis  of 
the,  184. 

Exports,  diminition  in,  375,  «<  $eq. 

Factor,  necessary  qualifications  of  the, 
262. 

Fadrique,  brother  of  Pedro  the  Cruel, 
sketches  of,  339,  H  fM.— his  murder, 
851. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Index. 


771 


Family  Coinpaot  party  in  Canada,  iht, 
730. 

Fanner,  obligationa  of  the,  to  the  man  of 
■cienoe,  258. 

Farmers,  formation  of  a  Toloateer  fbroe 
from  among  the,  718. 

Feodor,  oiar  of  Roisia,  666. 

Fbudausm  in  the  nimbtbenth  cbntuet, 
718. 

Finaaoe,  Whig  policy  regarding,  15. 

Finances,  the,  359. 

Financial  Reform  Aaociation,  schemes  of 
the,  359. 

Foreign  oonserratism,  on,  529. 

Fonn,  relations  of,  to  worship,  750,  ^  teq, 

France,  the  revolution  in,  2— era  of  the 
restoration  in,  6— progress  of  legiti- 
mism in,  190— an  American  on  the 
state  of,  194^after  a  year's  republi* 
canism,  275— oonserratiTe  reaction  in, 
357, 529— legitimacy  in,  590. 

Francis  II.,  measures  of,  toward  Hun- 
gary, 622,  et  §eo. 

Francis  Joseph,  tlie  accession  of,  and  his 
position  toward  the  Hungarians,  700. 

Frankfort,  the  atrocities  of  the  Red  Re- 
publicans at,  and  their  effects,  4. 

Frankfort  parliament,  degraded  condition 
of  the,  358. 

Free  Church  sehools,  undue  faTour  shown 
by  gOTcmment  to  the,  569,  570. 

Free  trade,  principles  of,  as  adTocated  by 
Adam  Smith,  12. 

Free-trade  system,  influence  of,  on  com- 
merce, 374,  ei  teq, 

FnniicH  coifquBBOBs  and  coLoitisrs,  20. 

French  Canadians,  character,  objects,  &c. 
of  the,  727. 

French  revolution,  influence  of  the,  on 
English  literature,  383. 

Frohsdorf,  the  Duke  de  Bordeaux  at, 
594. 

FUSTIAH,  ABT.  ChAKLBS,  LBTTKB8  TO  TH^ 

Letter  I.,  679— Letter  II.,  683— Letter 

III.,  688— Letter  IV.,  694. 
Gaddi,  Agnolo,  a  mosaic  painter,  445. 
OalitEin,  prince,  678. 
Oarei  Laso,  a  Spanish  noble,  mnrder  of, 

341,  et  teq. 
Geology,  importance  of,  to  agriculture, 

25&— on  the  modem  theories  of,  406. 
6eorgia,struggle  of  the  Circassiansagainst} 

129. 
Germany,  the  rcTolutionary  ferronr  in,  2. 
Gertrude   of  Wyoming,  publication  of, 

229. 
Glass-painting,  on,  446. 
Glass  trade,  state  of  the,  378,  879. 
Godunof,  the  Russian  usurper,  666. 
Godwin's  Political  Justice,  remarks  on, 

805. 
Gold,  expedition  np  the  Nile  in  search  of, 

47— employment  of,  in  medinval  paint- 
ing, 447. 
Golden  eagle,  sketch  of  a,  747. 


Goremment,  duties  of,  as  regards  emi« 
gration,  511. 

Gnbbe,  General,  storming  of  Aculcho  by, 
139 — operations  of,  in  the  Caucasus, 
140. 

Great  Britain,  rsvolutionary  agitation  in, 
2— reaction  against  it,  4— countenance 
given  to  revolution  abroad  by,  8 — na- 
ture of  the  party  contests  in,  9--picture 
of,  at  the  present  time,  403— her  capa- 
bilities for  colonisation,  509. 

Great  Rebellion,  cKamination  of  Mao- 
aulay's  views  on  the,  398. 

Greco,  £1,  the  Spanish  painter,  66. 

Greek  art,  remarks  on,  and  its  religious 
character,  177— its  inferiority  to  Chris- 
tian, 179. 

Greek  colonisation,  system  of,  518. 

Greek  oonvent,  a,  212. 

Grbbii  Hand,  thb,  Part  II.,  314. 

Gumri,  fortress  at,  582 

Guzman,  Leonora  de,mistressof  Alphonso 
of  Castile,  339,  et  uq—htr  death,  340. 

Habitans  of  Canada,  character,  5cc.  of  the, 
727. 

Hallberg,  the  Baron  von,  578. 

Hamilton,  the  Duke  of,  his  duel  with  Lord 
Mahon,  479. 

Hastings'  trial,  Macaulay*s  sketch  of, 
388. 

Head,  sir  Francis,  on  Canada,  734. 

Hegel,  errors  of  Prudhon  regarding  the 
system  of,  308. 

Henry  V.,  see  Bordeaux. 

Henry  of  Trastamara,  sketches  of,  339,  el 
teq, 

Hermentschuk,  a  Caucasian  village,  des- 
perate defence  of,  131. 

Hermes  and  Moses,  identity  of,  178. 

Himalaya  range,  the,  408. 

Hind,  br,  his  theory  of  colonisation, 
512. 

Historical  essay,  remarks  on  the,  388. 

History  and  poetry,  relations  of,  759. 

Holland,  system,  Ac.,  of  education  in, 
568,  569. 

Homer,  characteristics,  Ac  of,  757,  ei 
teq. 

Horses,  names  of,  at  difllBrent  ages,  268. 

Hosts,  Sir  WilUam,  his  naval  action  at 
Lissa,  207. 

Hume,  vievrs  of,  on  the  Great  Rebellion, 
394. 

HuMOABT,  relations  of,  to  Austria,  the 
recent  transactions,  &c.,  614 — Part  II. 
697. 

Hungary,  statistics,  population,  Ac.  of, 
702,  et  teq. 

Hussein  Klmn,  an  Armenian  chief,  588 

Icebergs,  sises,  Ac,  of,  411. 

Iliad,  on  the,  its  leading  characteristics, 
Ac,  757,  et  teq, — ^its  religious  charac- 
ter, 762. 

Imports,  manufactured,  increase  in,  877. 

Indian  ocean,  the,  413. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


772 


Index, 


Infkntrj,  the  Spanish  mad  Engliahy  under 
Pedro  the  Cniel,  354. 

Infidelity,  preralence  of,  in  France,  629 
539. 

Inglesmendi,  origin  of  the  name  of,  355. 

Ireland,  policy  of  the  Whigs  toward,  17. 

l8ly,thebatUeof,21,22. 

Italy,  the  rcTolntionary  moTement  in^  2 
— ^its  arrestment  in  the  North,  4. 

iTan  IV.,  or  the  Terrihle,  sketch  of,  665. 

Iran,  a  Cossack  serrant,  sketches  of,  583. 

iTtnowa,  mistress  of  Peter  the  Greats 
672. 

Jack  Moonuobt,  606. 

Jamieson's  Sacr£d  and  Lbqbitdart  Abt, 
review  of,  175. 

Jeffrey,  Lord,  character  of  the  writings 
of,  385. 

Jellachich,  haron,  630,  697,  et  teq. 

Jews,  early  toleration  enjoyed  by  the,  in 
Spain,  338, 353,  noU$, 

Johnston's  Physical  Gbooeapht,  re- 
Tiew  of,  406. 

Joseph  II.,  measures  of,  toward  Hungary, 
617. 

Judaism,  connexion  of,  with  the  Grecian 
mythology,  178. 

Kabtlb  war,  review  of  works  on  the,  20. 

Kabyles,  account  of  the,  23. 

Kant, affinity  claimed  by  Prudhon  to,  807. 

Keks,  the,  a  Nubian  tribe,  57,  58. 

Kerka,  falls  of  the,  211,  212. 

KiRKALDT  OF  GRANGE,  memoirs  of,  re- 
viewed, 112. 

Kirkaldy,  sir  James,  113. 

Kneves,  sir  Edmond,  trial  of,  477. 

Knighthood,  the  orders  of,  proposed  re- 
strictions regarding,  725. 

Knout,  the,  in  Russia,  144. 

Knox,  connexion  of,  with  the  death  of 
Beaton,  117. 

Konigsmark,  count,  career  of,  471. 

Kossuth,  the  Hungarian  leader,  697. 

Labour,  Prudhon  on,  306,  309. 

Lady  of  Shalott,  Tennyson's,  458. 

Lafontaine,  M.,  in  Canada,  736. 

Lamberg,  general,  murder  of,  698. 

Lamoriciire,  general,  his  proposed  sys- 
tem of  colonisation  in  Algeria,  30. 

Lance,  superiority  of  the,  to  the  MU>re, 
145. 

Land,  rent  and  property  of,  Prudhon  on, 
312. 

Landlord,  qualifications  necessary  for  the, 
262. 

Lara,  Juan  Nunex  de,  340,  et  aq. 

Last  Supper,  early  paintings  representbg 
the,  185. 

League,  the  Blanchester,  870. 

Leather,  ancient  employment  of,  for  hang- 
ings, 448. 

Le  ^ne,  Jehan,  MS.of,  on  painting,  441. 

Legendary  art,  on,  175. 

Lroitimact  in  France,  590. 

Legitimism,  progress  of,  in  France,  190. 


Leslie,  Norman,  death  o(^  1 1 9. 

Levis,  the  duke  de,  594,  595. 

Life  of  the  Sea,  the,  by  B.  Simmoni,  432. 

Lissa,  the  naval  action  of,  207. 

Literature,  influence  of  the  French  revo- 
lution on,  383. 

Liturgy,  the  English,  Christopher  on^ 
751. 

Lombardy,  education  in,  568 — establish- 
ment of  the  Austrian  despotic  system 
in,  615— its  revolt,  618. 

London  Cries,  by  B.  Simmons,  484. 

London  university,  Campbell's  eonnezioii 
with  the,  230. 

Long  parliament,  examination  of  the  con- 
duct of,  394. 

Lotos  Eaters,  Tennyson's,  460. 

Louis  Napoleon,  as  president,  on,  282. 

Louis  Philippe,  state  of  France  under,  6 — 
the  extent  of  his  constitutional  right, 
194. 

Macaulat's  HmoRT  of  England,  383. 

Macaulay,  T.  B.,  on  the  revolutionary 
aspect  of  the  times,  5 — ^remarks  on  his 
contribntions  to  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
386. 

Machinery,  Prudhon  on,  310. 

Mackintosh,  Sir  James,  his  contribntions 
to  the  Edinburgh  Review,  386. 

Magdalene,  early  representations  of  the, 
186. 

Maistre,  the  count  de,  notices  and  extracts 
from  the  works  of,  191, 195,  198,  530, 
€t  uq,  532— his  Considerations  sur  la 
France,  538. 

Maitland's  History  of  the  Dark  Ages,  re- 
marks on,  439. 

Msjjar  races,  numbers,  &«.,  of,  in  Hun- 
gary, 703— language,  the  general  intro- 
duction of,  there,  704. 

Manners,  ancient  and  modem,  picture  of, 
by  Macaulay,  402. 

Manufactures,  state  of,  375,  H  §eq — in- 
creased importation  of,  377. 

Marciana  MS.  on  painting,  the,  442. 

Maria  Coronel,  the  legend  of,  349. 

Maria  de  Padilla,  career  of,  343,  et  $eq, 

Maria  Theresa,  devotion  of  the  Hunga- 
rians to,  616. 

Marlborough,  the  duke  of,  Bfacaulay's 
account  of,  399. 

Mary  Queen  of  Soots,  sketches  of,  120, 
^9eq. 

Mary  Tudor,  career  of,  473. 

Mauritius,  the  Dodo  in,  84. 

Maiaros,  Hungarian  minister,  697. 

Mechanics,  aid  given  by,  to  agriculture, 
25a 

MsoBaN  Du  Village,  translation  of  the, 
542. 

Melgund,  lord,  his  proposed  changes  on 
the  Scottish  system  of  education,  567, 
569. 

Memoirs  of  Kirkaldt  of  Grange,  112. 

Merim^e's  Pbtbe  tbb  Cruel,  837. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Index, 


77S 


MsUtlFIKLD's    OBIOIIflL     TBXASISB     ON 

piiNTiNo,  reTiew  of,  436. 
Merritt,  Mr,  on  the  Canada  oompaimtion 

biU,  737. 
Meteorology,  T»liie  of^  to  egrienltore,  258. 
Methodists,  inflaenee,  &0.,  of  the,  in  Ca- 

nadft,  729. 
Metidja,  the,  in  Algeria,  31,  82. 
MichaUofl;  defence  of  the  fort  of,  138. 
Middle  ages,  defence  of  the,  436. 
Military  snpremacjy  establishment  of,  in 

France,  4,  7. 
Military  tenure,  origin  of  nobility  in,  713. 
Militia,  importance  of  a,  717. 
Milton,  characteristics  of  the  epic  of,  as 

distinguished  from  Homer,  758,  el  $eq, 
Minto,  lord,  proceedings  of,  in  Italy,  366. 
MoDBRif  BiooRAPHT,  Bcattio's  life  of 

Campbell,  219. 
Mohnn,  lord,  career  of,  478. 
Monarchy,  tiie  electiTe,  of  Hungary,  619. 
Monastic  institntionSyTalue  of,  during  the 

middle  ages,  438. 
Money  and  capital,  Pmdhon  on,  310. 
Monkey  republic,  a  Nubian,  51. 
Monmouth,  the  duke  of,  his  defeat  at 

Sedgemoor,  393. 
Montagnards,  party  of  the,  in  the  French 

Assembly,  279,  it  $eq, 
Montemolin,  the  count  de,  movement  in 

favour  of,  249. 
Montenegro  and  Montenegrini,  sketches 

of  the,  214. 
Montesquieu,  the  deathbed  of,  540. 
Montreal  constitutional  association,  the, 

728. 
MooNUOHT  MsMOBiss,  by  B.  Simmons, 

613. 
Moore,  Thomas,  the  reputation  of,  453. 
Moors,  early  toleration  shown  the,  in 

Spain,  338,  note. 
Morales,  the  Spanish  painter,  69. 
Moray,  the  regent,  sketches  of,  122. 
Morlacci,  tribe  of  the,  205. 
Mosaic  painting,  on,  445. 
Moscow,  massacre  at,  669— capture  of, 

by  the  Poles,  670. 
Moses,  alleged  identity  of,  with  Hermes, 

178.  ^ 

Mountain  chaius  of  the  earth,  the,  407. 
Mountaineer,  character  of  the,  409. 
Mottutford  the  actor,  murder  of,  478. 
Mudo,  El,  the  Spanish  painter,  69. 
MUller,  Ottfried,  on  the  Iliad,  761. 
Munts,  Mr,  on  the  state  of  trade,  378. 
Murides,  the,  a  class  of  Circassian  fana- 

tics,  131, 139. 
Murillo,  the  painter,  73— his  paintings  of 

angels,  184. 
Mythology,  Grecian,  connexion  of,  with 

Judaism,  177. 
Nigera,  the  battle  of,  855. 
Naples,  the  revolutionary  movement  in, 

2— interference  in  the  aifidn  of,  by  the 

ministry,  366. 


Narses,  patriarch  of  Armenia,  587. 

National  Assembly  of  France,  the,  278. 

National  debt,  rise  of  the,  under  William 
III.,  401. 

National  Education  in  Scotland,  567. 

National  policy,  characteristics  of  the 
English,  10. 

Navarete,  Juan  Femandes,  (El  Mudo,) 
69. 

Navigation,  eontribntiona  of  science  to, 
255. 

Navy,  Whig  policy  regarding  the,  15— > 
proposed  reductions  in  the,  360. 

Nelson,  Dr  Wolfred,  736— his  career  in 
Canada,  &c.,  738. 

New  Guinea,  island  of,  415. 

New  Zealand,  island  of,  415 — character, 
&o.,  of  its  aborigines,  527. 

Nicholas,  the  emperor,  579, 581 — example 
of  summary  justice  by,  144 — his  inter- 
ference in  Hungary,  7U7,  et  teq. 

Nile,  Wbrnb's  expedition  towards  the 
SOURCES  OF,  reviewed,  47. 

Noah,  traditions  regarding,  in  Armenia, 
577, 578. 

Nobility,  origin  of,  713 — proposed  volun- 
teer  force  ftrom  the,  718,  ef  m^.— terri- 
torial depression  of,  723 — proposed 
changes  in  the  system  of  creating,  &C., 
724. 

Nobility,  the  Russian,  servility  of,  673, 
674. 

Novogorod,  massacre  at,  665. 

Nubia,  sketches  in,  51. 

Oat,  varieties  of  the,  269— meal,  271. 

Ocean,  the,  its  physical  conformation,  &o., 
^10. 

Oil-painting,  early  history  of,  449. 

Opening  ov  the  Session,  the,  357. 

Orioff;  Alexis,  676. 

Otrepief,  the  Russian  impostor,  career  of, 
666— his  death,  669. 

Oxford,  proposed  reforms  at,  235, 243. 

Pacific  character  of  the  age,  Cobden  on 
the,  5. 

Paduan  MS.  on  painting,  the,  442. 

Paget,  Mr,  on  the  state  of  Hungary,  702. 

Painting,  ancient  practice  of,  436. 

Palace  of  art,  Tennyson's  poem  of  the,  459 

Pantheon,  the,  in  the  Escurial,  70. 

Papacy,  formal  organisation  of  Uie,  by  the 
council  of  Trent,  538. 

Paradise  Lost,  characteristics  of,  758,  e 
9eq, 

Paris,  state  of,  during  the  revolution  of 
1848,  6,  et  f^7.— the  affair  of  the  29th 
January  at,  275. 

Parker,  admiral  sir  William,  at  Messina, 
367. 

Parliament,  meeting  and  prooeedings  of, 
367. 

Parochial  school  system  of  Scotland,  re- 
view of  the,  56Y. 

Party  contests,  nature  of  the,  in  Eng* 
land,  9. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


774 


Index. 


Passport  system,  the,  204. 

Patron  saints,  on,  177. 

Pauperism,  emigratioa  M  »  aeonrity 
against,  509. 

Pele^ja,  Afriean  town  of,  60. 

Peml»oke,  the  earl  of,  479. 
-PennsylTaoia,  system^  &C.,  of  edueation 
in,  667,  569. 

Pensioners,  the  corps  of,  716. 

Percy,  lady  Eliiabeth,  career  of,  471. 

Percys,  origin  of  the,  469. 

Peter  the  cruel,  sketches  of  the  life,  &e.y 
of,  837. 

Peter  the  Great,  sketches  of,  671. 

Physical  Atlas,  Johnston's,  reriew  of,  406. 

Pigs,  names  of,  at  different  ages,  269. 

Pipis,  the  town  of,  579. 

Pius  IX.,  commencement  of  reTolutionary 
innoyaUon  by,  2 — his  orerthrow,  4. 

Pleasures  of  Hope,  publication  of  the,  228. 

Poetry  op  sacred  and  leobhdaet  art, 
the,  175. 

Poetry  and  history,  relations  of,  759. 

Poetry.  The  Corenanter's  Night  Hymn, 
by  A,  244— The  Sycamine,  by  A,  274— 
Life  of  the  Sea,  by  B.  Simmons,  482 — 
London  Cries,  by  the  same,  484 — Moon- 
light Memories,  by  the  same,  613 — The 
College,  601. 

Poles,  massacre  of,  at  Moscow,  669 — and 
by  the,  670. 

Political  essay,  new  character  given  to 
the,  by  the  Edinburgh  Reriew,  384. 

Presbyterionism,  Christopher  on,  749,  H 
$eq. 

Prince,  colonel,  on  the  Canada  compen- 
sation bill,  739. 

Princess,  Tennyson's,  463. 

Prometheus  Vinotus,  myth  of  the,  178. 

Property,  Prudhon  on,  307. 

PaUDHOIf,  COMTEADICTIONS  EcONOMlQUESy 

304. 
Prussia,  the  revolutionary  movement  in, 

2 — reaction  in,  4 — system  and  statis- 
tics of  education  in,  567,  et  $eq, 
Pugatscheff,  a  Russian  pretender,  675. 
Puseyism,  letters  on,  679. 
Pym,  Sir  Charles,  murder  of,  478. 
Pyrenees,  range  of  the,  408. 
Quinet,   Professor,  530 — his  Ultramon- 

tanism,  531,  et  teq, 
Raffaelle,  last  supper  by,  185. 
Rajewski,  General,  137. 
Razzia,  sketch  of  a,  in  Algeria,  27. 
Reaction,  the,  or  Foreign  Conservatism, 

529. 
Rebellion,  the  Canadian,  causes,  Ac,  of 

the,  727 — compensation  to  actors  in, 

736. 
Red  Republicans,  eonspiraey  of  the,  on 

the  29th  January,  275. 
Reform  party  in  Canada,  ohjeota,  &o., 

of  the,  729. 
Reformation,  influence  of   the,  on   the 

character    of    social    conflicts,    8 — in 


Seotlaod,  sketches  of  its  history,  A«., 
112,  ^  $eq, — influence  of  its  failure  ia 
France  on  French  history,  635. 

Reforme,  the,  on  the  state  of  Paris,  7. 

Religion,  on  the  relation  between,  mA 
art,  175 — snbordinatioii  of  art  (o,  <liir*> 
ing  the  middle  ages,  436 — oouiezion 
of  French  history  vrith,  629. 

Rembrandt,  the  religions  paintitgi  a^ 
183. 

Rent  «nd  property  in  land,  Pradhoa  o«» 
312. 

Representation  scheme,  proposed  new,  ia 
Canada,  740. 

Republicanism,  France  after  a  year's  ex* 
perience  o^  275. 

Restoration,  era  of  the,  in  France,  6. 

Revolution,  countenanoe  given  to,  by  tke 
Whigs,  8,  16— that  of  1688,  examina- 
tion of  Macaulay's  views  on,  308. 

RbVOLUTIOMI,  the  TKAft  OF,  1. 

Revolutions,  the  recent,  thoughts  of  aa 
American  on,  190. 

Ribera,  Jos^  de,  £1  Spagnoletto,  77. 

Ricos  Hombres  of  Spain,  the,  337. 

Ricsay,  Count  Adam,  698. 

Ritual  of  the  English  Church,  on  the,  751. 

River  systems  of  the  earth,  the,  409. 

Rodriguez,  the  Solitaire  of,  94. 

Romance  of  Russian  Histort,  the,  664. 

Romanism,  influence  of  the  Council  of 
Trent  on,  533. 

Rome,  commencement  of  the  revoluilen- 
ary  agitation  in,  2. 

Rosen,  Baron,  in  the  Cauoaeos,  131. 

Royalist  tendency,  progress  of,  in 
France,  190. 

Russia  and  the  Circassians,  sketches  of 
the  war  between,  129— statistics,  &c., 
of  education  in,  568,  569 — the  inter- 
ference of,  in  Hungary,  706,  ef  ieq, 

Russian  history,  sketches  of,  664. 

Sabre  and  lance,  comparative  merits  ef 
the,  145.       . 

Sacred  and  Legendary  Art,  on,  1 75. 

Saddle-bag  party  in  Canada,  the,  730. 

St  Andrews,  siege  of  the  castle  of,  118. 

St  Archangelo,  convent  of,  212. 

St  Audemar,  Petrus  de,  MS.  of,  on 
painting,  442. 

St  Filomena,  legend  of,  187. 

St  Nicholas,  legend  of,  187. 

St  Paolo  fuer^-le-mura,  church  of,  185. 

Salona,  the  antiquities  of,  208. 

Sass,  General,  in  the  Caucasos,  135. 

Say,  J.  B.,  on  the  division  ef  labour,  809.. 

Scardona,  town  of,  210. 

Science, obligations  of  agrienlture  to,25S* 

Scientific  and  Practical  AoaiouLTumE, 
255. 

Schilluks,  race  of  the,  54. 

Schoolmasters  of  Scotland,  the  Bemorial 
of,  571. 

Sclavic  races  numbera,  atate,  Ac,  of,  in 
Hungary,  703. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Inde^. 


775 


111 


Seoiland,  sketehet  of  tht  hiftory  of,  at 
the  period  of  the  Refoniuktion,  1 12,  «t 
•e^.— the  Btatietioal  aoeounte  of,  re- 
Tiewed,  162— the  sjatea  of  utiooal 
education  in,  567. 

Scottish  Kirk,  Chrittopher  on  the,  749,  M 

Secular  education,  iniufficieney  of,  S69. 
Sedgemoor,  battle  of,  Maeaola/s  piotart 

of,  391. 
Serbe  racei  of  Hungary,  the,  703b 
SiseioN,  Openimo  of  tbs,  357. 
Sheep,  feeding  of,  on  tnmipe,265— namet 

of,  at  different  ages,  267. 
Shusky,  Andrew,  a  Rueaian  Boyar,  death 

of,  665. 
Shusky,  Basil,  heroic  courage  of,  668— be- 

comes  Cxar,  669. 
Sicily,  the  rcTolutionary  movement  at,  2. 
Sign,  sketches  at  the  city  of,  213. 
Silk  trade,  state  of  the,  877. 
Simuel  Levi,  treasurer  to  Pedro  the  emel, 

347 — his  disgrace  and  death,  352. 
Simmons,  B.,  Life  of  the  Sea,  by,  482 — 

London  Cries,  464 — Moonlight  Memo> 

ries,  613. 
Sinclair's  SUtistical  Acconnt  of  Seolland, 

remarks  on,  164. 
Sir  AtTLBT  Cooper.    Part  I.,  491. 
Sisters,  the,  Tennyson's  poem  of,  458. 
Slave-trade  and  slavery,  policy  of  the 

Whigs  regarding,  16. 
Slave-trade  of  arcassia,  the,  137. 
Slovacks,  numbers,  feeling,  &c^  of  the,  in 

Hungary,  703,  712. 
Smith,  Adam,  free-trade   principles  as 

advocated  by,  12. 
Smith,  Sidney,  his  contributions  to  the 

Edinburgh  Review,  386. 
Solitaire,  the,  a  congener  of  the  Dodo,  94. 
Somerset,  th«  proud  duke  of,  473. 
Spagnoletto,  £1,  77. 
Spain,  the  new  Carlist  movement  in,  248 

— under  Pedro  the  cruel,  sketches  of, 

887 — present    state  of  our  relations 

with,  365— the  mountain  chains,  &c.. 

of,  408. 
Spalato,  sketches  of,  207. 
Spahish  art  and  artists,  63. 
Stadion,Count,  the  Austrian  minister,  701 . 
Stanley,  Lord,  on  the  present  position  of 

the  country,  &c.,  365,  S69. 
Statistical  acoounts  of  Scotland,  162. 
Sutistics,  remarks  on  the  study  of,  162, 

Stenka,  Razin,  a  Russian  robber,  career 
of,  671. 

Stephen,  the  archduke.  Palatine  of  Hun- 
gary, 697. 


Strathaven  veal,  fattening,  Ac,  ot;  278. 
Strickland's  The  Dodo  and  its  kindred, 

review  of,  81. 
Sues,  isthmus  of,  railway  or  canal  for 

the,  418. 
Surgeon,  Sir  A.  Cooper  on  the  qualifici^ 

tions  of  the,  494. 
Sweden,  education  in,  569. 
Sword  of  Honour,  the,  chapler  i.,  98 — 
chap,  ii.,   102— chap,  ui.,  103-*chap. 
iv.,  105— chap,  v.,  107. 
Sycamine,  the,  by  a,  274. 
Stst^me    DBS    contradictions    bcono- 

MiQUBs,  on  the,  304, 
Saemere,  the  Hungarian  minister,  697. 
Talking  Oak,  Tennyson's,  on,  462. 
Tarrakanoff,  the  princess,  advtatnres  of, 

676— her  death,  678. 
Tartars,  contests  of  the  Circassians  with 

the,  129. 
Taxation,  change  ia  the  system  of,  by  the 

Whigs,  16. 
Tcherkesees  or  Circassians,  the,  130. 
Telle,   brother   of    Pedro    the     emel, 

sketches  of,  340,  344, 345. 
Tennyson's  Poems,  458. 
Theotocopuli,  the  Spanish  painter^  66. 
Thibet,  the  physical  conformation  of,  408. 
lliucydides  and  Homer,  parallel  between, 

759. 
Thynne,  Thomas,  Esq.,  career  of,  471. 
Tibaldi,  Pellegrino,  69. 
Tilting  festival  in  Dalmatia,  a,  213. 
Titian,  paintings  executed  for  the  Escu- 

rial    by,   68— the    angels    of,   184— 

alleged  practice  of,  in  painting,  450. 
Toledo,  cathedral  of,  concentration  of  ar- 
tistic skill  on  the,  65. 
Toro,  capture  of,  by  Pedro  the  cruel,  348. 
Tractarianism,  letters  on,  679. 
Trade,  eifeots  of  the  Aree-trade  system  on, 

374,  €t  teq. 
Transcribers  of  the  middle  ages,  the,  439, 

444. 
TraU,  town  of«  210. 
Tridentine  council,  political  influence  of 

the,  533. 
Tristan,  Luis,  the  painter,  67. 
Tshetshens,   the,   and    their    struggles 

against  Russia,  130, 131,  ^  nq. 
Turkey,  danger  to,  ftrom  Russian  inter- 
ference in  Hungary,  709. 
Tumau,  Baron,  residence  of,  in  Circassia, 

132. 
Turnip,  on  the,  264. 
Ultramontanism,   prospects,  &C.,  of,  in 

France — Quinet's  work  on,  &c,  531, 

et  t€q, 
Ulysses,  Tennyson's,  461. 


Stephens'  Book  op  the  Farm,  vol.  L^^^United  States,  systems,  statistics,  &o.,  of 


review  of,  255. 
.  Stirling's  Art  and  artists  of  Spain,  re- 
iew  of,  63. 
nrton.  Lord,  trial  and  execution  of. 


education  in,  568, 569. 
Universities,  reforms  proposed  at   the, 

235. 
Urban  population,  disqualification  of,  to 

form  a  volunteer  force,  718. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


770 


Ind€x. 


Yan  Diemen*s  Land,  phyaioal  «oilbnii»- 
tion,  &e.,  of,  415. 

Vegetable  physiology^  hnportanoe  of^  to 
agrioaltiire,  257. 

Yelaeqnei  the  painter,  70. 

Yiemia,  sappreMion  of  the  rerolntiooarj 
moTement  in,  4 — rerolt  of,  connexion 
of  the  Hnngariane  with,  699 — ignorance 
in,  regarding  Hungary,  702. 

ViLLAOB  Doctor,  the,  a  tale,  452. 

Vision  of  Sin,  Tennyson's  poem  called 
the,  459. 

Vissomaz,  convent  of,  211. 

Vitoria,  combat  at,  in  the  time  of  Pedro 
the  cruel,  354. 

Vtadika  of  Montenegro,  the,  216,  €i  ieq, 

Volpato  MS.  on  painting,  the,  442. 

Volunteer  force,  propos^  for  a  new,  717, 
et  $f<f, 

Waonbr's  Caucasus  and  thb  Cossacks, 
review  of,  129— his  Arabat  and  thr 
Armenian  Highlands,  review  of,  577. 

Wakefirld*8  Art  of  Colonisation,  re> 
Tiew  of,  509. 

Walckvogel  or  Dodo,  the,  84. 

Wallace's  Dirge,  227. 

Walpole,  sir  Robert,  system  of  parlia- 
mentary corruption  employed  by,  401. 


War,  necessity  and  advantages  of,  716. 

Waste  lands,  colonial,  necessity  for 
proper  distribution  of,  511 — Wake- 
field's proposed  system  regtrding, 
515. 

Wax,  painting  on,  447. 

Wbrnb's  Expedition  up  the  Whitb 
Ni£b,  review  of,  47. 

Wheat,  varieties,  &e.,  of,  270. 

Whigs,  countenance  gtien  to  revolotton 
abrMd  by  the,  8, 16~change  of  Eng- 
lish policy  introduced  by,  12,  et  $eg. 

White  Nile,  the,  47. 

Wilkinson's  Dalmatia  and  Montenegro, 
review  of,  202. 

William  III.,  policy  pursued  by,  400,  et 
»eq, 

WilliaminoiF,  General,  136. 

Williams'  Claudia  and  Pudens^  review 
of,  487. 

Wordsworth,  established  reputation  of, 
453 — ^remarks  on,  765. 

Woronzoff,  count,  in  the  Caucasus,  131, 
141. 

Wurtemberg,  education  in,  568. 

Year  of  revolutions,  the,  1. 

Zurbaran,  Francisco  de,  76. 


PrmUd  by  WiUiam  BladhwoodamdSom^  JBdmbm^. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


I 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


i 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


3  bios  007  710  Ab3 


/ 


Niir'Bi 


Stanford  (Iniverstty  Library 

Stanford,  California 


In  order  that  others  may  use  this  book, 
please  return  it  as  soon  as  possible,  but 
not  later  than  the  date  due. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC